UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 MRS.MATTIE H.MERRILL
 
 GKAY DAYS AND GOLD
 
 B r THE SAME A UTHOR. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND. 
 
 In one vol. 32mo. Is. 
 
 WANDERERS. 
 
 In one vol. 32mo. Is. 
 
 Edi>-burgh : David Douglas.
 
 GRAY DAYS AND 
 GOLD 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER 
 
 AUTHOR OF "Shakespeare's England' 
 "wanderers," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 M A C M I L L A N c\; CO. 
 
 1891
 
 Copyright 
 
 1890 
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER
 
 WT3g 
 
 ^ 
 
 TO 
 
 
 AUGUSTIN DALY, 
 
 I 
 
 REMEMBERIXG A FRIENDSHIP 
 
 \ 
 
 ^ 
 
 OF MANY TEAKS, 
 
 K 
 > 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 
 
 ^ " Est animus tibi 
 
 Benimque prudens, et secundis 
 
 --• Temporibus duhiisque rectus." 
 
 213673
 
 ' ' Whatever withdraws us from the power of 
 our senses, "whatever makes the past, the distant, 
 or the ficiiire predomiiutte over the present, ad- 
 z'ances us in the dignity of fhijikitig beings. . . . 
 A II travel has its advantages. If the passenger 
 visits better countries he may learti to improrcx 
 his own, and if fortune carries him to ivorse 
 he may learn to enjoy it." — Dr. Johnson. 
 
 " There is given. 
 Unto the things of earth which Time hath bent, 
 A spirit's feeling ; and where he hath leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
 And magic in the ruined battlement, 
 Forzuhich the palace of the present hour 
 Mzist yield its pom.p, and wait till ages are its 
 dower." 
 
 Eyron.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 This book, ivhich is intended as a com- 
 panion to " Shakespeare's England," relates 
 to the gray days of an American wanderer 
 in the British Islands, and to the gold oj 
 thought and fancy that can he found there. 
 In "Shakespeare's England" an attempt 
 was made to depict, in an unconventional 
 manner, those lovely scenes which are for ever 
 intertwined with the name and the memory of 
 Shakespeare, and also to reflect the spirit of 
 that English scenery in general ivhich, to an 
 imaginative mind, must always he venerable 
 with historic antiquity and tenderly hal- 
 lowed with poetic and romantic association. 
 The present booh continues the same treat- 
 ment of kindred themes, — referring not only 
 to the land of Shakespeare hut to the land of
 
 Burns, and Scott. After so much had been 
 done, and superbly done, by Washington 
 Irving and by other authors, to celebrate the 
 beauties of our ancestral home, it was perhaps 
 an act of presumption on the part of the pre- 
 sent loriter to touch those subjects. He can 
 only plead, in extenuation of his boldness, an 
 irresistible impulse of reverence and affection 
 for them. His presentment of them can give 
 no offence, and perhaps it may be found suffi- 
 ciently sympathetic and diversified to awaken 
 and sustain at least a momentary interest in 
 the minds of those readers who love to muse 
 and dream over the relics of a storied past. 
 If by happy fortune it should do more than 
 that, — if it shoidd help to impress his country- 
 men, so many of whom annually travel in 
 Britain, with the superlative importance of 
 adorning the physical aspect and of refining 
 the material civilisation of America by a re- 
 production within its borders of tvhatever is 
 valuable in the long experience and wliatever 
 is noble and beautiful in the domestic and reli- 
 gious spirit of the British Islands, — his labour 
 loill not have been in vain. The supreme
 
 need of this age in America is a ■practical 
 conviction that progress does not consist in 
 material prosperity hut in spiritual advance- 
 ment. Utility has long been exclusively ivor- 
 shipped. The welfare of the future lies in 
 the loorship of beauty. To that worship these 
 pages are devoted, with all that it implies of 
 sympathy with the higher instincts and faith 
 in the divine destiny of the human race. 
 
 Most of the sketches here assembled ivere 
 originally printed in the ' ' New York 
 Tribune," with which journal their author 
 has been continuously associated as a con- 
 tributor since 1865, They have been revised 
 for publication in this form. Most of the 
 paper on Sir Walter Scott first appeared in 
 "Harper's Weekly," /or lohich periodical 
 also the author has icritten many things. The 
 paper on the Wordsworth country tvas con- 
 tributed to the "New York Mirror." Seve- 
 ral poems, of recent date, are added, which 
 may find favour with readers who have ap- 
 proved their author^s companion volume of 
 " Wanderers." The alluring field of Scottish 
 antiquity and romance, ivhich lie has dared
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 hut Slightly to toiicli, may perhaps he exj)lored 
 hereafter, for treasures of contemplation that 
 earlier seekers have left ungathered. The 
 author would state that several months after 
 the publication of his hook called " Shake- 
 speare's England " he was told that there is in 
 existence a work, published many years ago, 
 hearing a similar title, though relating to 
 a different theme — the state of England in 
 Shakespeare's time. He had never heard of 
 it and has never seen it. The fact is re- 
 corded that an important recent book called 
 "Shakespeare's True Life," written by James 
 Walter, incorporates into its text, without 
 credit, several passages of original descrip- 
 tion and reflection taken from the present 
 ivriter's sketches of the Shakespeare country, 
 and also quotes, as his ivork, an elaborate 
 narrative of a nocturnal visit to Anne Hatha- 
 way' s cottage, which he never wrote and never 
 claimed to have written. This statement is 
 made as a safeguard against future injustice. 
 
 W. W. 
 Fort Hill, Xew Brighton, 
 Staten Island, New York, 
 December 19, 1890.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. CLASSIC SHRINES, 
 II. HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES, . 
 III. OLD YORK, .... 
 
 IV. THE HAUNT.5 OK MOORE, . 
 V, BEAUTIFUL BATH, . 
 Vr. THE LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDS 
 
 WORTH 
 
 VIL SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER 
 VHI. BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD 
 IX. HISTORIC NOOKS AND CORNERS, 
 
 X. Shakespeare's town, , 
 
 XL IT AND DOWN THE AVON, 
 Xir. RAMBLES IN ARDEN, 
 XII t. THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN, 
 XIV. BOSWORTH FIELD, . 
 XV. THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 
 XVI. FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH, 
 
 PACK 
 13 
 
 25 
 38 
 53 
 70 
 
 78 
 
 i>6 
 107 
 131 
 140 
 1G5 
 173 
 ISl 
 193 
 207 
 2'2-2
 
 xii 
 
 COXTEXTS. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 IXTO THE HIGHLAXDS, . 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 HIGHLAXD BEAUTIES, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAXD, 
 
 XX. 
 
 SIR WAiTER SCOTT, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS, 
 
 xxn. 
 
 SCOTTISH PICTURES, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 IMPERIAL RUINS, .... 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE LAND OF M.VRMIOX, 
 
 AT VESPER TIME— 
 
 THE SHIP THAT SAILED, 
 
 ASHES, 
 
 THE PASSING BELL AT STRATFORD, 
 heaven's HOUR, 
 THE STATUE, .... 
 
 IN MEMORY OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 RAYMOND, 
 
 D. D. L., 
 
 SYMBOLS, 
 
 honour's PEARL, 
 THE BROKEN HARP, . 
 
 NOW, 
 
 UNWRITTEN POEMS, .
 
 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 CLASSIC SHRINES. 
 
 IOXDON, JuxE 29, 1888. — The poet 
 J Emerson's injunction, " Set not thy 
 foot on graves," is wise and right; and 
 l)eing in merry England in the month of 
 June it certainly is your own fault if you 
 do not fulfil the rest of the philosophical 
 commandment and " Hear what wine and 
 roses say.'' Yet the history of England is 
 largely written in her ancient churches and 
 crumbling ruins, and the pilgrim to historic 
 and literary shrines in this country will 
 find it difficult to avoid setting his foot on 
 graves. It is possible here, as elsewhere, to 
 live entirely in the present ; but to certain 
 temperaments and in certain moods the 
 temptation is irresistible to live mostly in 
 the past. I write these words in a house
 
 14 GRAY DAYS AN'D GOLD. 
 
 that once was occupied by Nell Gwyn, and 
 as I glance into the garden I see a venerable 
 acacia that was planted by her own fair 
 hands, in the far-off time of the Merry 
 Monarch. Within a few days I have stood 
 in the dungeon of Guy Fawkes, in the 
 Tower, and sat at luncheon in a manor- 
 house of Warwickshire, wherein were once 
 convened the conspirators of the Gun- 
 powder Plot. The newspapers of this 
 morning announce that a monument will 
 be dedicated on July 19 to commemorate 
 the defeat of the Spanish Armada, three 
 hundred years ago. Surely it is not un- 
 natural that some of us should live in the 
 past, and often should find ourselves musing 
 over its legacies. 
 
 One of the most sacred spots in England 
 is the churchyard of Stoke-Pogis. I re- 
 visited that place on June 13, and once 
 again rambled and meditated in that hal- 
 lowed place. Not many mouths ago it 
 seemed likely that Stoke Park would pass 
 into the possession of a sporting ring, and be 
 turned into a racecourse and kennel. A 
 track had already been laid there. Fate 
 was kind, however, and averted the final 
 disaster. Only a few changes are to be 
 noted in that part of the Park which to
 
 CLASSIC SHRINES 15 
 
 the reverent pilgrim must always be the 
 dearest. The churchj-ard has been length- 
 ened a little in front, and a solid, shapely 
 wall of flint, pierced by an oak porch, richly 
 carved, has replaced the plain fence, with 
 its simple turnstile, that formerly enclosed 
 this rural cemetery. The additional land 
 was given by the new proprietor of Stoke 
 Park, who wished that his own burial-vault 
 might be made in it ; and this has been 
 built beneath a large tree not far from the 
 entrance. The avenue from the gate to the 
 church has been widened, and is now fringed 
 with thin lines of twisted stone, and where 
 once stood only two or three rose-trees there 
 are now sixty-two — set in lines on either 
 side of the path. But the older part of the 
 graveyard remains unchanged. The yew- 
 trees cast their dense shade as of old. The 
 quaint porch of the sacred building has not 
 suffered under the hand of restoration. The 
 ancient wooden memorials of the dead con- 
 tinue to moulder above their ashes. And 
 still the abundant ivy gleams and trembles 
 in the sunshine and in the summer wind 
 that plays so sweetly over the spired tower 
 and dusky walls of this lovely temple — 
 "All green and wildly fresh without. 
 But worn and gray beneath."
 
 1 6 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 It would still be a lovely church, even if 
 it were not associated with the great name 
 of the author of the immortal Elegj^. I 
 stood for a long time beside the tomb of 
 that noble and tender poet, and looked with 
 deep emotion on the surrounding scene of 
 pensive, dream-like beauty — the great elms, 
 so dense of foliage, so stately and graceful ; 
 the fields of deep, waving grass, golden 
 with buttercups and white with daisies ; 
 the many unmarked mounds ; the many 
 mouldering tombstones ; the rooks sailing 
 and cawing around the tree-tops ; and over 
 all the blue sky flecked with floating fleece. 
 Within the church nothing has been changed. 
 The memorial window to Gray, for which 
 contributions have been taken during seve- 
 ral years, has not yet been placed. As I 
 cast a farewell look at Gray's tomb, on 
 turning to leave the churchyard, it rejoiced 
 my heart to see that two American ladies, 
 who had then just come in, were placing 
 fresh flowers over the poet's dust. He has 
 been buried more than a hundred years — 
 but his memory is as bright and green as 
 the ivy on the tower within whose shadow 
 he sleeps, and as fragrant as the roses that 
 bloom at its base. Many Americans visit 
 Stoke- Pogis churchyard, and surely no
 
 CLASSIC SHRINES. l^ 
 
 visitor to the old world, who knows how to 
 value what is best in its treasures, will omit 
 this act of reverence. The journey is an 
 easy one to make. A brief run by railway 
 from Paddington takes you to Slough, 
 which is near to Windsor, and thence it is a 
 charming drive, or a still more charming 
 walk, mostly through green, embowered 
 lanes, to the "ivy-mantled tower," the 
 "yew-trees' shade," and the simple tomb 
 of Gray. What a gap there would be in 
 the poetry of our language if the " Elegy 
 in a Country Churchyard " were absent 
 from it ! By that sublime and tender 
 reverie upon the most important of all sub- 
 jects that can engage the attention of the 
 human mind Thomas Gray became one of 
 the chief benefactors of his race. Those 
 lines have been murmured by the lips of 
 sorrowing affection beside many a shrine of 
 buried love and hope, in many a church- 
 yard all round the world. The sick have 
 remembered them with comfort. The great 
 soldier, going into battle, has said them for 
 his solace and cheer. The dying statesman, 
 closing his weary eyes upon this empty 
 world, has spoken them with his last falter- 
 ing accents, and fallen asleep with their 
 heavenly music in his heart. Well may we
 
 1 8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 pause and ponder at the grave of this divine 
 poet ! Every noble mind is made nobler, 
 every good heart is made better, for the ex- 
 perience of such a pilgrimage. In such 
 places as these pride is rebuked, vanity is 
 dispelled, and the revolt of the passionate 
 human heart is humbled into meekness and 
 submission. 
 
 There is a place kindred with Stoke-Pogis 
 churchyard, a place destined to become, 
 after a few years, as famous and as dear to 
 the heart of the reverent pilgrim in the 
 footsteps of genius and pure renown. On 
 Sunday afternoon (June 17) I sat for a long 
 time beside the grave of Matthew Arnold. 
 It is in a little churchyard at Laleham in 
 Surrey, where he was bom. The day was 
 chill, sombre, and, except for an occasional 
 low twitter of birds and the melancholy 
 cawing of distant rooks, soundless and 
 sadly calm. So dark a sky might mean 
 November rather than June ; but it fitted 
 well with the scene and with the pensive 
 thoughts and feelings of the hour. Lale- 
 ham is a village on the south bank of the 
 Thames, about thirty miles from London, 
 and nearly midway between Staines and 
 Chertsey. It consists of a few devious lanes 
 and a cluster of houses, shaded with large
 
 CLASSIC SHRINES. 1 9 
 
 trees, and everywhere made beautiful with 
 flowers, and it is one of those fortunate and 
 happy places to which access cannot be ob- 
 tained by railway. There is a great house 
 in the centre of it, secluded in a walled 
 garden, fronting the square immediately 
 opposite to the village church. The rest 
 of the houses are mostly cottages made of 
 red brick and roofed with red tiles. Ivy 
 flourishes, and many of the cottages are 
 overrun with climbing roses. Roman relics 
 are found in the neighbourhood — a camp 
 near the ford, and other indications of the 
 military activity of Caesar. The church, 
 All Saints', is of great antiquity. It has 
 been in part restored, but its venerable as- 
 pect is not impaired. The large low tower 
 is of brick, and this and the church walls 
 are thickly covered Mith glistening ivy. A 
 double-peaked roof of red tiles, sunken here 
 and there, contributes to the picturesque 
 beauty of this building, and its charm is 
 further heightened by the contiguity of 
 large trees, in which the old church seems 
 to nestle. Within there are low, massive 
 pillars, and plain, symmetrical arches — the 
 remains of Norman architecture. Great 
 rafters of dark oak augment in this quaint 
 structure the air of solidity and of an age
 
 20 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 at once venerable and romantic, while a 
 bold, spirited, beautiful painting of Christ 
 and Peter upon the sea imparts to it an ad- 
 ditional sentiment of sanctity and solemn 
 pomp. This remarkable work is by Harlow, 
 and it is placed back of the altar, where 
 once there would have been, in the Gothic 
 daj'S, a stained window. The explorer does 
 not often come upon such a gem of a church 
 even in England — so rich in remains of the 
 old Catholic zeal and devotion ; remains 
 now mostly converted to the use of Protes- 
 tant worship. 
 
 The churchyard of All Saints' is worthy 
 of the church — a little enclosure, irregular 
 in shape, surface, shrubbery, and tomb- 
 stones, bordered on two sides by the village 
 square, and on one by a farmyard, and 
 shaded by many trees, some of them yews, 
 and some of great size. Almost every house 
 that is visible near by is bowered with trees 
 and adorned with flowers. No person was 
 anywhere to be seen, and it was only after 
 inquiry at various dwellings that the sex- 
 ton's abode could be discovered and access 
 to the church obtained. The poet's grave is 
 not within the church, but in a secluded spot 
 at the side of it, a little removed from the 
 highway, and screened from immediate view
 
 CLASSIC SHRINES. 21 
 
 by an ancient dusky yew-tree. I readily 
 found it, perceiving a large wreath of roses 
 and a bunch of white flowers that were lying 
 upon it, — recent offerings of tender remem- 
 brance and sorrowing love, but already 
 beginning to wither. A small square of 
 turf, bordered with white marble, covers 
 the tomb of the poet and of three of his chil- 
 dren.^ At the head are three crosses of 
 white marble, alike in shape and equal in 
 size, except that the first is set upon a 
 pedestal a little lower than those of the 
 others. On the first cross is written : " Basil 
 Frances Arnold, youngest child of Matthew 
 and Frances Lucy Arnold. Born August 19, 
 1866. Died January 4, 1868. Sufi'er little 
 children to come unto me," On the second : 
 "Thomas Arnold, eldest child of Matthew 
 and Frances Lucy Arnold. Born July 6, 
 1852. Died November 23, 1868. Awake, 
 thou. Lute and Harp ! I will awake right 
 early." On the third : " Trevener William 
 
 1 Since these words were written a plain headstone 
 of white marble has been placed on this spot, bearing 
 the following inscription :— 
 
 " Matthew Arnold, eldest son of the late Thomas 
 Arnold, D.D., Head Master of Rugby School. Born 
 December 24, 1822. Died April 15, 1888. 'There 
 is sprung up a light for the righteous, and joyful 
 gladness for such as are tnie-hearted.'"
 
 22 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Arnold, second child of Matthew and 
 Frances Lucy Arnold. Born October 15, 
 1853. Died February 16, 1872. In the 
 morning it is green and groweth up." Near 
 by are other tombstones bearing the name 
 of Arnold — the dates inscribed on them 
 referring to about the beginning of this 
 century. These mark the resting-place of 
 some of the poet's kindred. His father, 
 the famous Dr. Arnold of Rugby, rests in 
 Rugby Chapel — that noble father, that true 
 friend and servant of humanity, of whom 
 the son %vTote those memorable words of 
 imperishable nobility and meaning, "Thou, 
 my father, wouldst not be saved alone." 
 j>Iatthew Arnold himself is buried in the 
 same grave with his eldest son, and side by 
 side with his little children. He who was 
 himself as a little child in his innocence, 
 goodness, and truth, where else and how 
 else could he so fitly rest? "Awake, thou, 
 Lute and Harp ! I will awake right early." 
 Every man will think his own thoughts 
 in such a place as this ; will reflect upon his 
 own afflictions, and from knowledge of the 
 manner and spirit in which kindred griefs 
 have been borne by the great heart of intel- 
 lect and genius will seek to gather strength 
 and patience to endure them well. Matthew
 
 CLASSIC SHRINES. 23 
 
 Arnold taught many lessons of immense 
 value to those who are able to think. He 
 did not believe that happiness is the destiny 
 of the human race on earth, or that there is 
 a visible ground for assuming that happi- 
 ness in this mortal condition is one of the 
 inherent rights of humanity. He did not 
 think that this world is made an abode of 
 delight by the mere jocular affirmation that 
 everything in it is well and lovely. He 
 knew better than that. But his message, 
 delivered in poetic strains that will endure 
 as long as our language exists, is the mes- 
 sage, not of gloom and despair, but of spiri- 
 tual purity and sweet and gentle patience. 
 The man who heeds Matthew Arnold's 
 teaching will put no trust in creeds and 
 superstitions, will place no reliance upon 
 the cobweb structures of theology, will take 
 no guidance from the animal and unthinking 
 multitude; but he will "keep the whiteness 
 of his soul " ; he will be simple, unselfish, 
 and sweet ; he will live for the spirit and 
 not the flesh ; and in that spirit, pure, 
 tender, fearless, strong to bear and patient 
 to sufiFer, he will find composure to meet the 
 inevitable disasters of life and the awful 
 mystery of death. Such was the burden of 
 my thought, sitting there, in the gloaming,
 
 24 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 beside the lifeless dust of him whose hand 
 had once, with kindly greeting, been clasped 
 in mine. And such will be the thought of 
 many and many a pilgrim who shall stand 
 in that sacred place, on many a summer 
 evening of the long future — 
 
 " While the stars come out and the night wind 
 Brings, up the stream, 
 Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea."
 
 11. 
 
 HAUNTED GLF.NS AND HOUSES. 
 
 WARWICK, July 6, 1888. -One night 
 about fifty years ago a brutal murder 
 was done at a lonely place on the highroad 
 between Hampton Lucy and Stratford-upon- 
 Avon. The next morning the murdered man 
 was found lying by the roadside, his mangled 
 head resting in a small hole. The assassins, 
 tvo in number, were shortly afterward 
 discovered, and they were hanged at War- 
 wick. From that day to this the hole where- 
 in the dead man's head reposed remains un- 
 changed. No matter how often it may be 
 filled, whether by the wash of hea\y rains 
 or by stones and leaves that wayfarers may 
 happen to cast into it as they pass, it is 
 soon found to be again empty. No one 
 takes care of it. No one knows whether 
 or by whom it is guarded. Fill it at night- 
 fall and you will find it empty in the mom- 
 intf. That is the local belief and affirma-
 
 25 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 tion. This spot is about two miles north 
 of Stratford, and not distant from the gates 
 of Charlcote Park. I looked at this hole 
 one bright day in June and saw that it was 
 empty. Nature, it is thought by the poets, 
 abhors complicity with the concealment of 
 crime, and brands with her curse the places 
 that are linked with the shedding of blood. 
 Hence that strong line in Tom Hood's 
 poem of *' Eugene Aram " — " And a mighty 
 wind had swept the leaves, and still the 
 corse was bare." 
 
 There are many haunted spots in War- 
 wickshire. The benighted peasant never 
 lingers on Ganerslie Heath — for there, at 
 midnight, dismal bells have been heard to 
 toll from Blacklow Hill, the place wdiere 
 Sir Piers Gaveston, the corrupt, handsome, 
 foreign favourite of King Edward the Second, 
 was beheaded, by order of the grim barons 
 whom he had insulted and opposed. The 
 Earl of Warwick led them, whom Gaveston 
 had called the Black Dog of Arden. This 
 was long ago. Everybody knows the his- 
 toric incident, but no one can so completely 
 realise it as when standing on the place. 
 The scene of the execution is marked by a 
 simple cross, bearing this inscription : "In 
 the hollow of this rock was beheaded, on
 
 HAFNTED GLEXS AND HOUSES. 27 
 
 the first day of July 1312, by Barons law- 
 less as himself, Piers Gaveston, Earl of 
 Cornwall. In life and death a memorable 
 instance of misrule." No doubt the birds 
 were singing and the green branches of the 
 trees were waving in the summer wind 
 on that fatal day, just as they are at this 
 moment. Gaveston was a man of great 
 personal beauty and some talent, and only 
 twenty -nine years old. It was a melan- 
 choly sacrifice, and horrible in the circum- 
 stances that attended it. No wonder that 
 doleful thoughts and blood-curdling sounds 
 should come to such as walk on Ganerslie 
 Heath in the lonely hours of the night. 
 
 Another haunted place is Clopton — 
 haunted certainly with memories if not 
 with ghosts. In the reign of Henry vii. 
 this Avas the manor of Sir Hugh Clopton, 
 Lord Mayor of London, he who built the 
 bridge over the Avon — across which, many 
 a time, ^Yilliam Shakespeare must have 
 ridden on his way to Oxford and the capi- 
 tal. The dust of Sir Hugh Clopton rests 
 in Stratford Church, and his aaansion has 
 passed through many hands. In our time 
 it is the residence of Sir Arthur Hodgson, 
 by whom it was purchased in 187L It was 
 my privilege to see Clopton under the guid-
 
 28 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD, 
 
 ance of its lord, and a charming and impres- 
 sive old house it is — full of quaint objects 
 and fraught with singular associations. They 
 show you there, among many fine paintings, 
 the portrait of a wild -eyed lady with thin 
 figure, delicate features, long light hair, 
 and sensitive countenance, who in the far- 
 off Tudor time drowned herself in a dismal 
 black well, back of the mansion — one of the 
 many victims, doubtless, of unhappy love. 
 And they show you the portrait of still an- 
 other Clopton girl, of ancient times, who is 
 thought to have been accidentally buried 
 alive — because when it chanced that the 
 family tomb was opened, a few days after 
 her interment, the corpse was found to be 
 turned over in its coffin and to present in- 
 dications that the wretched victim of pre- 
 mature burial had, in her agonised frenzy, 
 gnawed her own flesh. 
 
 It is the blood-stained corridor of Clop- 
 ton, however, that most impresses imagina- 
 tion. This is at the top of the house, and 
 access to it is gained by a winding stair of 
 oak boards, uncarpeted, solid, simple, and 
 consonant with the times and manners that 
 it represents. Many years ago, it is said, 
 a man was murdered in a little bedroom 
 near the top of this staircase, and his body
 
 HAUNTED GLEXS AND HOUSES. 29 
 
 was dragged along the corridor to be 
 secreted. A thin dark stain, seemingly a 
 streak of blood, runs from the door of that 
 bedroom in the direction of the stairhead, 
 and this is so deeply imprinted in the wood 
 that it cannot be eradicated. Opening from 
 this corridor, opposite to the murder-room, 
 is an odd apartment, which in the remote 
 days of a Catholic occupant was used as an 
 oratory.^ In the early part of the reign of 
 Henry vi. John Carpenter obtained from the 
 Bishop of Worcester permission to establish 
 this chapel. In 1885 the walls of this 
 chamber were committed to the tender 
 mercies of a paper-hanger, who presently 
 discovered on them several inscriptions in 
 black letter, and who fortunately mentioned 
 his discoveries before they were obliter- 
 ated. Richard Savage, the antiquary, was 
 called to examine them, and by him they 
 were restored. The effect of these little 
 patches of letters — isles of significance in 
 a barren sea of wall-paper — is that of ex- 
 treme singularity. Most of them are sen- 
 tences from the Bible. All of them are 
 devout. One imparts the solemn injunc- 
 
 1 An entry in the Diocesan Register of Worcester 
 states that in 1374 John Clopton of Stretforde cb- 
 trained letters dimissory to the order of priest.
 
 30 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 tion : " Whether you rise yearlye or goe 
 to bed late, Remember Christ Jesus who 
 died for your sake." [This may be found 
 in John Weever's Funeral Monuments : 
 1631.] Clopton has a long and various 
 history. One of the most significant facts 
 in its record is the fact that for about ten 
 months, in the year 1605, it was occupied 
 hy Ambrose Rokewood, of Coldham Hall, 
 Suffolk, a breeder of race-horses, whom 
 Robert Catesby brought into the ghastly 
 Gunpowder Plot, in the reign of James 
 I. Hither came Sir Everard Digby, and 
 Tom and Robert Winter, and the spe- 
 cious Jesuit, Father Garnet, chief hatcher 
 of the conspiracy'', with his vile train of 
 sentimental fanatics, on that pilgrimage of 
 sanctification with which he formally pre- 
 pared for an act of such hideous treachery 
 and wholesale murder as only a religious 
 zealot could ever have conceived. That 
 may have been a time when the little ora- 
 tory of Clopton was in Catholic use. Not 
 many years since it was a bedroom ; but 
 one of Sir Arthur Hodgson's guests, who 
 undertook to sleep in it, was afterward 
 heard to declare that he wished not ever 
 again to experience the hospitality of that 
 chamber, because the sounds that he had
 
 HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES. 3 1 
 
 lieard all around the place throughout that 
 night were of a most infernal description- 
 A house containing many rooms and stair- 
 cases, a house full of long corridors and 
 winding ways, a house so large that you 
 may readily get lost in it — such is Clopton ; 
 and it stands in its own large park, removed 
 from other buildings and bowered in trees. 
 To sit in the great hall of that mansion on 
 a winter midnight, when the snow-laden 
 wind is howling around it, and then to 
 think of the bleak, sinister oratory, and the 
 stealthy, gliding shapes upstairs, invisible 
 to mortal eye, but felt, with a shuddering 
 sense of some unseen presence watching in 
 the dark, — this would be to have quite a 
 sufficient experience of a haunted house. 
 Sir Arthur Hodgson talked of the legends 
 of Clopton with that merry twinkle of the 
 eye which suits well with kindly incredu- 
 lity. All the same I thought of Milton's 
 lines — 
 
 "Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. " 
 
 Warwickshire swarmed with conspirators 
 while the Gunpowder Plot was in progress. 
 The Lion Inn at Dunchurch was the chief 
 tryst of the captains who were to lead their
 
 32 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 forces and capture the Princess Elizabeth 
 and seize the throne and the country after 
 the expected explosion — which never came. 
 And when the game was up and Fawkes in 
 captivity, it was through Warwickshire that 
 the ' ' racing and chasing " was fleetest and 
 wildest, till the desperate scramble for life 
 and safety went down in blood at Hewel 
 Grange. Various houses associated with 
 that plot are still extant in this neighbour- 
 hood, and when the scene shifts to London 
 and to Garnet's Tyburn gallows, it is easily 
 possible for the patient antiquarian to tread 
 in almost every footprint of that great con- 
 spiracy. 
 
 Since Irish ruffians began to toss dyna- 
 mite about in public buildings it has been 
 deemed essential to take especial precaution 
 against the danger of explosion in such 
 places as the Houses of Parliament, West- 
 minster Abbey, and the Tower of London. 
 Much more damage than the newspapers 
 recorded was done by the explosions that 
 occurred some time ago in the Tower and 
 the Palace. At present you cannot enter 
 even into Palace Yard unless connected 
 with the public business or authorised by 
 an order ; and if you visit the Tower with- 
 out a special permit you will be restricted
 
 HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES. 33 
 
 to a few sights and places. I was fortu- 
 nately the bearer of the card of the Lord 
 Chamberlain, on a recent prowl through 
 the Tower, and therefore was favoured by 
 the beefeaters who pervade that structure. 
 Those damp and gloomy dungeons were 
 displayed wherein so many Jews perished 
 miserably in the reign of Edward i. ; and 
 "Little Ease" was shown — the cell in 
 which for several months Guy Fawkes was 
 incarcerated, during Cecil's wily investiga- 
 tion of the Gunpowder Plot. A part of the 
 rear wall has been removed, affording access 
 to the adjacent dungeon ; but originally 
 the cell did not give room for a man to lie 
 down in it, and scarce gave room for him 
 to stand upright. The massive door, of 
 ribbed and iron-bound oak, still solid though 
 worn, would make an impressive picture. 
 A poor, stealthy cat was crawling about in 
 those subterranean dens of darkness and 
 horror, and was left locked in there when 
 we emerged. In St. Peter's, on the green — 
 that little cemetery so eloquently described 
 bj' Macaulay — they came some time ago 
 upon the coffins of Lovat, Kilmarnock, and 
 Balmerino, the Scotch Lords who perished 
 upon the block for their complicity with 
 the rising for Charles Edward Stuart, the 
 c
 
 34 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Pretender, in 1745-47. The coffins were 
 much decayed. The plates were removed, 
 and these may now be viewed in a glass 
 case on the church wall, just over against 
 the spot where those unfortunate gentlemen 
 were buried,^ One is of lead, and is in the 
 form of a large open scroll. The other two 
 are oval in shape, large, and made of 
 pewter. Much royal and noble dust is 
 heaped together beneath the stones of the 
 chancel — Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, 
 Lady Jane Grey, Margaret Duchess of 
 Salisbury, the Duke of Monmouth, the 
 Earl of Northumberland, Essex, Overbury, 
 Thomas Cromwell, and many more. The 
 body of the infamous and execrable Jeffreys 
 was once buried there, but it has been 
 removed. 
 
 St. Mary's Church at Warwick has been 
 restored since 1885, and now it is made 
 a show-place. You see the Beauchamp 
 Chapel, in which are entombed Thomas 
 Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, the founder 
 of the church ; Robert Dudley, Earl of 
 Leicester, in whose Latin epitaph it is 
 stated that "his sorrowful wife, Lsetitia, 
 
 1 The remains of Lord. Lovat were removed shortly 
 after his death and buried at his home near Inverness ; 
 and it is said that the head was sewed to the body.
 
 HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 35 
 
 daughter of Fi'ancis Knolles, through a 
 sense of conjugal love and fidelity, hath put 
 up this monument to the best and dearest 
 of husbands " ; Ambrose Dudley, elder 
 brother to Elizabeth's favourite, and known 
 as the Good Earl (he relinquished his title 
 and possessions to Robert) ; and that Fulke 
 Greville, Lord Brooke, who lives in fame 
 as " the friend of Sir Philip Sidney." There 
 are other notable sleepers in this chapel, 
 but these perhaps are the most famous and 
 considerable. One odd epitaph records of 
 William Viner, steward to Lord Brooke, 
 that "he was a man entirely of ancient 
 manners, and to whom you will scarcely 
 find an equal, particularly in point of libera- 
 lity. . . , He Mas added to the number 
 of the heavenly inhabitants maturely for 
 himself, but prematurely for his friends, in 
 his 70th year, on the 28th of April, a.d. 
 1639." Another, placed for himself by 
 Thomas Hewett during his own lifetime, 
 modestly describes him as " a most miser- 
 able sinner." Sin is always miserable when 
 it knows itself. Still another, and this in 
 good verse, by Gervas Clifton, gives a tender 
 tribute to Lsetitia ("the excellent and pious 
 Lady Lettice"), Countess of Leicester, who 
 died on Christmas morning 1634 : —
 
 36 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 " She that in her younger years 
 Matched with two great English peers ; 
 She that did supply the wars 
 With thunder, and the Court with stars ; 
 She that in her youth had been 
 Darling to the maiden Queene, 
 Till she was content to quit 
 Her favor for her favorite. . . . 
 While she lived she lived thus, 
 Till that God, displeased with us, 
 Suffered her at last to fall, 
 Not from Him, but from us all." 
 
 A noble bust of that fine thinker and 
 exquisite poet Walter Savage Landor has 
 been placed on the west wall of St. Mary's 
 Church. He was a native of Warwick, and 
 is fitly commemorated in that place. The 
 bust is of alabaster, and is set in an alabaster 
 arch with carved environment, and with the 
 family arms displayed above. The head 
 of Landor shows great intellectual power, 
 rugged yet gentle. Coming suddenly upon 
 the bust, in this church, one is forcibly and 
 pleasantly reminded of the attribute of sweet 
 and gentle reverence in the English char- 
 acter which so invariably expresses itself, 
 all over this land, in honourable memorials 
 to the honourable dead. No rambler in 
 Warwick omits to explore Leicester's Hos-
 
 HACNTED GLENS AND HOUSES. 37 
 
 pital, or to see as much as he can of the 
 Castle. This glorious old place has long 
 been kept closed for fear of the dynamite 
 fiend ; but now it is once more accessible. I 
 walked again beneath the stately cedars and 
 along the bloom-bordered avenues where 
 once Joseph Addison used to wander and 
 meditate, and traversed again those opulent 
 state apartments wherein so many royal, 
 noble, and beautiful faces look forth from 
 the radiant canvas of Holbein and Vandyke. 
 There is a wonderful picture, in one of those 
 rooms, of Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Straf- 
 ford, when a young man — a face prophetic 
 of stormy life and baleful struggles and a 
 hard and miserable fate. You may see the 
 helmet that was worn by Oliver Cromwell, 
 and also a striking death-mask of his face. 
 The finest portraits of King Charles i. 
 that exist in this kingdom are shown at 
 Warwick Castle, 
 
 213673
 
 III. 
 
 OLD YORK. 
 
 YORK, August 12, 188S.— All summer 
 long the sorrowful skies have been 
 weeping over England, and my first pro- 
 spect of this ancient city was a prospect 
 through drizzle and mist. Yet even so it was 
 impressive. York is one of the quaintest 
 cities in the kingdom. Many of the streets 
 are narrow and crooked. Most of the build- 
 ings are of low stature, built of brick, and 
 roofed with red tiles. Here and there you 
 find a house of Queen Elizabeth's time, pic- 
 turesque with overhanging timber-crossed 
 fronts and peaked gables. One such house, 
 in Stonegate, is conspicuously marked with 
 its date, 1574. Another, in College Street, 
 enclosing a quadrangular court, and lovely 
 with old timber and carved gateway, was 
 built by the Neville family in 1460. Iliere is 
 a wide area in the centre of the town called 
 Parliament Street, where the Market is 
 
 38
 
 OLD YORK. 39 
 
 opened by torchlight on certain evenings of 
 every week. It was market-time last even- 
 ing, and, wandering through the motley and 
 merry crowd that filled the square, about 
 nine o'clock, I bought at a flower-stall the 
 white rose of York and the red rose of 
 Lancaster — twining them together as an 
 emblem of the settled peace which here 
 broods so sweetly over the venerable relics 
 of a wild and stormy past. 
 
 Four sections of the old wall of York are 
 still extant, and the observer is amused to 
 perceive the ingenuity with which these 
 grey and mouldering remnants of the feudal 
 age are blended into the structures of the 
 democratic present. From Bootham to ]Monk 
 Gate (so named in honour of General Monk 
 at the Restoration), a distance of about half 
 a mile, the wall is absorbed by the adjacent 
 buildings. But you may walk upon it from 
 Monk Gate to Jewbury, about a quarter of 
 a mile, and afterward, crossing the Foss. 
 you may find it again on the south-east of 
 the city, and walk upon it from Red Tower 
 to old Fishergate, descending near York 
 Castle. There are houses both within the 
 walls and without. The walk is about 
 eight feet wide, protected on one hand by 
 a fretted battlement, and on the other by an
 
 40 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 occasional bit of iron fence. The base of 
 the wall, for a considerable part of its ex- 
 tent, is fringed with market gardens or with 
 grassy banks. In one of its towers there is 
 a gate-house, still occupied as a dwelling ; 
 and a comfortable dwelling no doubt it is. 
 In another, of which nothing now remains 
 but the walls, four large trees are rooted ; 
 and as they are already tall enough to wave 
 their leafy tops above the battlement, they 
 must have been growing there for twenty 
 years. At one point the Great Northern 
 Railway enters through an arch in the an- 
 cient wall, and as you look down from the 
 battlements your gaze rests upon long lines 
 of rail and a spacious station — together with 
 its adjacent hotel ; objects which consort but 
 strangely with what your fancy knows of 
 York, a city of donjons and barbicans, the 
 moat, the drawbridge, the portcullis, the 
 citadel, the man-at-arms and the knight in 
 armour, with the banners of William the 
 Norman flowing over all. 
 
 The river Ouse — Cowper's "Ouse, slow 
 winding through its level plain" — divides 
 the city of York, which lies mostly upon its 
 east bank, and in order to reach the longest 
 and most attractive portion of the wall that 
 is now available to the pedestrian you must
 
 OLD YORK. 41 
 
 cross the Ouse either at Skeldergate or 
 Lendal, paying a halfpenny as toll, both 
 when you go and when you return. The 
 walk here is three-quarters of a mile long, 
 and from an angle of this wall, just above 
 the railway arch, may be obtained the best 
 view of the mighty cathedral — one of the 
 most stupendous and sublime works that 
 ever were erected by the inspired brain and 
 loving labour of man. While I walked 
 there last night, and mused upon the story 
 of the Wars of the Roses, and strove to con- 
 jure up the pageants and the horrors that 
 must have been presented all about this 
 region in that remote and turbulent past, 
 the glorious bells of the Minster were 
 chiming from its towers, while the fresh 
 evening breeze, sweet with the fragrance 
 of wet flowers and foliage, seemed to 
 flood this ancient, venerable city with 
 the golden music of a celestial benedic- 
 tion. 
 
 The pilgrim to York stands in the centre 
 of the largest shire in England, and is sur- 
 rounded with castles and monasteries, now 
 mostly in ruins, but teeming with those 
 associations of history and literature which 
 are the glory of this delightful land. From 
 the summit of the great central tower of
 
 42 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 the Minster, which is reached by two hun- 
 dred and thirty-seven steps, I gazed out 
 over the vale of York and beheld one of the 
 loveliest spectacles that ever blessed the 
 eyes of man. The wind was fierce, the sun 
 brilliant, and the vanquished storm-clouds 
 were streaming away before the northern 
 blast. Far beneath lay the red-roofed city, 
 its devious lanes and its many gray churches 
 — crumbling relics of ancient ecclesiastical 
 power — distinctly visible. Through the 
 plain, and far away toward the south and 
 east, ran the silver thread of the Ouse, while 
 all around, as far as the eye could reach, 
 stretched forth a smiling landscape of 
 emerald meadow and cultivated field ; here 
 a patch of woodland, and there a silver 
 gleam of wave ; here a manor-house nestled 
 amid stately trees, and there an ivy-covered 
 fragment of ruined masonry ; and every- 
 where the green lines of the flowering 
 hedge. The prospect is finer here than 
 even it is from the summit of Strasburg 
 Cathedral ; and indeed, when all is said 
 that can be said about natural scenery and 
 architectural sublimities, it seems amazing 
 that any lover of the beautiful should deem 
 it necessary to quit the infinite variety of 
 the British islands. Earth cannot show 
 you anything more softly fair than the
 
 OLD YORK. 43 
 
 lakes and mountains of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland. No city can excel Edin- 
 burgh in stately solidity of character, or 
 tranquil grandeur, or in magnificence of 
 position. The most exquisitely beautiful of 
 churches is Roslin Chapel. And though 
 you search the wide world through, you will 
 never find such cathedrals — so fraught with 
 majesty, sublimity, the loveliness of human 
 art, and the ecstatic sense of a divine 
 element in human destiny ! — as those of 
 York, Canterbury, and Lincoln. While 
 thus I lingered in wondering meditation 
 upon the crag-like summit of York Minster, 
 the muffled thunder of its vast, sonorous 
 organ rose, rolling and throbbing, from the 
 mysterious depth below, and seemed to 
 shake the great tower as with a mighty 
 blast of jubilation and worship. At such 
 moments, if ever, when the tones of human 
 adoration are floating up to heaven, a man 
 is lifted out of himself and made to forget 
 his puny mortal existence and all the petty 
 nothings that weary his spirit, darken his 
 vision, and weigh him down to the level of 
 the sordid, trivial world. Well did they 
 know this, those old monks who built the 
 abbeys of Britain, laying their foundations 
 not alone deeply in the earth, but deeply in 
 the human soul !
 
 44 or. AY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 All the ground that you survey from the 
 top of York Minster is classic ground — 
 at least to those persons whose imagina- 
 tions are kindled by associations with the 
 stately and storied past. In the city that 
 lies at your feet stood once the great Con- 
 stantino, to be proclaimed Emperor and to 
 be invested with the imperial purple of 
 Rome. In the original York Minster — for 
 the present is the fourth church that has 
 been erected upon this site — was buried 
 that valiant soldier "Old Siward," whom 
 "gracious England" lent to the Scottish 
 cause, under Malcolm and Macduff, when 
 vtime at length was ripe for the ruin of 
 Glamis and Cawdor, Close by is the field 
 of .Stamford Bridge, where Harold defeated 
 the Danes with terrible slaughter, only nine 
 days before he himself was defeated and 
 slain at Hastings. Southward, following 
 the line of the Ouse, you look down upon 
 the ruins of Clifford's Tower, built by 
 William the Conqueror in 1068, and de- 
 stroyed by the explosion of its powder 
 magazine in 1684. Not far away is the 
 battlefield of Towton, where the great War- 
 wick slew his horse that he might fight 
 on foot and possess no advantage over the 
 common soldiers of his force. Henry vi.
 
 OLD YORK. 45 
 
 and Margaret were waiting in York for 
 news of the event of that fatal battle — 
 which, in its efifect, made them exiles, and 
 bore to an assured supremacy the rightful 
 standard of the White Rose. In this church 
 Edward iv. was crowned, and Richard iii. 
 was proclaimed king and had his second 
 coronation. Southward you may see the 
 open space called The Pavement, connect- 
 ing with Parliament Street, and the red 
 brick church of St. Crux. In the Pavement 
 the Earl of Northumberland was beheaded 
 for treason against Queen Elizabeth in 1572, 
 and in St. Crux (one of Wren's churches) 
 his remains lie buried beneath a dark blue 
 slab, still shown to visitors. A few miles 
 away, but easily within reach of your vision, 
 is the field of Marston Moor, where the 
 impetuous Prince Rupert imperilled and 
 wellnigh lost the cause of Charles i. in 
 1644; and as you look toward that fatal 
 spot you can almost hear, in the chamber of 
 your fancy, the paeans of thanksgiving for 
 the victory that were uttered in the church 
 beneath. Cromwell, then a subordinate 
 officer in the Parliamentary army, was 
 one of the worshippers. Charles also has 
 knelt at this altar. Indeed, of the fifteen 
 kings, from William of Xormandy to Henry
 
 40 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 of Windsor, whose sculptured efiSgies appear 
 upon the chancel screen in York Minster, 
 there is scarcely one who has not -worshipped 
 in this cathedral. 
 
 York ^linster has often been described, 
 but no description can convey an adequate 
 impression of its grandeur. Canterbury is 
 the lovelier cathedi-al of the two, and Canter- 
 bury possesses the inestimable advantage of 
 a 'spacious close. It must be said also, for 
 the city of Canterbury, that the presence 
 and influence of a great church are more 
 distinctly and delightfully felt in that place 
 than they are in York. There is a more 
 spiritual tone at Canterbury, a tone of 
 superior delicacy and refinement, a certain 
 aristocratic coldness and repose. In York 
 you perceive the coarse spirit of a demo- 
 cratic era. The walls, which ought to be 
 cherished with scrupulous care, are found 
 in many places to be defiled. At intervals 
 along the walks upon the banks of the Ouse 
 you behold placards requesting the co-opera- 
 tion of the public in protecting from harm 
 the swans that navigate the river. Even in 
 the Cathedral itself there is displayed a 
 printed notice that the Dean and Chapter 
 are amazed at disturbances which occur in 
 the nave whilst divine service is proceeding
 
 OLD YORK. 47 
 
 in the choir. These things imply a rough 
 element in the population, and in such a 
 place as York such an element is exception- 
 ally offensive and deplorable. 
 
 It was said by the late Lord Beaconsfield 
 that progress in the nineteenth century is 
 found to consist chiefly in a return to ancient 
 ideas. There may be places to which the 
 characteristic spirit of the present day con- 
 tributes an element of beauty ; but if so I 
 have not seen them. Wherever there is 
 Ijeauty there is the living force of tradition 
 to account for it. The most that a con- 
 servative force in society can accomplish, for 
 the preservation of an instinct in favour of 
 whatever is beautiful and impressive, is to 
 l)rotect what remains liom the past. Modern 
 Edinburgh, for example, has contributed no 
 building that is comparable with its glorious 
 old castle, or with IJoslin, or with what we 
 know to have been Melrose and Dry burgh ; 
 but its castle and its chapels are protected 
 and preserved. York, in the present day, 
 erects a commodious railway-station and a 
 sumptuous hotel, and spans its ample river 
 with two splendid bridges ; but its modern 
 architecture is puerile beside that of its 
 ancient Minster ; and so its best work, after 
 all, is the preservation of its Cathedral.
 
 48 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 One finds it difficult to understand how 
 anybody, however lowly born or poorly en- 
 dowed or meanly nurtured, can live within 
 the presence of this heavenly building, and 
 not be purified and exalted by the con- 
 templation of so much majesty, and by its 
 constantly irradiative force of religious sen- 
 timent and power. But the spirit which in 
 the past created objects of beauty and 
 adorned common life with visible manifes- 
 tations of the celestial aspiration in human 
 nature had constantly to struggle against 
 insensibility or violence ; and just so the 
 few who have inherited that spirit in the 
 present day are compelled steadily to com- 
 bat the hard materialism and gross animal 
 proclivities of the new age. 
 
 What a comfort their souls must find in 
 such an edifice as York Minster ! What a 
 solace and what an inspiration ! There it 
 stands, dark and lonely to-night, but sym- 
 bolising, as no other object upon earth can 
 ever do, except one of its own great kindred, 
 God's promise of immortal life to man and 
 man's unquenchable faith in the promise of 
 God. Dark and lonely now, but during 
 many hours of its daily and nightly life 
 sentient, eloquent, vital, participating in 
 all the thought and conduct and experience
 
 OLD YORK. 49 
 
 of those who dwell around it. The beaviti- 
 fiil peal of its bells that I heard last night 
 was for Canon Baillie, one of the oldest and 
 most beloved and venerated of its clergy. 
 This morning, sitting in its choir, I heard 
 the tender, thoughtful eulogy so simply and 
 sweetly spoken by the aged Dean, and once 
 again learned the essential lesson that an 
 old age of grace, patience, and benignity 
 means a pure heart, an unselfish spirit, and 
 a good life passed in the service of others. 
 This afternoon I had a place among the 
 worshippers that thronged the nave to 
 hear the special anthem chanted for the 
 deceased Canon ; and, as the organ pealed 
 forth its mellow thunder, and the rich tones 
 of the choristers swelled and rose and broke 
 in golden waves of melody upon the groined 
 arches and vaulted roof, my soul seemed 
 borne away to a peace and rest that are not 
 of this world. To-night the rising moon, 
 as she gleams through drifting clouds, will 
 pour her silver rays upon that great east 
 window — at once the largest and the most 
 beautiful in existence — and all the Bible 
 stories told there in such exquisite hues 
 and forms will glow with heavenly lustre 
 on the dark vista of chancel and nave. 
 And when the morning comes the first 
 
 D
 
 50 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 beams of the rising sun will stream through 
 the great casement and illumine the figures 
 of saints and archbishops, and gild the old 
 tattered battle-flags in the chancel aisle, 
 and touch with blessing the marble effigies 
 of the dead ; and we who walk there, re- 
 freshed and comforted, shall feel that the 
 vast Cathedral is indeed the gateway to 
 heaven. 
 
 York Minster is the loftiest of all the 
 English cathedrals, and the second in length 
 — Winchester being thirty feet longer. The 
 present structure is 600 years old, and 200 
 years were occupied in the building of it. 
 They show you, in the crypt, some fine 
 remains of the Norman church that pre- 
 ceded it upon the same site, together with 
 traces of the still older Saxon church that 
 preceded the Norman. The first one was 
 of wood, and was totally destroyed. The 
 Saxon remains are a fragment of stone stair- 
 case and a piece of wall built in the ancient 
 "herring-bone" fashion. The Norman re- 
 mains are four clustered columns, embel- 
 lished in the dog-tooth style. There is not 
 much of commemorative statuary at York 
 Minster, and what there is of it was placed 
 chiefly in the chancel. Archbishop Scrope, 
 who figures in Shakespeare's historical play
 
 OLD YORK. 51 
 
 of Henry IV., was buried in tiie Lady 
 Chapel. Lawrence Sterne's grandfather, 
 who was chaplain to Laud, is repre.'sented 
 there, in his ecclesiastic dress, reclining 
 npon a couch and supporting his mitred 
 head upon his hand — a squat figure uncom- 
 fortably posed, but sculptured with delicate 
 skill. Many historic names occur in the 
 inscriptions — Weutworth, Finch, Fenwick, 
 Carlisle, and Heneage, — and in the north 
 aisle of the chancel is the tomb of William 
 of Hatfield^ second son of Edward iii,, 
 who died in 134.3-44, in the eighth year of 
 his age. An alabaster statue of the royal 
 boy reclines upon his tomb. In the Cathe- 
 dral library, which contains 8000 volumes 
 and is kept at the Deanery, is the Princess 
 Elizabeth's prayer-book, containing her auto- 
 graph. In one of the chapels is the original 
 throne-chair of Edward iii. 
 
 In St. Leonard's Place still stands the 
 York Theatre, erected by Tate Wilkinson 
 in 1765. In York Castle Eugene Aram \\'as 
 imprisoned and suflFered. Knaresborough, 
 the scene of his crime, is but a few mile 
 distant. The poet Porteous, the sculptor 
 Flaxman, and the fanatic Guy Fawkes, were 
 natives of York, and have often walked its 
 streets. Standing on Skeldergate Bridge
 
 52 • GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 few readers of English fiction could fail to 
 recall that exquisite description of the place 
 in the novel of No Name. In his artistic 
 use of weather, atmosphere, and colour, 
 Wilkie Collins is always remarkable equally 
 for his fidelity to nature and fact, and for 
 the felicity and beauty of his language. His 
 portrayal of York seems more than ever a 
 gem of literary art, when you have seen the 
 veritable spot of poor Magdalen's meeting 
 with Captain Wragge. The name of Wragge 
 is on one of the signboards in the city. The 
 river, on which I did not omit to take a 
 boat, was picturesque, with its many quaint 
 barges, bearing masts and sails, and embel- 
 lished with touches of green and crimson 
 and blue. There is no end to the associa- 
 tions and suggestions of the storied city. 
 But you are weary of them by this time. 
 Let me respect the admonition of the mid- 
 night bell, and seek repose beneath the 
 hospitable wing of the old Black Swan in 
 Coney Street, whence I send this humble 
 memorial of ancient York.
 
 IV. 
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 
 
 DEVIZES, Wiltshire, August 20, 1888. 
 — The scarlet discs of the poppies and 
 the red and white blooms of the clover, 
 together with wild-flowers of many hues, 
 bespangle now this emerald sod of England, 
 while the air is rich with fragrance of lime- 
 trees and of new-mown hay. The busy and 
 sagacious rooks, fat and bold, wing their 
 way in great clusters, bent on forage and 
 mischief. There is almost a frosty chill in 
 the autumnal air, and the brimming rivers, 
 dark and deep and smoothly flowing through 
 this opulent, cultivated, and park-like region 
 of Wiltshire, look cold and bright. In 
 many fields the hay is cut and stacked. 
 In others the men, and often the women, 
 armed with rakes, are tossing it to dry in 
 the reluctant, intermittent, bleak sunshine 
 of this rigorous August. Overhead the sky 
 is now as blue as the deep sea, and now grim 
 and ominous with great drifting masses of
 
 54 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 slate-coloured cloud. There are moments 
 of beautiful sunshine by day, and in some 
 hours of the night the moon shines forth in 
 all her pensive and melancholy glory. It is 
 a time of exquisite loveliness, and it has 
 seemed a fitting time for a visit to the last 
 English home and the last resting-place of 
 the poet of loveliness and love, the great 
 Irish poet, Thomas Moore. 
 
 When Moore first went up to London, a 
 young poet seeking to launch his earliest 
 writings upon the stream of contemporary 
 literature, he crossed from Dublin to Bristol 
 and then travelled to the capital by way 
 of Bath and De^^zes ; and, as he crossed seve- 
 ral times, he must soon have gained famili- 
 arity with this part of the country. He 
 did not, however, settle in Wiltshire until 
 some years afterward. His first lodging 
 in London was a front room, up two pair 
 of stairs, at No. 44 George Street, Portman 
 vSquare. He subsequently lived at No. 46 
 Wigmore Street, Cavendish Square, and at 
 No. 27 Bury Street, St. James's. This was in 
 1805. In 1810 he resided for a time at No. 
 22 Molesworth Street, Dublin, but he soop 
 returned to England. One of his homes, 
 shortly after his marriage with Elizabeth 
 Dyke ("Bessie," the sister of the great
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 55 
 
 actress Mary Duff) was in Brompton, In 
 the spring of 1812 he settled at Kegworth, 
 but a year later he is found at May field 
 ('ottage, near Ashbourne, Derbyshire. "I 
 am now as you wished," he wrote to Mr. 
 Power, the music-publisher, July 1, 1813, 
 "within twenty-four hours' drive of town." 
 In 1817 he occupied a cottage near the foot 
 of Muswell Hill, at Homsey, Middlesex, 
 but after he lost his daughter Barbara, who 
 died there, the place became distressful to 
 him, and he left it. In the latter part of 
 September that year, the time of their 
 affliction, Moore and his Bessie were the 
 guests of Lady Donegal at No. 56 Davies 
 Street, Berkeley Square, London. Then they 
 removed to vSloperton Cottage, at Bromham, 
 near Devizes (November 19, 1817), and their 
 permanent residence was established in that 
 place. Lord Lansdowne, one of the poet's 
 earliest and best friends, was the owner of 
 this estate, and doubtless he was the impulse 
 of Moore's resort to it. The present Lord 
 Lansdowne still owns Bowood Park, about 
 four miles away. 
 
 Devizes impresses you with the singular 
 sense of being a place in which something is 
 always about to happen ; but nothing ever 
 does happen in it, or ever will. Quieter it
 
 56 GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 could not be unless it were dead. The 
 principal street in it runs nearly north-west 
 and south-east. There is a "Northgate" 
 at one end of it and a " Southgate " at the 
 other. Most of the streets are narrow and 
 crooked. The houses are low, and built of 
 brick. Few buildings are pretentious. A 
 canal intersects the place, but in such a sub- 
 terranean and furtive manner as scarcely to 
 attract even casual notice. Public-houses 
 are sufficiently numerous, and they appear 
 to be sufficiently prosperous. Even while 
 I write, the voice of song, issuing somewhat 
 discordantly from one of them in this imme- 
 diate neighbourhood, declares, with beery 
 emphasis, that " Britons never, never, never 
 will be slaves." Close by stands a castle 
 — a new one, built, however, upon the basis 
 and plan of an ancient structure that was 
 long included in the dowry settled upon 
 successive Queens of England. In the centre 
 of the town is a large square, which only 
 needs a fringe of well-grown trees to make 
 it exceedingly pleasant — for its commodious 
 expanse is seldom invaded by a vehicle or a 
 human being. Pilgrims in quest of peace 
 could not do better than to tarry here. 
 Nobody is in a hurry about anything, and 
 manners are primitive and frank. At break-
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 57 
 
 fast yesterday, in the coffee-room of the 
 Bear, one sedate and ruminant personage, 
 a farmer on his travels and arrayed in his 
 Sunday clothes, calmly removed his coat 
 and draped his chest in a prodigious hand- 
 kerchief — an amusing spectacle of bovine 
 simplicity. 
 
 The city bell which ofl&cially strikes the 
 hours in Devizes is subdued and thoughtful, 
 and although furnished with chimes it al- 
 ways speaks under its breath. The church - 
 bell, however, rings long and heartily, and 
 with a melodious clangour — as though the 
 local sinners were more than commonly 
 hard of hearing. In the great public square 
 there are two works of art — one a fountain, 
 the other a market cross. The latter, a 
 good specimen of the perpendicular Gothic, 
 has thirteen spires, rising above an arched 
 canopy for a statue. One face of it is in- 
 scribed as follows : "This Market Cross was 
 erected by Henry Viscount Sidmouth, as a 
 memorial of his grateful attachment to the 
 Borough of Devizes, of which he has been 
 Recorder thirty years, and of which he was 
 six times unanimously chosen a representa- 
 tive in Parliament. Anno Domini 1814." 
 Upon the other face appears a record vastly 
 more significant — being indicative, as to the
 
 58 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 city fathers, equally of credulity and a 
 frugal mind, and being in itself freighted 
 with tragic import unmatched since the 
 Bible narrative of Ananias and Sapphira. 
 It reads thus : — 
 
 " The Mayor and Corporation of Devizes avail 
 themselves of the stability of this building to 
 transmit to future times the record of an awful 
 event which occurred in this market-place in the 
 year 1753, hoping that such a record may serve 
 as a salutary warning against the danger of 
 impiously invoking the Divine vengeance, or of 
 calling on the holy name of God to conceal the 
 devices of falsehood and fraud. 
 
 " On Thursday, the 25th January 1753, Ruth 
 Pierce, of Potterne, in this county, agreed, with 
 three other women, to buy a sack of wheat in 
 the market, each paying her due proportion 
 toward the same. 
 
 " One of these women, in collecting the several 
 quotas of money, discovered a deficiency, and 
 demanded of Ruth Pierce the sum which was 
 wanted to make good the amount. 
 
 ■'' Ruth Pierce protested that she had paid her 
 share, and said, ' She wished she might drop 
 down dead if she had not.' 
 
 ** She rashly repeated this awful wish, when, 
 to the consternation of the surrounding multi- 
 tude, she instantly fell down and expired, having 
 the monev concealed in her hand."
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 59 
 
 Aa interesting church in Devizes is that 
 of St. John, tlie Norman tower of which is 
 a relic of the days of King Henry 11., a vast, 
 grim structure with a circular turret on 
 one corner of it. Eastward of this church 
 is a long and lovely avenue of trees, and 
 around it lies a large burial-place, remark- 
 able for the excellence of the sod and for the 
 number visible of those heavy, gray, oblong 
 masses of tombstone which appear to have 
 obtained great public favour about the time 
 of Cromwell. In the centre of the church- 
 yard stands a monolith, inscribed with 
 these words : " Remember the Sabbath-day 
 to keep it holy. — This monument, as a 
 solemn monitor to Young People to remem- 
 ber their Creator in the days of their youth, 
 was erected by subscription. — In memory of 
 the sudden and awful end of Robert Merrit 
 and his wife, Eliz. Tiley, her sister ; Martha 
 Carter, and Josiah Denham, who were 
 drowned, in the flower of their youth, in a 
 pond, near this town, called Drews, on Sun- 
 day evening, the 30th of June 1751, and 
 are together underneath entombed." 
 
 In one corner of the churchyard I came 
 upon a cross, bearing a simple legend far 
 more solemn, sensible, touching, and ad- 
 monitory : "In Memoriam — Robert Samuel
 
 60 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Thomley. Died August 5, 1871. Aged 48 
 years. For fourteen years surgeon to the 
 poor of Devizes. ' There shall be no more 
 pain. ' " And over still another sleeper was 
 written, upon a flat stone, low in the ground — 
 
 "Loving, beloved, in all relations true. 
 Exposed to follies, but subdued by few : 
 Eeader, reflect, and copy if you can 
 The simple virtues of this honest man." 
 
 As I was gazing at one of the old churches, 
 surrounded with many ponderous tomb- 
 stones and looking gray and cheerless in the 
 gloaming, last night, an old man approached 
 me and civilly began a conversation about the 
 antiquity of the church and the eloquence 
 of its rector. When I told him that I had 
 walked to Bromham to attend the service 
 there, and to see the cottage and grave of 
 ]\Ioore, he presently furnished to me that 
 little touch of personal testimony which is 
 always so interesting and significant in such 
 circumstances. " I remember Tom Moore," 
 he said ; "I saw him when he was alive. I 
 worked for him once in his house, and I did 
 some work once on his tomb. He was a 
 little man. He spoke to us very pleasantly. 
 I don't think he was a preacher. He never 
 preached that I heard tell of. He was a
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 6 1 
 
 poet, I believe. He was very much liked 
 here. No, I never heard a word against 
 him. I am seventy -nine years old the 13th 
 of December, and that '11 soon be here. 
 I've had three wives in my time, and my 
 third is still living. It 's a fine old church, 
 and there 's figures in it of Bishops, and 
 Kings, and Queens." 
 
 Most observers have remarked the odd 
 way, garrulous, and sometimes unconsciously 
 humorous, in which senile persons prattle 
 their incongruous and sporadic recollections. 
 But — "How pregnant sometimes his replies 
 are ! " Another resident of Devizes, with 
 whom I conversed, likewise remembered the 
 poet, and spoke of him with affectionate 
 regard. "My sister, when she was a 
 child," he said, "was often at Moore's 
 house, and he was fond of her. Yes, his 
 name is widely remembered and honoured 
 here. But I think that many of the poor 
 people hereabout, the farmers, admired him 
 chiefly because they thought that he wrote 
 Moore's Almanac. They often used to say 
 to him : ' Mister Moore, please tell us what 
 the weather 's going to be.' " 
 
 From Devizes to the village of Bromham, 
 a distance of about four miles, the walk is 
 delightful. Much of the path is between
 
 62 GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 green hedges, and is embowered by elms. 
 The exit from the town is by Northgate 
 and along the Chippenham road — which, 
 like all the roads in this neighbourhood, is 
 smooth, hard, and white. A little way out 
 of Devizes, going north-west, this road makes 
 a deep cut in the chalk-stone, and so winds 
 down hill into the level plain. At intervals 
 you come upon sweetly pretty specimens of 
 the old English thatch-roof cottage. Hay- 
 fields, pastures, and market -gardens extend 
 on every hand. Eastward, far off, are visible 
 the hills of \Yestbury, upon which, here and 
 there, the copses are lovely, and upon one 
 of which, cut in the rock, is the figure of a 
 colossal white horse — said to have been put 
 there by the Saxons to commemorate the 
 victories of King Alfred. Soon the road 
 winds over a hill, and you pass through the 
 little red village of Rowde, with its gray 
 church-tower. The walk may be shortened 
 by a cut across the fields, and this, indeed, is 
 found the sweetest part of the journey — for 
 now the path lies through gardens, and 
 through the centre or along the margin 
 of the wheat, which waves in the strong 
 wind and sparkles in the bright sunshine, 
 and is everywhere sweetly and tenderly 
 touched with the scarlet of the poppy and
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 63 
 
 with h^^es of other wild-flowers — making 
 you think of Shakespeare's 
 
 " Rank fumiter and furrow weeds, 
 With hemlock, harlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, 
 Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow 
 In our sustaining corn." 
 
 There is one field through which I passed, 
 just as the spire of Bromham Church came 
 into view, in which a surface more than 
 three hundred yards square was blazing 
 with wild-flowers, w^hite and gold and crim- 
 son and purple and blue, upon a growth of 
 vivid green, so that to look upon it was 
 almost to be dazzled, w^hile the air that 
 floated over it was scented as if with honey- 
 suckles. You may see the delicate spire and 
 the low gray tower of Moore's church some 
 time before you come to it, and in some 
 respects the prospect is not unlike that 
 of Shakespeare's church at Stratford. A 
 sweeter spot for a poet's sepulchre it would 
 be hard to find. No spot could be more 
 harmonious than this one is with the gentle, 
 romantic spirit of Moore's poetry, and 
 with the purity, refinement, and serenity 
 of his life, Bromham village consists of 
 a few red brick buildings, scattered along a 
 few irregular little lanes, on a ridge over-
 
 64 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 looking a valley. Amid these humble homes 
 stands the gray church, like a shepherd 
 keeping his flock. A part of it is very old, 
 and all of it, richly weather-stained and 
 delicately browned with fading moss, is 
 beautiful. Upon the tower and along the 
 south side the fantastic gargoyles are much 
 decayed. The building is a cross. The large 
 chancel-window faces eastward, and the large 
 window at the end of the nave looks toward 
 the west — the latter being a memorial to 
 Moore. At the south-east corner of the 
 building is the Lady Chapel, in which are 
 suspended various fragments of old armour, 
 and in the centre of which, recumbent on a 
 great dark tomb, is a grim-visaged knight, 
 clad from top to toe in his mail, beautifully 
 sculptured in marble that looks like yellow 
 ivory. Other tombs are adjacent, \\4th in- 
 scriptions that implicate the names of Sir 
 Edward Bayntun, 1679, and Lady Anne 
 Wilmot, elder daughter and co-heiress of 
 John, Earl of Rochester, who successively 
 was the wife of Henry Bayntun and Francis 
 Greville, and who died in 1703. The win- 
 dow at the end of the nave is a simple but 
 striking composition, in stained glass, richer 
 and nobler than is commonly seen in a coun- 
 try church. It consists of twenty-one lights,
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 65 
 
 of which five are lancet shafts, side by side, 
 these being surmounted with smaller lancets, 
 forming a cluster at the top of the arch. In 
 the centre is the figure of Jesus, and around 
 Him are the Apostles. The colouring is 
 soft, true, and beautiful. Across the base 
 of the window appear the words, in the 
 glass: "This window is placed in this 
 church by the combined subscriptions of two 
 hundred persons who honour the memory 
 of the poet of all circles and the idol of 
 his own, Thomas Moore." It was beneath 
 this window, in a little pew in the comer 
 of the church, that the present writer joined 
 in the service, and meditated, throughout 
 a long sermon, on the lovely life and char- 
 acter, and the gentle, noble, and abiding 
 influence, of the poet whose hallowed grave 
 and beloved memory make this place a per- 
 petual shrine. 
 
 Moore was buried in the churchyard. An 
 iron fence encloses his tomb, which is at the 
 base of the church tower, in an angle formed 
 by the tower and the chancel, on the north 
 side of the building. Not more than twenty 
 tombs are visible on this side of the church, 
 and these appear upon a level lawn as green 
 and sparkling as an emerald and as soft as 
 velvet. On three sides the churchyard is 
 
 E
 
 66 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 enclosed by a low wall, and on the fourth by 
 a dense hedge of glistening holly. Great 
 trees are all around the church, but not too 
 near. A massive yew stands darkly at one 
 corner. Chestnuts and elms blend their 
 branches in fraternal embrace. Close by 
 the poet's grave a vast beech uprears its 
 dome of fruited boughs and rustling foliage. 
 The sky was blue, except for a few strag- 
 gling masses of fleecy and slate-coloured 
 cloud. Not a human creature was any- 
 where to be seen while I stood in this 
 sacred spot, and no sound disturbed the 
 Sabbath stillness, save the faint whisper of 
 the wind in the lofty tree-tops and the low 
 twitter of birds in their hidden nests. I 
 thought of his long life, unblemished by 
 personal guilt or public error ; of his sweet 
 devotion to parents and wife and children ; 
 of his pure patriotism, which scorned 
 equally the blatant fustian of the dema- 
 gogue and the frenzy of the revolutionist ; 
 of his unsurpassed fidelity in friendship ; of 
 his simplicity and purity in a corrupt time 
 and amid many temptations ; of his meek- 
 ness in aflaiction ; of the devout spirit that 
 made him murmur on his deathbed, 
 "Bessie, trust in God"; of the many 
 beautiful songs that he added to our litera- 
 ture, — every one of which is the perfectly
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 67 
 
 melodious and absolutely final expression 
 of one or another of the elemental feel- 
 ings of human nature ; and of the obli- 
 gation of endless gratitude that the world 
 owes to his fine and high and beneficent 
 genius. And thus it seemed good to be in 
 this place, and to lay with reverent hands 
 the white roses of honour and affection 
 upon his tomb. 
 
 Ou the long, low, fiat stone that covers 
 the poet's dust are inscribed the following 
 words : " Anastatia Mary Moore. Born 
 March 16, 1813. Died March 8, 1829. 
 Also her brother; John Russell Moore, who 
 died November 23, 1842, aged 19 years. 
 Also their father, Thomas Moore, tenderly 
 beloved by all who knew the goodness of 
 his heart. The Poet and Patriot of his 
 Country, Ireland. Born May 28, 1779. 
 Sank to rest February 25, 1852. Aged 72. 
 God is Love. Also his wife, Bessie Moore, 
 who died 4th September 1865. And to the 
 memory of their dear son, Thomas Lans- 
 downe Parr Moore. Born 24th October 
 1818. Died in Africa, January 1846." 
 Moore's little daughter, Bai'bara, is buried 
 at Hornsey, near London, in the same 
 churchyard where rest the bones of the poet 
 Samuel Rogers. On the stone that marks 
 that spot is written, " Anne Jane Barbara
 
 68 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Moore. Born January the 4th, 1812. Died 
 September the 18th, 1817." 
 
 North-west from Bromham Chiirch, and 
 about one mile away, stands Sloperton Cot- 
 tage, the last home of the poet, and the 
 house in -which he died. A deep valley 
 intervenes between the church and the cot- 
 tage, but, as each is built upon a ridge, j^ou 
 may readily see the one from the other. 
 There is a road across the valley, but the 
 more pleasant walk is along a pathway 
 through the meadows and over several 
 stiles, ending almost in front of the storied 
 house. It is an ideal home for a poet. The 
 building is made of brick, but it is so com- 
 pletely enwrapped in ivy that scarcely a 
 particle of its surface can be seen. It is a 
 low building, with three gables on its main 
 front and with a wing ; it stands in the 
 middle of a garden enclosed by walls and 
 by hedges of ivy ; and it is embowered by 
 great trees, yet not so closely embowered as 
 to be shorn of the prospect from its windows. 
 Flowers and flowering vines were blooming 
 around it. The hard, white road, flowing 
 past its gateway, looked like a thread of 
 silver between the green hedgerows which 
 here for many miles are rooted in high, 
 grassy banks, and at intervals are diversi- 
 iied with large trees. Sloperton Cottage i?
 
 THE HAUNTS OF MOORE. 69 
 
 almost alone, but there are a few ueigh- 
 l)our.s, and there is a little rustic village 
 about half a mile westward. Westward 
 was the poet's favourite prospect. He loved 
 the sunset, and from a certain terrace in his 
 garden he rarely failed to watch the pageant 
 of the dying day. Here, for thirty-five 
 years, was his peaceful and happy home. 
 Here he meditated many of those gems of 
 lyrical poetry which will live in the hearts 
 of men as long as anything lives that ever 
 was written by mortal hand. And here he 
 " sank to rest," worn out at last by in- 
 cessant labour and by many sorrows — the 
 bitter fruit of domestic bereavement and 
 disappointment. The sun was sinking as I 
 turned away from this hallowed haunt of 
 genius and virtue, and, through green pas- 
 tures and flower-spangled fields of waving 
 grain, set forth upon my homeward walk. 
 Soon there was a lovely peal of chimes from 
 Bromham Church tower, answered far off by 
 the bells of Rowde, and, while I descended 
 into the darkening valley, Moore's tender 
 words came singing through my thought : — 
 
 " And so 'twill be when I am gone — 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
 While other bards shall walk these dells 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells ! "
 
 V. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL BATH. 
 
 FROM Devizes the traveller naturally 
 turns toward Bath, which is only a 
 few miles distant. A beautiful city, marred 
 somewhat by the feverish, disturbing spirit 
 of the present day, this old place — in 
 which the Saxon King Edgar was crowned, 
 A.D. 973 — nevertheless retains many inter- 
 esting characteristics of its former glory. 
 More than a century has passed since the 
 wigged, powdered, and jewelled days of 
 Beau Nash. The Avon (for there is another 
 Avon here, distinct from that of Warwick- 
 shire and that of Yorkshire) is spanned by 
 bridges that Smollett never dreamed of and 
 Sheridan never saw. The town has crept 
 upward, along both the valley slopes, nearer 
 and nearer to the hill-tops that used to look 
 down upon it. Along the margins of the 
 river many gray, stone structures are 
 mouldering in neglect and decay ; but a
 
 BEAUTIFUL BATH. 7 1 
 
 traiiicar rattles through the principal street ; 
 the boot-black and the newsvendor are 
 active and vociferous ; the causeways are 
 crowded with a bustling throng, and carts 
 and carriages dash and scramble over the 
 pavement, while, where of old the horn 
 used to sound a gay flourish and the coach 
 to come spinning in from London, now is 
 heard the shriek and clangour of the steam- 
 engine dashing down the vale with morn- 
 ing papers and with passengers, three hours 
 from town. This, indeed, is not " the 
 season " (August 21, 1888), and of late it 
 has rained with zealous persistence, so that 
 Bath is not in her splendour. Much how- 
 ever can be seen, and the essential fact 
 that she is no longer the Gainsborough belle 
 that she used to be is distinctly evident. 
 You must yield your mind to fancy if you 
 would conjure up, while walking in these 
 modem streets, the gay and quaint things 
 described in Humjjhry Clinker or indi- 
 cated in The Rivals. The Bath chairs, 
 sometimes pulled by donkeys, and some- 
 times trundled by men, are among the 
 most representative relics now to be seen. 
 Next to the Theatre-Royal (where it 
 was my privilege to enjoy and admire Mr. 
 Toole's richly humorous peiformance of
 
 72 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 The Don) stands a building, just at the 
 foot of Gascoigne Place, before which the 
 traveller pauses with interest, because upon 
 its front he may read the legend, neatly 
 engraved on a white marble slab, that "In 
 this house lived the celebrated Beau Nash, 
 and here he died, February 1761." It is an 
 odd structure, consisting of two stories and 
 an attic, the front being of the monotonous 
 stucco that came in with the Regent. Earlier 
 no doubt the building was timbered. There 
 are eleven windows in the front, four of 
 them being painted on the wall. The house 
 is used now by an auctioneer. In the his- 
 toric Pump Room — dating back to 1797 — 
 raised aloft in an alcove at the east end, 
 still stands the effigy of the Beau, even as it 
 stood in the days when he set the fashions, 
 regulated the customs, and gave the laws, 
 a-id was the King of Bath ; but the busts of 
 Newton and Pope that formerly stood on 
 either side of this statue stand there no 
 more — save in the fancy of those who recall 
 the epigi'am which was suggested by this 
 singular group : — 
 
 " This statue placed these busts between 
 
 Gives satire all its strength ; 
 Wisdom and Wit are little seen, 
 
 But Folly at full length."
 
 BEAUTIFUL BATH. 73 
 
 Folly, though, is a word that carries a 
 different meaning to different ears. Douglas 
 Jerrold made a play on the subject of Beau 
 Nash — an ingenious, effective, brilliantly 
 written play, in which he is depicted as 
 anything but foolish. Much always depends 
 on the point of view. 
 
 Quin Mas buried in Bath Abbey, and 
 Bath is the scene of 2Vie Rivals. It would 
 be pleasant to fancy the trim figure of the 
 truculent Sir Lucius 0' Trigger strutting 
 along the Parade ; or bluff and choleric Sir 
 Anthony Absolute gazing with imperious 
 condescension upon the galaxy of the Pump 
 Room; Acres in his absurd finery; Lydia 
 \\\\h her sentimental novels ; and Mrs. 
 Mcdaprop, rigid with decorum, in her Bath 
 chair. The Abbey, begun in 1405 and com- 
 pleted in 1606, has a noble west front and a 
 magnificent door of carved oak, and certainly 
 it is a superb church ; but the eyes that have 
 rested upon such cathedrals as those of 
 Edinburgh and Glasgow, such a heavenly 
 jewel as Roslin, and such an astounding and 
 overwhelming edifice as York Minster, can 
 dwell calmly on Bath Abbey. A surprising 
 feature in it is its mural record of the dead 
 that are entombed beneath or around it. 
 Sir Lucius might well declare that " There
 
 74 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 is snug lying in the Abbey." Almost every 
 foot of the walls is covered with monu- 
 mental slabs, and like Captain Cuttle, after 
 the wedding of Mr. Domhey and Edith 
 Granger, I " pervaded the church and read 
 the epitaphs," solicitous to discover that of 
 the renowned actor James Quin. His tablet 
 was formerly to be found in the chancel, but 
 now it is obscurely placed in a porch, on 
 the northern corner of the building, on 
 what may be termed the outer wall of the 
 sanctuary. It presents the face of the 
 famous comedian carved in white marble 
 and set against a black slab. Beneath is 
 the date of his death, "Ob. mdcclxvi. 
 Aetat Lxxiii.," and his epitaph, written 
 by David Garrick. At the base are dra- 
 matic emblems — the mask and the dagger. 
 As a portrait this medallion of Quin bears 
 internal evidence of scrupulous fidelity to 
 nature, and certainly it is a fine work of art. 
 The head is dressed as it was in life, with 
 the full wig of the period. The features are 
 delicately cut, and are indicative of austere 
 beauty of countenance — impressive if not 
 attractive. The mouth is especially hand- 
 some — the upper lip being a perfect Cupid's 
 bow. The face is serious, expressive, and 
 fraught with intellect and power. This was
 
 nEAUTIFrL BATn. 75 
 
 the last great declaimer of the old school 
 of acting, discomfited and almost obliter- 
 ated by Garrick ; and here are the words 
 that Garrick wrote upon his tomb : — 
 
 "That tongu-? vhich set the table on a roar 
 And charmed the public ear is heard no more ; 
 Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, 
 Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shake- 
 speare writ ; [forth, 
 Cold is that hand which, living, was stretched 
 At friendship's call, to succour modest worth. 
 Herp lies JAMES QUIN. Deign, reader, to 
 
 be taught 
 Whate'er thy strength of body, force of 
 
 thought, 
 In nature's happiest mould however cast, 
 To this complexion thou must come at last." 
 
 A printed reminder of mortality is super- 
 fluous in Bath, for you almost continually 
 behold afflicted and deformed persons who 
 have come hero to "take the waters." For 
 rheumatic sufferers this place is a paradise 
 — as, indeed, it is for all wealthy persons 
 who love luxury. Walter Savage Landor 
 said that the only two cities of Europe in 
 which he could live were Bath and Florence ; 
 but that was long ago. When you have 
 walked in Milsom Street and Lansdowne 
 Crescent, sailed upon the Avon, observed
 
 76 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 the Abbe J', without and withm — for its 
 dusky, weather-stained walls are extremely 
 picturesque — attended the theatre, climbed 
 the hills for the view of the city and the 
 Avon valley, and taken the baths, you will 
 have had a satisfying experience of Bath. 
 The greatest luxury in the place is a swim- 
 ming tank of mineral water, about forty 
 feet long, by twenty broad, and five feet 
 deep — a tepid pool of most refreshing 
 potency. And the chief curiosity is the 
 ruin of a Roman bath which was discovered 
 and laid bare in 1885. This is built in the 
 form of a rectangular basin of stone, with 
 steps around it, and it was environed with 
 stone chambers that were used as dressing- 
 rooms. The basin is nearly perfect. The 
 work of restoration of this ancient bath is 
 in progress, but the relic will be preserved 
 only as an emblem of the past. 
 
 Haynes Bayly, the song-writer, was born 
 in Bath, and there he melodiously recorded 
 that "She wore a wreath of roses," and 
 there he dreamed of dwelling "in marble 
 halls." But Bath is not nearly as rich in 
 literary associations as its neighbour citj' 
 of Bristol. Chatterton, Southey, Hannah 
 More, Mary Robinson — the actress, the 
 lovely and unfortunate " Perdita," — all
 
 BEAUTIFUL BATH. 77 
 
 these were born in Bristol. Richard Savage, 
 the poet, died there (1743), and so did John 
 Hippesley, the comedian, manager, and 
 farce-writer (1748). St. Mary Redclyfte 
 Church, built in 1292, is still standing there, 
 of which Chatterton's father was the sexton, 
 and in the tower of which "the marvellous 
 boy " discovered, according to his ingenious 
 plan of literary imposture, the original 
 Canynge and Rowley manuscripts. That 
 famous preacher, the Rev. Robert Hall 
 (1764-1831), had a church in Bristol. Sou- 
 they and Coleridge married sisters, of the 
 name of Fricker, who resided there, and the 
 house once occupied by Coleridge is still ex- 
 tant in the contiguous village of Clevedon 
 — one of the loveliest places on the English 
 coast. Jane and Anna Maria Porter both 
 lived in Bristol, and Maria died at Mont- 
 pelier near by. These notes indicate but 
 a tithe of what may be seen and studied and 
 enjoyed in and about Bristol, the city to 
 which poor Chatterton left his curse ; the 
 region hallowed by the dust of Arthur 
 Hallam — the inspiration of Tennyson's 
 " In Memoriam," the loftiest poem that 
 has been created in the English language 
 since the pen that wrote ' ' Childe Harold " 
 fell from the divine hand of Byron.
 
 VI. 
 
 THE LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A GOOD way by which to enter the Lake 
 District of England is to travel to 
 Penrith, and thence to drive along the 
 shore of UUswater, or sail upon its crystal 
 bosom, to the blooming solitude of Patter- 
 dale. Penrith lies at the eastern slope of 
 the mountains of Westmoreland, and you 
 may there see the ruins of Penrith Castle, 
 once the property and the abode of Richard, 
 Duke of Gloucester, before he became King 
 of England. Penrith Castle was one of the 
 estates that wei-e forfeited by the great Earl 
 of Warwick, and King Edward rv". gave it 
 to his brother Richard in 1471. Not much 
 remains of this ancient structure, and the 
 remnant is now occupied by a florist. I saw 
 it, as I saw almost everything else in Great 
 Britain during the summer of 1888, under a 
 tempest of rain ; for it rained there, with a 
 continuity almost ruinous, from the time of 
 the lilac and apple-blossom till when the
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. ']-■:) 
 
 clematis began to show the splendour of its 
 purple shield, and the acacia to drop its 
 milky blossoms on the autumnal grass. 
 But travellers must not heed the weather. 
 If there are dark days there are also bright 
 ones— and one bright day in such a paradise 
 as the English Lakes atones for the dreari- 
 ness of a month of rain. Beside, even the 
 darkest days may be brightened by gentle 
 companionship. Henr}^ Irving and Ernest 
 Bendall, two of the most intellectual and 
 genial men in England, were my associates 
 ill this expedition. We came from London 
 into Westmoreland on a mild, sweet day in 
 July, and we rambled for several days in that 
 enchanted region. It was a delicious expe- 
 rience ; and I often close my eyes and dream 
 of it — as I am dreaming now. 
 
 In the drive between Penrith and Patter- 
 dale you see many things that are worthy 
 of regard. Among these are the parish 
 church of Penrith, a building made of red 
 stone, remarkable for a massive square 
 tower of great age and formidable aspect. 
 In the adjacent churchyard are " The 
 Giant's Grave " and " The Giant's Thumb,'" 
 relics of a distant past that strongly and 
 strangely affect the imaginatieu. The grave 
 is said to be that of Owen Ci^esarius, a
 
 8o GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 gigantic indi\ndual who reigned over Cum- 
 berland in remote Saxon times. The Thumb 
 is a rough stone, about seven feet high, pre- 
 senting a clumsy cross, and doubtless com- 
 memorative of another mighty warrior. Sir 
 Walter Scott, who traversed Penrith on his 
 journeys between Edinburgh and London, 
 seldom omitted to pause for a view of 
 these singular memorials — and Scott, like 
 Wordsworth, has left upon this region the 
 abiding impress of his splendid genius. 
 ' ' Ulfo's Lake " is Scott's name for Ulls- 
 water, and hereabout is laid the scene of 
 his poem of "The Bridal of Triermain." 
 In Scott's day the traveller went by coach or 
 on horseback, but now, "On lonely Threl- 
 keld's solemn waste," at the foot of craggy 
 Blencathara, you pause at a railway sta- 
 tion with " Threlkeld ' in large letters on 
 the official signboard. Another strange 
 thing that is passed on the road between 
 Penrith and Patterdale is " Arthur's Round 
 Table " — a circle of lawn slightly raised 
 above the surrounding level, and certainly 
 remarkable, whatever may be its historic or 
 antiquarian merit, for the fine texture of 
 its sod and the lovely green of its grass. 
 Scholars think it was used for tournaments 
 in the days of chivalry, but no one rightly
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. SI 
 
 knows anything about it, save that it is 
 old. Not far from this bit of mysterious 
 antiquity the road winds through a quaint 
 village called Tirril, where, in the Quaker 
 burial-ground, is the grave of an unfor- 
 tunate young man, Charles Gough, who 
 lost his life by falling from the Striding 
 Edge of Helvellyn in I8O0, and whose 
 memory is hallowed by Wordsworth and 
 Scott, in poems that almost every school- 
 boy has read, and could never forget — asso- 
 ciated as they are with the story of the 
 faithful dog for three months in that lone- 
 some wilderness vigilant beside the dead 
 body of his master, 
 
 " A lofty precipice in front, 
 A silent tarn below." 
 
 Patterdale possesses this advantage over 
 certain other towns and hamlets of the lake 
 region— that it is not much frequented by 
 tourists. The coach does indeed roll through 
 it at intervals, laden with those miscel- 
 laneous, desultory visitors whose pleasure 
 it is to rush wildly over the land. And 
 these objects serve to remind you that now, 
 even as in Wordsworth's time, and in a 
 double sense, ' ' the world is too much with 
 us." But an old-fashioned inn (Kidd's 
 F
 
 82 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Hotel) still exists at the head of Ullswater, 
 to which fashion has not resorted, and where 
 kindness presides over the traveller's com- 
 fort. Close by also is a sweet nook called 
 Glenridding, where, if you are a lover of 
 solitude and peace, you may find an ideal 
 abode. One house wherein lodging may be 
 had was literally embowered in roses on 
 that summer evening when first I strolled 
 by the fragrant hay-fields on the Patterdale 
 shore of Ullswater. The rose flourishes in 
 wonderful luxuriance and profusion through- 
 out Westmoreland and Cumberland. As 
 you drive along the lonely roads your way 
 will sometimes be, for many miles, between 
 hedges that are bespangled -s^dth wild roses 
 and with the silver globes of the laurel 
 blossom, while all around you the lonely 
 mountains, bare of foliage save for matted 
 grass and a dense growth of low ferns, tower 
 to meet the clouds. 
 
 It is a wild place, and yet there is a per- 
 vading spii'it of refinement over it all — 
 as if Nature had here wrought her wonder.-^ 
 in the mood of the finest art. And at the 
 same time it is a place of infinite variety. 
 The whole territory occupied by the lakes 
 and mountains of this famous district is not 
 more than fifty miles square ; yet within
 
 LAKES AND TELLS OF WORDSWORTH. 83 
 
 this limit, comparatively narrow, are com- 
 prised all possible beauties of land and 
 water that the most passionate devotee of 
 natural loveliness could desire. 
 
 My first night in Patterdale was one of 
 such tempest as sometimes rages in America 
 about the time of the fall equinox. The 
 wind shook the building. It was long after 
 midnight when I went to rest, and the 
 storm seemed to increase in fury as the 
 night wore on. ToiTents of rain were 
 dashed against the windows. Great trees 
 near by creaked and groaned beneath the 
 strength of the gale. The cold was so 
 severe that blankets were welcome. It was 
 my first night in Wordsworth's country, and 
 I thought of Wordsworth's lines : — 
 
 " There was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
 The rain came hea-vily and fell in floods." 
 
 The next morning was sweet with sun- 
 shine and gay with birds and flowers, and 
 all semblance of storm and trouble seemed 
 banished for ever. 
 
 "But now the sun is shining calm and bright, 
 And birds are singing in the distant woods." 
 
 Wordsworth's poetry expresses the inmost 
 soul of these lovely lakes and mighty hills, 
 and no writer can hope to tread, save re-
 
 84 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 motely and M'ith reverent humility, in the 
 footsteps of that magician. You understand 
 Wordsworth better, however, and you love 
 him more dearly, for having rambled over 
 his own consecrated ground. There was 
 not a day when I did not, in some shape or 
 another, meet with his presence. When- 
 ever I was alone his influence came upon 
 me as something unspeakablj' majestic and 
 solemn. Once, on a Sunday afternoon, I 
 climbed to the topmost height of Place Fell 
 (which is 2154 feet above the sea-level, 
 while Scawfell Pike is 3210, and Helvellyn 
 is 3118), and there, in the short space of 
 two hours, I was thrice cut off by rain- 
 storms from all view of the world beneath. 
 Xot a tree could I find on that mountain- 
 top, nor any place of shelter from the blast 
 and the rain — except when crouching beside 
 the mound of rock at its summit, which in 
 that country they call a "man." Not a 
 li\dng creature was visible, save now and 
 then a lonely sheep, who stared at me for a 
 moment and then scurried away. But when 
 skies cleared and the cloudy squadrons of 
 the storm went careering over Helvellyn, I 
 looked down into no less than fifteen valleys 
 beautifully coloured by the foliage and the 
 patches of cultivated land, each vale being
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WOKDSWORTU. 55 
 
 sparsely fringed with little gray stone 
 dwellings that seemed no more than card- 
 houses, in those appalling depths. You 
 think of Wordsworth in such a place as that 
 — if you know his poetry. You cannot 
 choose but think of him. 
 
 "Who comes not hither ue'er shall know 
 How beautiful the world below." 
 
 Yet somehow it happened that whenever 
 friends joined in these rambles the great 
 poet was sure to dawn upon us in a comic 
 way. When we were resting on the bridge 
 at the foot of "Brothers Water," which is 
 a little lake, scarcely more than a mountain 
 tarn, lying between Ullswaterand the Kirk- 
 stone Pass, some one recalled that Words- 
 worth had once rested there and written a 
 poem about it. We were not all as devout 
 admirers of the bard as I am, and certainly 
 it is not everj' one of that great author's 
 compositions that a lover of his genius 
 would wish to hear quoted under such 
 circumstances. The "Brothers Water'' 
 poem is the one that begins ' ' The cock is 
 crowing, the stream is flowing," and I do 
 not think that its insipidity is much relieved 
 by its famous picture of the grazing cattle, 
 "forty feeding like one." Henry Irving,
 
 85 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 not much given to enthusiasm about Words- 
 worth, heard those lines with undisguised 
 merriment, and made a capital travesty of 
 them on the spot. It is significant to 
 remember, with reference to the inequality 
 of "Wordsworth, that on the day before he 
 ■•.vrote "The cock is crowing," and at a 
 place but a short distance from the Brothers 
 Water bridge, he had written that peerless 
 lyric about the daffodils — "I wandered 
 lonely as a cloud." Gowbarrow Park is the 
 scene of that poem — a place of ferns and 
 hawthorns, notable for containing Lyulph's 
 Tower, a romantic, ivy-clad lodge owned 
 by the Duke of Norfolk — and Aira Force, a 
 waterfall much finer than Lodore. Upon 
 the lake shore in Gowbarrow Park you may 
 still see the daffodils as Wordsworth saw 
 them, a golden host, " glittering and danc- 
 ing in the breeze." No one but a true poet 
 could have made that perfect lyric, with its 
 delicious close : — 
 
 " For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is the bliss of solitude : 
 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 
 And dances with the daffodils." 
 
 The third and fourth lines were written by
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. 87 
 
 the poet's wife — and they shew that she A\as 
 not a poet's wife in vain. It must have been 
 in his "vacant mood" that he rested and 
 wrote on the bridge at Brothers Water. 
 ' ' I saw Wordsworth often when I was 
 a child," Frank Marshall^ said (who had 
 joined us at Penrith) ; " he used to come to 
 my father's house, Patterdale Hall, and 
 once I was sent to the garden by Mrs. 
 Wordsworth to call him to supper. He 
 was musing there, I suppose. He had a 
 long horse-like face. I don't think I liked 
 him. I said, 'Your wife wants j'ou.' He 
 looked down at me, and he answered, ' My 
 boy, you should say Mrs. Wordsworth, and 
 not " your wife." ' I looked up at him, and 
 I replied, ' She is your wife, isn't she ? ' 
 Whereupon he said no more. I don't think 
 he liked me either." We were going up 
 Kirkstone Pass when Marshall told this 
 story — which seemed to bring the pensive 
 and homely poet plainly before us. An 
 hour later at the top of the pass, while wait- 
 ing in the old inn called ' ' The Travellers' 
 Rest," which incorrectly proclaims itself the 
 
 1 F. A. Marshall, editor of the Henry Irving edition 
 of Shakespeare, and author of A Study of Hamlet, 
 the comedy of False Shame, and many other works, 
 died in London, December 1889, much lamented.
 
 88 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 highest inhabited house in England — it is 
 1481 feet above the sea-level — I spoke 
 with an ancient, weather-beaten hostler, not 
 wholly unfamiliar with the medicinal virtue 
 of ardent spirits, and asked for his opinion 
 of the great Lake Poet. They all know 
 him in that region. "Well,"' he said, 
 " people are always talking about Words- 
 worth, but I don't see much in it. I 've 
 read it, but I don't care for it. It 's dry 
 stuff— it don't chime." Truly there are all 
 sorts of views, just as there are all sorts of 
 people. 
 
 Mementos of Wordsworth are frequenth'' 
 encountered by the traveller among these 
 lakes and fells. One of these, situated at 
 the foot of Place Fell, is a rustic cottage 
 that the poet once selected for his residence, 
 and partly purchased. It somewhat re- 
 sembles the Shakespeare cottage at Strat- 
 ford — the living-room being floored with 
 stone slabs, irregular in size and shape and 
 mostly broken by hard use. In a corner of 
 the kitchen stands a fine carved oak cup- 
 board, dark with age, inscribed with the 
 date of the Merry Monarch, 1660. 
 
 What were the sights of those sweet days 
 that linger still, and will alwaj's linger, in 
 my remembrance ? A ramble in the old
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. 89 
 
 park of Patterdale Hall, which is full of 
 American trees ; a golden morning in Dove- 
 dale, with Henry Irving, much like Jaques, 
 reclined upon a shaded rock, half-way up 
 the mountain, musmg and moralising in 
 his sweet, kind way, beside the brawling 
 stream ; the first prospect of Windermere, 
 from above Ambleside — a vision of heaven 
 upon earth ; the drive by Rydal Water, 
 which has all the loveliness of celestial pic- 
 tures seen in dreams ; the glimpse of stately 
 Rydal Hall and of the sequestered Rydal 
 Moimt, where Wordsworth so long lived, 
 and where he died ; the Wishing Gate, 
 where one of us, I know, wished in his 
 heart that he could be young again and be 
 wiser than to waste his youth in self-willed 
 folly ; the restful hours of observation and 
 thought at delicious Grasmere, where we 
 stood in silence at Wordsworth's grave and 
 heard the murmur of Rotha singing at his 
 feet; the lovely drive past Matterdale, across 
 the moorlands, with only clouds and rooks for 
 our chance companions, and mountains for 
 sentinels along our way ; the ramble through 
 Keswick, all golden and glowang in the 
 afternoon sun, till we stood by Crosthwaite 
 Church and read the words of commemoration 
 that grace the tomb of Robert Southey ; the
 
 90 GRAY DAYS A>-I) GOLD. 
 
 divine circuit of Derwent — surely the love- 
 liest sheet of -water in England ; the descent 
 into the vale of Keswick, with sunset on the 
 rippUng crystal of the lake and the perfume 
 of countless wild roses on the evening wind. 
 These things, and the midnight talk about 
 these things — Irving, so tranquil, so gentle. 
 so full of keen and sweet appreciation of 
 them — Bendall, so bright and thoughtful — 
 -larshall, so quaint and jolly, and so full of 
 knowledge equally of nature and of books ! 
 — can never be forgotten. In one heart they 
 are cherished for ever. 
 
 Wordsworth is buried in Grasmere church- 
 yard, close by the wall, on the bank of the 
 little river Rotha. "Sing him thy best," 
 said Matthew Arnold, in his lovely dirge 
 for the great poet — 
 
 " Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone." 
 
 In the same grave with Wordsworth sleeps 
 his devoted wife. Beside them rest the poet's 
 no less devoted sister Dorothy (who died at 
 Rydal Mount in 1855, aged 83), and his 
 favourite daughter, Dora, together with her 
 husband, Edward Quillinan, of whom Arnold 
 wrote so tenderly : — 
 
 " Alive, we would have changed his lot, 
 We would not change it now."
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. 9I 
 
 On the low gravestone that marks the 
 sepulchre of Wordsworth are written these 
 words: "William \Yordsworth, 1850. Marj- 
 Woi'dsworth, 1859." In the neighbouring 
 church a marble tablet on the wall presents 
 this inscription : — 
 
 "To the memory of Willicara Words-worth. 
 A true poet and philosopher, who by the special 
 gift and calling of Almighty God, whether he 
 discoursed on man or nature, failed not to lift 
 ap the heart to holy things, tired not of main- 
 taining the cause of the poor and simple, and so 
 in perilous times was raised up to be a chief 
 minister, not only of noblest poetry, but of high 
 and sacred truth. The memorial is raised here 
 by his friends and neighbours, in testimony 
 of respect, affection, and gratitude. Anno 
 
 MDCCCLI." 
 
 A few steps from this memorable grovp 
 will bring you to the marble cross that 
 marks the resting-place of Hartley Cole- 
 ridge, son of the great author of "The An- 
 cient Mariner," himself a poet of exquisite 
 genius ; and close by is a touching memorial 
 to the gifted man who inspired Matthew 
 Arnold's poems of "The Scholar-Gipsy" 
 and "Thyrsis." This is a slab laid upon 
 his mother's grave, at the foot of her own 
 tombstone, inscribed with these words : —
 
 92 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 "In memory ot Artliur Hugli Clough, some 
 time Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford, the beloved 
 son of James Butler and Anne Clough. This 
 remembrance in his own country is placed on 
 his mother's grave by those to whom life was 
 made happy by his presence and his love. He 
 is bxu'ied in the Swiss cemetery at Florence, 
 where he died, November 13, 1861, aged 42. 
 
 ' So, dearest, now thy brows are cold 
 I see thee what thou art, and know 
 Thy likeness to the wise below, 
 Thy kindred with the great of old.' 
 
 Southey rests in Crosthwaite churchyard, 
 about half a mile north of Keswick, where 
 he died. They show you Greta Hall, a fine 
 mansion on a little hill enclosed in tall trees, 
 which for forty years, ending in 1843, was 
 the poet's home. In the church is a marble 
 figure of Southey, recumbent on a large 
 stone pedestal, which does no justice to his 
 great personal beauty. His grave is in the 
 ground, a little way from the church, marked 
 by a low flat tomb, on the end of which ap- 
 pears an inscription commemorative of an 
 old servant who had lived fifty years in his 
 family and is buried with him. There was 
 a pretty scene at this grave. When I came 
 near it Irving was already there, and was 
 speaking to a little girl who had guided him
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. 93 
 
 to the spot. " If any one were to give you 
 a shilling, my dear," he said, "what would 
 you do with it?" The child was con- 
 fused, and she murmured softly, "I don't 
 know, sir." "Well," he continued, "if 
 any one were to give you two shillings, what 
 would you do with it ? " She said she would 
 save it. " But Mhat if it were three shil- 
 lings ? " he went on, and every time he 
 spoke he dropped a silver coin into her 
 hand, till he must have given her more than 
 a dozen of them. " Four — five — six — seven 
 —what would you do with the money?" 
 "I would give it to my mother, sir," she 
 answered at last, her little face all smiles, 
 gazing up at the stately, sombre stranger, 
 whose noble countenance never looked more 
 radiant than it did then, with gentle 
 kindness and pleasure. It is a trifle to 
 speak of, but it was touching in its simpli- 
 city; and that amused group around the 
 grave of Southey, in the blaze of the golden 
 sun of a July afternoon, with Skiddaw loom- 
 ing vast and majestic over all, will linger 
 with me as long as anything lovely and ot 
 good report is treasured in my memory. 
 Long after we had left the place I chanced 
 to speak of its peculiar interest. " The 
 most interesting thing I saw there," said
 
 94 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Irving, "was that sweet child." I do not 
 think the great actor was ever much im- 
 pressed with the beauties of the Lake 
 Poets. 
 
 Another picture glimmers across my 
 dream — a picture of peace and happiness 
 which may close this rambling remini- 
 scence of gentle days. We had driven up 
 the pass between Glen coin and Gowbarrow, 
 and had reached Matterdale, on our way 
 toward Troutbeck station — not the beauti- 
 ful Windermere Troutbeck, but the less 
 famous one. The road is lonelj^ but at 
 Matterdale one sees a few houses, and there 
 our gaze was attracted by a small gray 
 church nestled in a hollow of the hillside. 
 It stands sequestered in its little place of 
 graves, with bright greensward around it 
 and a few trees. A faint sound of organ 
 music floated from this sacred building and 
 seemed to deepen the hush of the summer 
 wind and shed a holier calm upon the lovely 
 solitude. We dismounted and softly en- 
 tered the church. A youth and a maiden, 
 apparently lovers, were sitting at the organ 
 — the young fellow playing and the girl 
 listening, and looking with tender trust and 
 innocent atfection into his face. He recog- 
 nised our presence with a kindly nod, but
 
 LAKES AND FELLS OF WORDSWORTH. 95 
 
 went ou with his authem. I do not think 
 she saw us at all. The place was full of soft, 
 warm light streaming through the stained 
 glass of Gothic windows and fragrant with 
 perfume floating from the hay-fields and the 
 dew-drenched roses of many a neighbouring 
 hedge. Not a word was spoken, and after 
 a few moments we departed as silently as 
 we had come. Those lovers will never know 
 what eyes looked upon them that day, what 
 hearts were comforted with the sight of their 
 happiness, or how a careworn man, three 
 thousand miles away, fanning upon his 
 hearthstone the dying embers of hope, now 
 thinks of them with tender sympathy, and 
 murmurs a blessing on the gracious scene 
 which their presence so much endeared.
 
 VII. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER. 
 
 WORCESTER, July 23, 1889.— 
 The present wanderer came lately 
 to "the Faithful City," and these words 
 are written in a midnight hour at the Uni- 
 corn Hotel. This place is redolent of the 
 wars of the Stuai'ts, and the moment you 
 enter it your mind is filled with the pre- 
 sence of Charles the ^Martj^r, Charles the 
 Merry, Prince Rupert, and Oliver Cromwell. 
 From the top of Red Hill and the margin of 
 Perry Wood — now sleeping in the starlight 
 or momentarily vocal with the rustle of 
 leaves and the note of half -awakened birds 
 — Cromwell looked down over the ancient 
 walled city which he had beleaguered. Upon 
 the summit of the great tower of Worcester 
 cathedral Charles and Rupert held their 
 last council of war. Here was fought and 
 lost (1651) the battle that made the merry 
 monarch a hunted fugitive and an exile. 
 With a stranger's interest I have rambled on
 
 SHAKESPEARF "RELICS AT WORCESTER. 97 
 
 those heights ; traversed the battlefield ; 
 walked in every part of the cathedral ; 
 attended divine service there ; revelled 
 in the antiquities of Edgar Tower ; roamed 
 through most of the city streets ; traced 
 all that can be traced of the old wall — 
 there is little remaining of it now, and 
 no part that can be walked upon ; explored 
 the Royal Porcelain ^Yorks, for which Wor- 
 cester is rightly famous ; viewed several 
 of its old churches and its one theatre (in 
 Angel Street) ; entered its Guildhall, where 
 they preserve a fine piece of artillery and 
 nine suits of black armour that were left 
 by Charles ii. when he fled from Wor- 
 cester ; paced the dusty and empty Trinity 
 Hall, now abandoned and condemned to 
 demolition, where once Queen Elizabeth 
 was feasted; and visited the old " Com- 
 mandery " — a rare piece of antiquity, re- 
 piaining from the tenth century — wherein 
 the Duke of Hamilton died of his wounds, 
 after Cromwell's "crowning mercy," and 
 beneath the floor of which he was laid in a 
 temporary grave. The Commandery is now 
 owned and occupied by a printer of direc- 
 tories and guide-books (the genial and 
 hospitable Mr. Littlebury), and here, as 
 everywhere else in storied Worcester, the 
 
 G
 
 98 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 arts of peace prevail over all the scenes and 
 all the traces of 
 
 " Old, unhappy, far-off things 
 And battles long ago." 
 
 In the Edgar Tower at Worcester they 
 keep the original of the marriage-bond that 
 was given as a preliminary to the marriage 
 of William Shakespeare and Anne Hatha- 
 way, by Fulk Sandells and John Richard- 
 son, of Shottery. It is a long, narrow 
 strip of parchment, and it has been glazed 
 and framed. Two seals of light-coloured 
 wax were originally attached to it, de- 
 pendent by strings, but these were removed 
 — apparently for the convenience of the 
 mechanic who put this relic into its present 
 frame. The handwriting is crabbed and 
 obscure. There are but few persons who 
 can read the handwriting in old documents 
 of this kind, and thousands of such docu- 
 ments exist in the church-archives, and 
 elsewhere in England, that have never 
 been examined. The name of Hathaway 
 in this marriage-bond resembles the name 
 of Whateley. The contract vouches that 
 there was no impediment, through con- 
 sancruinity or otherwise, to the marriage of 
 William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway.
 
 SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER. 99 
 
 It was executed on November 28, 15S2, and 
 it is supposed that the marriage took place 
 immediately — since the first child of it, 
 Susanna Shakespeare, was baptized in the 
 Church of the Holy Trinity at Stratford 
 on May 26, 1583. No registration of the 
 marriage has been found, but that is no 
 proof that it does not exist. The law in 
 those days prescribed that the marriage- 
 bond should designate three parishes within 
 the residential diocese, in any one of which 
 the marriage might be made ; but the 
 custom in those days permitted the con- 
 tracting parties, when they had complied 
 with this legal requirement, to be married 
 in whatever parish, within the diocese, they 
 might prefer. Three parishes were named 
 in the Shakespeare marriage-bond. The 
 registers of two of them have been searched^ 
 and searched in vain. The register of the 
 third — that of Luddington, which is close by 
 Shottery — was destroyed long ago, in a fire 
 that burnt down Luddington Church ; and 
 conjecture therefore assumes that Shake- 
 speare was married at Luddington. It 
 may be so, but there is no certainty about 
 it, and until every old church register in 
 the ancient diocese of Worcester has been 
 examined, the quest of the registration of
 
 lOO GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 his marriage ought not to be abandoned. 
 Pdchard Savage, the learned and diligent 
 librarian of the Shakespeare Birthplace, has 
 long been occupied with this inquiry, and 
 has transcribed several of the old church 
 registers in the vicinity of Stratford. The 
 Rev. Mr. Wadley, another local antiquary 
 of great learning and incessant industry, has 
 also taken part in this labour. The long-de- 
 sired entry of the marriage of William and 
 Anne remains undiscovered, but one grati- 
 fying and valuable result of these investiga- 
 tions is the disclosure that many of the names 
 used in Shakespeare's works are the names of 
 persons who were residents ot Warwickshire 
 in his time. It has pleased various crazy 
 sensation-mongers to ascribe the authorship 
 of Shakespeare's writings to Francis Bacon. 
 This could only be done by ignoring positive 
 evidence — the evidence, namely, of Ben 
 •Jonson, who knew Shakespeare personally, 
 and who has left a written description ot 
 the manner in which Shakespeare composed 
 his plays. EflProntery was to be expected 
 from the advocates of the preposterous 
 Bacon theory ; but when they have ignored 
 the positive evidence, and the internal 
 evidence, and the circumstantial evidence, 
 and every other sort of evidence, they have
 
 SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER. 101 
 
 still a serious obstacle to surmount — an 
 obstacle which the researches of such 
 patient scholars as Mr. Savage and Mr. 
 Wadley are strengthening day by day. The 
 man who wrote Shakespeare's plays knew 
 Warwickshire as it could only be known to 
 a native of it ; and there is no proof that 
 Bacon knew it or ever was in it. 
 
 With reference to the Shakespeare Mar- 
 riage-Bond, and with reference to all the 
 records that are kept in the Edgar Tower 
 at Worcester, it should perhaps be said that 
 they are not preserved with the scrupulous 
 care to which such treasures are entitled. 
 The Tower — a gray and venerable relic, an 
 ancient gate of the monastery, dating back 
 to the time of King John — afifords an 
 appropriate receptacle for these documents ; 
 but it would not withstand fire, and it does 
 not contain either a fire-proof chamber or 
 a safe. The Shakespeare Marriage-Bond — 
 which assuredly ought to be in the Shake- 
 speare Birthplace, at Stratford — was taken 
 from the floor of a closet, where it had been 
 lying, together with a number of dusty 
 books, and I was kindly permitted to hold 
 it in my hands and to examine it. The 
 frame provided for this priceless relic is 
 such as you may see on an ordinary school
 
 I02 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 slate. From another dusty closet an atten- 
 dant extricated a Manuscript Diary kept by 
 Bishop Lloyd, of Worcester, and by his 
 manservant, for several years, about the 
 beginning of the reign of Queen Anne ; and 
 in this are many quaint and humorous 
 entries, valuable to the student of history 
 and manners. In still another closet, 
 having the appearance of a rubbish-bin, I 
 saw heaps upon heaps of old parchment and 
 paper writings — a mass of antique registry 
 that it would need the labour of several 
 years to examine, decipher, and classify. 
 Worcester is especially rich in old records, 
 and it is not impossible that the missing 
 clew to Shakespeare's marriage may yet be 
 found on this spot — where nobody has 
 expected to find it. 
 
 Worcester is rich also in a superb library, 
 which, by the kindness of Mr. Hooper, the 
 custodian, I was allowed to explore, high 
 xtp beneath the roof of the lovely cathedral. 
 This collection of books, numbering at least 
 five thousand, consists mostly of folios, many 
 of which were printed in France. They 
 keep it in a long, low, oak-timbered room, 
 the triforium of the south aisle of the nave. 
 The approach is by a circular stone stair- 
 case. In an anteroom to the library I saw
 
 SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER. IO3 
 
 a part of the ancient north door of this 
 church, about half of it — a fragment dating 
 back to the time of Bishop Wakefield, 1386 
 — to which is still affixed a piece of the skin 
 of a human being. The tradition is that a 
 Dane committed sacrilege by stealing the 
 sanctus bell from the high altar, and was 
 thereupon flayed alive for his crime, and 
 the skin of him was fastened to the cathe- 
 dral door. In the library are magnificent 
 editions of Aristotle and other classics ; the 
 works of the Fathers of the Church ; a 
 beautiful illuminated manuscript of Wick- 
 lifi'e's New Testament — written on vellum 
 in 1381 ; and several books, in splendid 
 preservation, from the press of Caxton and 
 that of Wynken de Worde. The world 
 moves — but printing is not better done 
 now than it was then. This library, which 
 is for the use of the clergy of the Diocese of 
 Worcester, was founded by Bishop Car- 
 penter in 1461, and originally was stored 
 in the chapel of the charnel-house. 
 
 Reverting to the subject of old documents, 
 a useful word may perhaps be said here 
 about the registers in Trinity Church at 
 Stratford — documents which, in a spirit of 
 disparagement, have sometimes been desig- 
 nated as " copies." This sort of pertness in
 
 I04 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 the discussion of Shakespearean subjects 
 is not unnatural in days when fanatical 
 zealots are allowed freely to besmirch the 
 memory of Shakespeare, in their wildly 
 foolish advocacy of what they call the 
 Bacon theory of the authorship of Shake- 
 speare's works. The facts about the Strat- 
 ford Registers, as here set down, are stated, 
 by one who has many times held them in 
 his hands and explored their quaint pages. 
 Those records are contained in twenty-two 
 volumes. They begin with the first year of 
 Queen Elizabeth, 1558, and they end, as to 
 the old parchment form, in 1812. From 
 1558 to 1600 the entries were made in a 
 paper book, of the quarto form, still occa- 
 sionally to be found in ancient parish 
 churches of England. In 1600 an order-in- 
 council was made commanding that those 
 entries should be copied into parchment vol- 
 umes, for their better preservation. This was 
 done. The parchment volumes, which have 
 been freely shown to me by my good friend 
 William Butcher, the parish clerk of Strat- 
 ford, date back to 1600. The handwriting 
 of the copied portion, covering the period 
 from 1558 to 1600, is careful and uniform. 
 Each page is certified, as to its accuracy, by 
 the vicar and the churchwardens. After
 
 SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER. IO5 
 
 1600 the handwritings vary. In the register 
 of Marriage a new handwriting appears on 
 September 17 that year, and in the registers 
 of Baptism and Burial it appears on Sep- 
 tember 20. The sequence of marriages is 
 complete until 1756 ; that of baptisms and 
 burials until 1812; when in each case a 
 book of printed forms comes into use, and 
 the expeditious march of the new age begins. 
 The entry of Shakespeare's baptism, April 
 26, 1564, from which it is inferred that he 
 was born on April 23, is extant as a certified 
 copy from the earlier paper book. The 
 entry of Shakespeare's burial is the original 
 entry made in the original register. 
 
 Some time ago an American %vriter chose 
 to declare that Shakespeare's widow — seven 
 years his senior at the start, and therefore 
 fifty-nine years old when he died — subse- 
 quently contracted another marriage. Mrs. 
 Shakespeare survived her husband seven 
 years, dying at the age of sixty-six. The 
 entry in the Stratford register of burial 
 contains, against the date of 1623, August 
 28, the names of "Mrs. Shakespeare" and 
 " Anna uxor Richard James." These two 
 names, written one above the other, are 
 connected by a bracket on the left side ; 
 and this is supposed to be evidence that
 
 I06 GEAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Shakespeare's Avidow married again. The 
 use of the bracket could not possibly mis- 
 lead anybody possessing the faculty of clear 
 vision. When two or more persons were 
 baptized, or buried, on the same day, the 
 parish clerk, in making the requisite entrj' 
 in the register, connected their names with 
 a bracket. Three instances of this practice 
 occur upon a single page of the register, in 
 the same handwriting, close to the page that 
 records the burial, on the same day, of Mrs. 
 Shakespeare, widow, and Anna the wife of 
 Richard James. But folly needs only a 
 slender hook on which to hang itself.
 
 VIII. 
 
 BYEON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD. 
 
 ON a night in 1785, when Mrs. »Sicldons 
 was acting at Edinburgh, the play 
 being " The Fatal Marriage " and the char- 
 acter Isabella, a young lady of Aberdeen- 
 shire, Miss Catherine Gordon, of Gight, was 
 among the audience. There is a point in 
 that tragedy at which Isabella recognises 
 her first husband, whom she had supposed 
 to be dead, and in whose absence she had 
 been married to another, and her conster- 
 nation, grief, and rapture are sudden and 
 excessive. Mrs. Siddons, at that point, 
 always made a great effect. The words 
 are, " my Biron, my Biron ! " On this 
 night, at the moment when the wonderful 
 actress sent forth her wailing and heart- 
 piercing cry, as she uttered those words, 
 Miss Gordon gave a frantic scream, fell into 
 violent hysterics, and was borne out of 
 the theatre, repeating, "O my Biron, my 
 Biron ! " At the time of this incident she 
 
 107
 
 I08 GPwAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 had not met the man by whom she was 
 afterward wedded — the Hon. John Byron, 
 whose wife she became about a year later. 
 Their first-born and only child was George 
 Gordon, afterward Lord Byron, the poet ; 
 and among the many aspects of his life 
 which impress the thoughtful reader of that 
 strange and melancholy story none is more 
 striking than the dramatic aspect of it — so 
 strangely prefigured in this event. 
 
 Censure of Byron, whether as a man or as 
 a writer, may be considered to have spent 
 its force. It is a hundred years since he 
 was born (January 22, 1888), and almost as 
 many since he died. Everybody who wished 
 to say a word against him has had ample 
 opportunity for saying it, and there is 
 evidence that this opportunity has not been 
 neglected. The record was long ago made 
 up. Everybody knows that Byron's con- 
 duct was sometimes deformed with frenzy 
 and stained with vice. Everybody knows 
 that Byron's writings are occasionally 
 marred with profanity and licentiousness, 
 and that they contain a quantity of crude 
 verse. If he had never been married, or if, 
 being married, his domestic life had not 
 ended in disaster and scandal, his personal 
 reputation would stand higher than it does
 
 BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD. IO9 
 
 at present, in the esteem of virtuous society. 
 If about one-third of what he wrote had 
 never been published, his reputation as a 
 man of letters would stand higher than it 
 now does in the esteem of the sternest 
 judges of literary art. After an exhaustive 
 discussion of the subject in every aspect of 
 it, after every variety of hostile assault, and 
 after praise sounded in every key of en- 
 thusiasm and in every language of the 
 world, these triiths remain. It is a pity 
 that Byron was not a virtuous man and a 
 good husband. It is a pity that he was not 
 invariably a scrupulous literary artist, that 
 he wrote so much, and that almost every- 
 thing he wrote was published. But, when 
 all this has been said, it remains a solid 
 and immovable truth that Byron was a 
 great poet, and that he continues to be a 
 great power in the literature and life of the 
 world. Nobody who pretends to read any- 
 thing omits to read "Childe Harold." 
 
 To touch this complex and delicate sub- 
 ject in only a superficial manner it may not 
 be amiss to say that the world is under 
 obligation to Byron, if for nothing else, 
 for the spectacle of a romantic, impressive, 
 and instructive life. His agency in that 
 spectacle no doubt was involuntary, but
 
 no GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 all the same he presented it. He was a 
 great poet ; a man of genius ; his faculty of 
 expression was colossal, and his conduct 
 was absolutely genuine. No man in litera- 
 ture ever lived who lived himself more 
 fully. His assumptions of disguise only 
 made him more obvious and transparent. 
 He kept nothing back. His heart was laid 
 absolutely bare. We know even more 
 about him than we know about Dr. Johnson 
 — and still his personality endures the test 
 of our knowledge and remains unique, 
 romantic, fascinating, prolific of moral ad- 
 monition, and infinitely pathetic. Byron 
 in poetrj-, like Edmund Kean in acting, is a 
 figure that completely fills the imagination, 
 profoundly stirs the heart, and never ceases 
 to impress and charm, even while it afflicts, 
 the sensitive mind. This consideration 
 alone, viewed apart from the obligation 
 that the world owes to the better part of 
 his writings, is vastly significant of the 
 great personal force that is inherent in the 
 name and memory of Byron. 
 
 It has been considered necessary to ac- 
 count for the sadness and gloom of Byron's 
 poetry by representing him to have been a 
 criminal afflicted with remorse for his many 
 and hideous crimes. His widow, apparently
 
 BYROX AXD HUCKNALL-TORKARD. Hi 
 
 a monomaniac, after long brooding over the 
 remembrance of a calamitous married life — 
 brief but unhappy, and terminated in separa- 
 tion — whispered against him, and against 
 his half-sister, a vile charge ; and this, to 
 the disgrace of American literature, was 
 subsequently brought forward by a distin- 
 guished female writer of America, much 
 noted for her works of fiction and especially 
 memorable for this one. The explanation 
 of the mental distress exhibited in the poet's 
 writings was thought to be effectually pro- 
 vided in that disclosure. But, as this re- 
 volting and inhuman story — desecrating 
 graves, insulting a wonderful genius, and 
 casting infamy upon the name of an affec- 
 tionate, faithful, virtuous woman — fell to 
 pieces the moment it was examined, the 
 student of Byron's grief-stricken nature re- 
 mained no wiser than before this figment of 
 a diseased imagination had been divulged. 
 Surely, however, it ought not to be con- 
 sidered mysterious that Byron's poetry is 
 often sad. The best poetry of the best 
 poets is touched with sadness. " Hamlet ' 
 has never been mistaken for a merry pro- 
 duction. "Macbeth ' and "King Lear' 
 do not commonly produce laughter. Shelley 
 and Keats sing as near to heaven's gate as
 
 112 GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 anybody, and both of them are essentially 
 sad. Scott -was as brave, hopeful, and cheery 
 as any poet that ever lived, and Scott's 
 poetry is at its best in his dirges. The 
 " Elegy " and " The Ancient Mariner" cer- 
 tainly are great poems, but neither of them 
 is festive. Byron often wrote sadly because 
 he was a man of a melancholy temperament, 
 and because he deeply felt the pathos of 
 mortal life, the awful mystery M'ith which 
 it is surrounded, the pain -with which it is 
 usually attended, the tragedy with which it 
 commonly is accompanied, the frail tenure 
 with which its loves and hopes are held, 
 and the inexorable death with which it is 
 continually environed and at last extin- 
 guished. And Byron was an unhappy man 
 for the reason that, possessing every ele- 
 mental natural quality in excess, his ex- 
 quisite goodness was constantly outraged 
 and tortured by his inordinate evil. The 
 tempest, the clangour, and the agony of his 
 writings are denotements of the struggle 
 between good and evil that was perpetually 
 afflicting his soul. Had he been the wicked 
 man depicted by his detractors, he would 
 have lived a life of comfortable depravity 
 and never would have written at all. 
 Monsters do not suffer.
 
 BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKAKD. II3 
 
 The true appreciation of Byron i,s not that 
 of youth but that of manhood. Youth is 
 captured by his pictorial and sentimental 
 attributes. Youth beholds him as a nautical 
 Adonis, standing lonely upon a barren cliff, 
 and gazing at a stormy sunset over the 
 JEgesiXi Sea. Everybody knows that fami- 
 liar picture — with the wide, open collar, 
 the gi-eat eyes, the wild hair, and the ample 
 neckcloth flowing in the breeze. It is 
 pretty, but it is not like the real man. If 
 ever at any time he was that sentimental 
 image, he speedily outgrew that condition, 
 just as those observers of him who truly 
 understand Byron have long outgrown their 
 juvenile sympathy with that frail and puny 
 ideal of a great poet. Manhood perceives a 
 different individual, and is captured by a 
 different attraction. It is only when the 
 first extravagant and effusive enthusiasm 
 has run its course, and perhaps ended in 
 revulsion, that we come to know Byron for 
 what he is really worth, and to feel the 
 tremendous power of his genius. Senti- 
 mental folly has commemorated him in the 
 margin of Hyde Park as in the fancy of 
 many a callow youth and green girl, with 
 the statue of a pretty sailor-lad waiting for 
 a spark from heaven, while a big Newfound 
 H
 
 114 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 land dog dozes at his feet. It is a caricature. 
 Byron was a man, and terribly in earnest ; 
 and it is only by earnest persons that his 
 mind and works are understood. At this 
 distance of time the scandals of a corrupt 
 age, equally with the frailties of its most 
 brilliant and most illustrious poetical genius, 
 may well be left to rest in the oblivion of 
 the grave. The generation that is living at 
 the close of the nineteenth century will re- 
 member of Byron only that he was the un- 
 compromising friend of liberty ; that he did 
 much to emancipate the human mind from 
 every form of bigotry and tyranny ; that he 
 augmented, as no man had done since 
 Dryden, the power and flexibility of the 
 noble English tongue ; and that he enriched 
 literature with passages of poetry which, 
 for sublimity, beauty, tenderness, and elo- 
 quence, have seldom been equalled and have 
 never been excelled. 
 
 It was near the close of a fragrant, golden 
 summer day (August 8, 1884) when, having 
 driven out from Nottingham, I alighted in 
 the market-place of the little town of Huck- 
 nall-Torkard, on a pilgrimage to the grave 
 of Byron. The town is modern, common- 
 place, almost squalid in appearance — a little 
 straggling collection of low brick dwellings-.
 
 BYRON AND HUCKXALL-TORKARD. II5 
 
 mostly occupied by colliers. On that day 
 it appeared at its worst ; for the widest 
 part of its main street was filled with stalls, 
 benches, wagons, and canvas-covered struc- 
 tures for the display of vegetables and other 
 commodities, which were thus offered for 
 sale ; and it was thronged with rough, noisy, 
 and dirty persons, intent on barter and 
 traffic, and not indisposed to boisterous 
 pranks and mirth, as they pushed and 
 jostled each other among the crowded 
 booths. This main street ends at the wall 
 of the graveyard in which stands the little 
 gray church where Byron was buried. 
 There is an iron gate in the centre of the 
 wall, and in order to reach this it was 
 necessary to thread the mazes of the mar- 
 ket-place, and to push aside the canvas 
 flaps of a peddler's stall which had been 
 placed close against it. Next to the church- 
 yard wall is a little cottage,^ with its bit of 
 garden, devoted in this instance to potatoes ; 
 and here, while waiting for the sexton, I 
 fell into talk with an aged man, who said 
 
 1 Siuce this paper was written the buildings that 
 flanked the church wall have been removed, the 
 street in front of it has been widened into a square, 
 and the church has been '• restored" and considerablv 
 altered.
 
 Il6 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 that he remembered, as an eye-witness, the 
 funeral of Byron. 
 
 "The oldest man he seemed that ever 
 wore gray hairs." He stated that he was 
 eighty-two, and that his name was William 
 Callandyne. Pointing to the church, he 
 indicated the place of the Byron vault, "I 
 was the last man,*' he said, "that went 
 down into it before he was buried there. I 
 was a young fellow then, and curious to see 
 what was going on. The place was full of 
 skulls and bones, I wish j'-ou could see my 
 son ; he 's a clever lad, only he ought to 
 have more of the suaviter in modo." Thus 
 with the gari'ulity of wandering age he 
 prattled on ; but his mind was clear and 
 his memory tenacious and positive. There 
 is a good prospect from the region of Huck- 
 nall-Torkard Church, and pointing into the 
 distance, when his mind had been brought 
 back to the subject of Byron, my venerable 
 acquaintance now described, with minute 
 specification of road and lane — seeming to 
 assume that the names and the turnings 
 ■were familiar to his aiiditor — the route 
 of the funeral train from Nottingham to 
 the church. " There were eleven car- 
 riages," he said. "They didn't go to the 
 Abbey " (meaning Kewstead), " but came
 
 BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD. II7 
 
 directly here. There were many people to 
 look at them. I remember all about it, and 
 I 'm an old man — eighty-two. You 're an 
 Italian, I should say," he added. By this 
 time the sexton had come and unlocked the 
 gate, and parting from Mr. Callandyne we 
 presently made our way into the Church of 
 St. James, locking the church j'ard gate 
 behind us to exclude rough and possibly 
 mischievous followers. A strange and sad 
 contrast, I thought, between this coarse 
 and turbulent place, by a malign destiny 
 ordained for the grave of Byron, and that 
 peaceful, lovely, majestic church and pre- 
 cinct at Stratford-upon-Avon which en- 
 shrine the dust of Shakespeare ! 
 
 The sexton of the Church of St. James 
 and the parish clerk of Hucknall-Torkard 
 is, or was, Mr. John Brown, and a man of 
 sympathetic intelligence, kind heart, and 
 interesting character I found him to be — 
 large, dark, stalwart, but gentle alike in 
 manner and feeling, and considerate of his 
 visitors. The pilgrim to the literary shrines 
 of England does not always find the neigh- 
 bouring inhabitants either sympathetic with 
 his reverence or conscious of especial sanctity 
 or interest appertaining to the relics which 
 they possess ; but honest and manly John
 
 Il8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Brown of Hucknall-Torkard understood 
 both the hallowing charm of the place and 
 the sentiment, not to say the profound 
 emotion, of the traveller who now beheld 
 for the first time the tomb of Byron. This 
 church has been restored and altered since 
 Byron was buried in it in 1824, yet in the 
 main it retains its fundamental structure 
 and its ancient peculiarities. The tower, 
 a fine specimen of Norman architecture, 
 strongly built, dark and grim, gives indica- 
 tion of great age. It is of a kind often met 
 with in ancient English towns : you may see 
 its own brothers at York, Shrewsbury, Can- 
 terbury, Woi-cester, Warwick, and in many 
 places sprinkled over the northern heights 
 of London : but amid its mean surroundings 
 in this little colliery settlement it looms 
 with a peculiar frowning majesty, a certain 
 bleak loneliness, both unique and impressive. 
 The church is of the customary crucial form 
 — a low stone structure, peak-roofed outside, 
 but arched within, the roof being supported 
 by four great pillars on either side of the 
 centre aisle, and the ceiling being fashioned 
 of heavy timbers forming almost a true arch 
 above the nave. There are four large win- 
 dows on each side of the church, and two on 
 each side of the chancel, which is beneath a
 
 BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD. II9 
 
 roof somewhat lower than that of the main 
 building. Under the pavement of the chan- 
 cel, and back of the altar rail — at which it 
 was my privilege to kneel while gazing upon 
 this sacred spot — is the grave of Byron. ^ 
 Nothing is written on the stone that covers 
 his sepulchre except the simple name of 
 BYRON, with the dates of his birth and 
 death, in brass letters, surrounded by a 
 wreath of leaves in brass, the gift of the 
 King of Greece ; and never did a name seem 
 more stately or a. place more hallowed. 
 The dust of the poet reposes between that of 
 his mother on his right hand, and that 
 of his Ada — "sole daughter of my house 
 and heart " — on his left. The mother 
 died on August 1, 1811 ; the daughter, 
 who had by marriage become the Countess 
 of Lovelace, in 1852. "I buried her 
 with my own hands," said the sexton, 
 John Brown, when, after a little time, he 
 rejoined me at the altar rail. " I told them 
 exactly where he was laid when they wanted 
 to put that brass on the stone ; I remem- 
 bered it well, for I lowered the coffin of 
 
 1 Revisiting this place on September 10, 1890, 1 found 
 that the chancel has been lengtliened, that the altar and 
 the mural tablets have been moved backward from the 
 Byron vault, and that the gravestone is now outside 
 of the rail.
 
 I20 GKAY DAYS A>"D GOLD. 
 
 the Countess of Lovelace into this vault, 
 and laid her by her fathers side." And, 
 when presently we went into a little vestry, 
 he produced the Register of Burials and 
 displayed the record of that interment in 
 the following words : " 18o2, Died at 
 G9 Cumberland Place, London. Buried 
 December 3. Aged thirty -six. — Curtis 
 Jackson." The Byrons were a short-lived 
 race. The poet himself had just turned 
 thirty-six ; his mother was only forty-aix 
 when she passed away. This name of Cur- 
 tis Jackson in the register was that of the 
 rector or curate then incumbent but now 
 departed. The register is a long narrow 
 book made of parchment, and full of various 
 crabbed handwritings — a record similar to 
 those which are so carefully treasured at 
 the Church of the Holy Trinity at Stratford ; 
 but it is more dilapidated. 
 
 Another relic shown by John Brown was 
 a bit of embroidery, presenting the arms of 
 the Byron family. It had been used at 
 B\Ton'a funeral, and thereafter was long 
 kept in the church, though latterly with 
 but little care. When the Rev. Curtis 
 Jackson came there he beheld this frail 
 memorial with pious disapprobation. " He 
 told me," said the sexton, " to take it home
 
 BYRON AND nUCKNALL-TORKARD. 121 
 
 and burn it. 1 did take it home, but I 
 <lidu't burn it ; and when the new rector 
 came he heard of it, and asked me to bring 
 it back, and a lady gave the frame to put it 
 in." Framed it is, and likely now to be 
 always preserved in this interesting church ; 
 and earnestly do I wish that I could remem- 
 ber, in order that I might speak it with 
 honour, the name of the clergyman who 
 could thus rebuke bigotry, and welcome and 
 treasure in his church that shred of silk 
 which once rested on the coffin of Byron. 
 Still another relic preserved by John Brown 
 is a large piece of cardboard giving the in- 
 scription which is upon the coffin of the 
 poet's mother, and which bore some part in 
 the obsequies of that singular woman — a 
 creature full of faults, but the parent of a 
 mighty genius, and capable of inspiring 
 deep love. On the night after Byron ar- 
 rived at Newstead, whither he repaired 
 from London on receiving news of her 
 illness, only to find her dead, he was 
 found sitting in the dark and sobbing be- 
 side the corpse. " I had but one friend 
 in the world," he said, "and she is gone." 
 He was soon to publish " Childe Harold," 
 and to gain hosts of friemls and have the 
 world at his feet ; but he sjooke wliat he
 
 122 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 felt, and he spoke the truth, in that dark 
 room on that desolate night. Thoughts of 
 these things, and of many other strange yjas- 
 sages and incidents in his brief, checkered, 
 glorious, lamentable life, thronged into my 
 mind as I stood there in presence of those 
 relics and so near his dust, while the church 
 grew dark and the silence seemed to deepen 
 in the dusk of the gathering night. 
 
 They have for many years kept a book at 
 the Church of Hucknall-Torkard (the first 
 one, an album given by Sir John Bowring, 
 and containing the record of visitations from 
 1825 to 1834, was stolen in the latter year) 
 in which the visitors write their names ; 
 but the catalogue of pilgrims during the 
 last fifty years is not a long one. The 
 votaries of Byron are far less numerous 
 than those of Shakespeare. Custom has 
 made the visit to Stratford * ' a property of 
 easiness," and Shakespeare is a safe no less 
 than a rightful object of worship. The visit 
 to Hucknall-Torkard is neither so easy nor 
 so agreeable, and it requires some courage 
 to be a worshipper of Byron — and to own 
 it. No day passes without bringing its 
 visitor to the vShakespeare cottage and the 
 Shakespeare tomb ; many days pass without 
 bringing a stranger to the Church of St,
 
 BYRON AND HUCKXALL-TORKAED. 1 23 
 
 James. On tlie capital of a column near 
 Byron's tomb I saw two mouldering wreaths 
 of laurel, which had hung there for years ; 
 one brought by the Bishop of Norwich, the 
 other by the American poet J oaquin Miller. 
 It was good to see them, and especially to 
 see them close by the tablet of white marble 
 which was placed on that church wall to 
 commemorate the poet, and to be her wit- 
 ness in death, by his loving and beloved 
 sister Augusta Mary Leigh — a name that is 
 the synonym of noble fidelity, a name that 
 in our day cruel detraction and hideous 
 calumny have done their worst to tarnish. 
 That tablet names him "The Author of 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage " ; and if the 
 conviction of thoughtful men and women 
 throughout the world can be accepted as an 
 authority, no name in the long annals of 
 English literature is more certain of immor- 
 tality than the name of Byron. People 
 mention the poetry of Spenser and Cowley 
 and Dryden and Cowper, but the poetry of 
 Byron they read. His reputation can afford 
 the absence of all memorial to him in West- 
 minster Abbey, and it can endure the neglect 
 and censure of the precinct of Nottingham. 
 That city rejoices in a stately castle throned 
 UDon a rock, and persons who admire the
 
 124 GRA.Y DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Stuarts may exult in the recollection that 
 there the standard of Charles i. was unfurled 
 in his fatal war with the Parliament of 
 England ; but all that really hallows it for 
 the stranger of to-day and for posterity 
 is its association with the name of Byron. 
 You will look in vain, however, for any 
 adequate sign of his former association with 
 that place. It is difficult even to find prints 
 or photographs of the Byron localities in 
 the shops of Nottingham, One dealer, from 
 whom I bought all the Byron pictures that 
 he possessed, was kind enough to explain 
 the situation in one expressive sentence : 
 "Much more ought to be done here as to 
 Lord Byron's memory, that is the truth ; 
 but the fact is the first families of the county 
 don't approve of him." 
 
 When we came again into the church- 
 yard, with its many scattered graves and 
 its quaint stones and crosses leaning every 
 way and huddled in a strange kind of orderly 
 confusion, the great dark tower stood out 
 bold and solitary in the gloaming, and a chill 
 wind of evening had begun to moan around 
 its pinnacles, and throu<j;h its mysterious 
 belfry windows, and in the few trees near 
 by, which gave forth a mournful whisper. 
 It was hard to leave the place, and for a 
 
 I
 
 BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD. 12 5 
 
 long time I stood near the chapel, just above 
 the outer wall of the Byron vault. And 
 here the sexton told me the story of the 
 White Lady — pointing, as he spoke, to a 
 cottage abutting on the churchyard, one 
 window in which commands an easy view of 
 the place of Byron's grave. " There she 
 lived," he said, "and there she died, and 
 there " (pointing to an unmarked grave near 
 the pathway, about thirty feet from the 
 Byron vault) "I buried her." It is impos- 
 sible to give his words, or to indicate his 
 earnest manner. In brief, this lady, whose 
 story no one knew, had taken up her resi- 
 dence in this cottage long subsequent to the 
 burial of Byron, and had remained there 
 until she died. She was pale, thin, hand- 
 some, and she wore white garments. Her 
 face was often to be seen at that window, 
 whether by night or day, and she seemed to 
 be watching the tomb. Once, when masons 
 were repairing the church wall, she was en- 
 abled to descend into that vault, and there- 
 from she obtained a skull, which she declared 
 to be Byron's, and which she scraped, pol- 
 ished, and made perfectly white, and kept 
 always beneath her pillow. It was her re- 
 riuest, often made to the sexton, that she 
 might be buried in the churchyard close to
 
 126 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 the wall of the poet's tomb. "When at 
 last she died," said John Brown, "they 
 brought that skull to me, and I buried it 
 there in the ground. It was one of the loose 
 skulls from the old vault. She thought it 
 was Byron's, and it pleased her to think so. 
 I might have laid her close to this wall. I 
 don't know why I didn't." 
 
 In those words the sexton's story ended. 
 It was only one more of the myriad hints of 
 that romance which the life and poetry of 
 Byron have so widely created and diffused. 
 I glanced around for some relic of the place 
 that might properly be taken away : there 
 was neither an ivy leaf blooming upon the 
 wall nor a flower growing in all that ground ; 
 but into a crevice of the rock, just above 
 his tomb, the wind had at some time blown 
 a little earth, and in this a few blades of 
 grass were thinly rooted. These I gathered, 
 and still possess, as a memento of an even- 
 ing at Byron's grave. 
 
 Note on the Missing Register of 
 
 HUCKNALL-TORKARD ChURCH, 
 
 The Album that was given to Hucknall- 
 Torkard Church, in 1825, by Sir John Bow- 
 ring, to be used as a register of the names
 
 BVRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKAKD. 1 27 
 
 of visitors to Byron's tomb, disappeared 
 from that church some time after the year 
 1834, aud it has not since been found. It is 
 supposed to have been stolen. In 1834 its 
 contents were printed, — from a manuscript 
 copy of it, which had been obtained from 
 the sexton, — in a book of selections from 
 Byron's prose, edited by "J. M. L.'' These 
 initials stand for the name of Joseph Munt 
 Langford, who died in 1884. The dedica- 
 tion of the register is in the following words : 
 "To the immortal and illustrious fame of 
 Lord Byron, the first poet of the age in 
 which he lived, these tributes, weak and 
 unworthy of him, but in themselves sincere, 
 are inscribed with the deepest reverence. — 
 July 1825." At that time no memorial of 
 any kind had been placed in the church to 
 mark the poet's sepulchre ; a fact which 
 prompted Sir John Bowring to begin his 
 Album with twenty-eight lines of verse, of 
 which these are the best : — 
 
 "A still, resistless influence, 
 Unseen but felt, binds up the sense . . . 
 And though the master hand is cold, 
 And though the lyre it once controlled 
 Rests mute in death, yet from the gloom 
 Which dwells about this holy tomb 
 Silence breathes out more eloquent 
 Than epitaph or monument."
 
 128 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 This register was used from 1825 till 1834. 
 It contains 815 names, with which are inter- 
 twined 28 inscriptions in verse and 36 in 
 prose. The first name is that of Count Pietro 
 Gamba, Avho visited his friend's grave on 
 January 31, 1825 : but this must have been 
 a reminiscent memorandum, as the book was 
 not opened till the following July. The next 
 entry was made by Bj^ron's old servant, the 
 date being September 23, 1825: "William 
 Fletcher visited his ever-to-be-lamented Lord 
 and Master's tomb." On September 21, 
 1828, the following singular record was 
 written: "Joseph Carr, engraver, Hound's 
 Gate, Nottingham, visited this place for the 
 first time to witness the funeral of Lady 
 Byron [mother of the much lamented late 
 Lord Byron], August 9th, 1811, whose coffin- 
 plate I engraved, and now I once more re- 
 visit the spot to drop a tear as a tribute of 
 unfeigned respect to the mortal remains of 
 that noble British bard. ' Tho' lost to 
 sight, to memory dear,' " The next notable 
 entry is that of September 3, 1829 : " Lord 
 Byron's sister, the Honourable Augusta 
 Mary Leigh, visited this chui'ch." Under 
 the date of January 8, 1832, are found the 
 names of " M. Van Buren, Minister Pleni- 
 potentiary from the United States ; Wash-
 
 BYRON AND HUCKXALL-TORKARD. 129 
 
 ington Irving ; John Van Buren, New York, 
 U.S.A., and J. ^Yildman." The latter, no 
 doubt, was Colonel Wild man, the proprietor 
 of Xewstead Abbey, Byron's old home, now 
 owned by Colonel Webb. On August 5, 
 1832, "Mr. Bunn (manager of Drury Lane 
 Theatre, honoured by the acquaintance of 
 the illustrious poet) visited Lord Bryon's 
 tomb, with a party." Edward F. Flower 
 and Selina Flower, of Stratfoi-d-upon-Avon, 
 record their presence, on September 15, 1832 
 — the parents of Charles Edward Flower 
 and Edgar Flower, now leading citizens of 
 Stratford, the former being the founder of the 
 Shakespeare Memorial. There are several 
 eccentric tributes in the register, but the 
 most of them are feeble. One of the better 
 kind is this : — 
 
 • Not in that palace where the dead repose 
 In splendid holiness, where Time has spread 
 His sombre shadows, and a halo glows 
 Around the ashes of the mighty dead, 
 Life's weary pilgrim rests his aching head. 
 This is his resting-place, and save his own 
 Xo light, no glory round his grave is shed : 
 But memory journeys to his shrine alone 
 To mark how sound he sleeps, beneath yon 
 simple stone.
 
 130 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Ah, say, art thou ambitious ? thy young 
 
 breast — 
 Oh does it paut for honours? dost thou chase 
 The phantom Fame, in fairy colours drest. 
 Expecting all the while to win the race ? 
 Oh, does the flush of youth adorn thy face 
 And dost thou deem it lasting? dost thou 
 
 crave 
 The hero's wreath, the poet's meed of praise? 
 Learn that of this, these, all, not one can save 
 From the chill hand of death. Behold Childe 
 
 Harold's grave ! "
 
 IX. 
 
 HISTORIC NOOKS AND CORNERS. 
 
 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, August 20, 
 1889. — The traveller who hurries 
 through Warwickshire — and American tra- 
 vellers mostly do hurry through it — appre- 
 ciates but little the things that he sees, and 
 does not understand how much he loses. The 
 customary course is to lodge at the Red 
 Horse Hotel — which is one of the most 
 comfortable places in England — and thus to 
 enjoy the associations that are connected 
 Avith the visits of Washington Irving, His 
 parlour, his bedroom (number 15), his arm- 
 chair, his poker, and the Sexton's Clock, 
 mentioned by him in the "Sketch Book," 
 are all to be seen — if your lightning-express 
 conductor will give you time enough to see 
 them. From the Red Horse you are taken 
 in a carriage when you ought to be allowed 
 to proceed on foot, and the usual round 
 includes the Shakespeare Birthplace ; the 
 Grammar School and Guild Chapel ; the
 
 132 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 remains of New Place ; Trinity Church and 
 the Shakespeare graves in its chancel ; 
 Anne Hathaway's cottage at Shottery ; 
 and, perhaps, the Shakespeare Memorial 
 Library and Theatre. These are impressive 
 sights to the lover of Shakespeare ; but 
 when you have seen all these you have only 
 begun to see the riches of Stratford-upon- 
 Avon. It is only by living in the town, by 
 making yourself familiar with it in all its 
 moods, by viewing it in storm as well as in 
 sunshine, by roaming through its quaint, 
 deserted streets in the lonely hours of the 
 night, by sailing up and down its beautiful 
 Avon, by driving and walking in the green 
 lanes that twine about it for many miles in 
 every direction, by becoming in fact a part 
 of its actual being, that you obtain a 
 genuine knowledge of this delightful place. 
 Familiarity, in this case, does not breed 
 contempt. The worst you will ever learn 
 of Stratford is that gossip thrives in it ; 
 that its intellect is, with due exception, 
 narrow and sleepy ; and that it is heavily 
 ridden by the ecclesiastical establishment. 
 You will never find anything that can 
 detract from the impression of beauty and 
 repose made upon your mind by the sweet 
 retirement of its situation, by the majesty
 
 HISTORIC NOOKS AND CORNERS. 1 33 
 
 of its venerable monuments, and by the 
 opulent, diversified splendours of its natural 
 and historical environment. On the con- 
 trary, the more you know of those charms 
 the more you will love the town, ami the 
 greater will be the benefit of high thought 
 and spiritual exaltation that you will derive 
 from your knowledge of it ; and hence it 
 is important that the American traveller 
 should be counselled for his own sake to 
 live a little while in Stratford instead of 
 treating it as an incident of his journey. 
 
 The occasion of a garden party at the 
 rectory of a clerical friend at Butler's Mars- 
 ton gave opportunity to see one of the 
 many picturesque and happy homes with 
 which this region abounds. The lawns there 
 are ample and sumptuous. The dwelling 
 and the church, which are close to each 
 other, are bowered in great trees. From 
 the terraces a lovely view may be obtained 
 of the richly coloured and finely cultivated 
 fields, stretching away toward Edgehill, 
 which lies eastward from Stratford-upon- 
 Avon about sixteen miles, and marks the 
 beginning of the Vale of the Red Horse. 
 In the churchyard are the gray, lichen - 
 covered remains of one of those ancient 
 crosses from the steps of which the monks
 
 134 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 preached in the early days of the Church. 
 Relics of this class are deeply interesting 
 for what they suggest of the people and the 
 life of earlier times. A perfect specimen 
 of the ancient cross may be seen at Henley- 
 in-Arden, a few miles north-west of Strat- 
 ford, where it stands in mouldering majesty 
 at the junction of two roads in the centre of 
 the village — strangely inharmonious with 
 the petty shops and numerous inns of which 
 this long and stragding but characteristic 
 and attractive settlement is composed. The 
 tower of the church at Butler's Marston, a 
 gray, grim structure, "four-square to oppo- 
 sition," was built in the eleventh century — 
 a period of much ecclesiastical activity in 
 these islands. Within it I found a noble 
 pulpit of carved oak, dark with age, of 
 the time of James i. There are many 
 commemorative stones in the church, on 
 one of which appears this lovely couplet, 
 addressed to the shade of a young girl : — 
 
 ' ' Sleep, gentle soul, and wait thy Maker's will ! 
 Then rise unchanged, and be an angel still." 
 
 The present village of Butler's Marston — 
 a little group of cottages clustered upon the 
 margin of a tiny stream and almost hidden
 
 HISTORIC NOOKS AND CORNERS. 1 35 
 
 in a wooded dell — is comparatively new : 
 for it has arisen since the time of the Puri- 
 tan Civil War. The old village was swept 
 away by the Roundheads when Essex and 
 Hampden came down to fight King Charles 
 at Edgehill in 1642. That fierce strife 
 waged all along the country-side, and you 
 may still perceive here, in the inequalities 
 of the land, the sites on which houses for- 
 merly stood. It is a sweet and peaceful 
 place now, smiling with flowers and musical 
 with the rustle of the leaves of giant elms. 
 The clergyman here farms his own glebe, 
 and he has expended more than a thousand 
 pounds in the renovation of his manse. 
 The church "living" is not worth much 
 more than a hundred pounds a year, and 
 when he leaves the dwelling, if he should 
 ever leave it, he loses the value of all 
 the improvements that he has made. This 
 he mentioned with a contented smile. The 
 place, in fact, is a little paradise, and as 
 I looked across the green and golden fields, 
 and saw the herds at rest and the wheat 
 waving in sun and shadow, and thought 
 of the simple life of the handful of people 
 congregated here, the words of Gray came 
 murmuring into my mind : —
 
 136 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 "' Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
 Tlieir sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way." 
 
 "Unregarded age, in corners thrown." 
 Was that fine line suggested to Shake- 
 speare by the spectacle of the old almshouse 
 of the Holy Guild, which stood in his time, 
 just as it stands now, close to the spot 
 where he lived and died? New Place, 
 Shakespeare's home, stood on the north-east 
 corner of Chapel Street (a continuation of 
 High Street) and Chapel Lane. The Guild 
 Chapel stands on the south-east comer of 
 those streets, immediately opposite to what 
 was once the poet's home. Southward from 
 the chapel, and adjacent to it, extends the 
 long, low, sombre building that contains 
 the Free Grammar School and the alms- 
 house, founded by Thomas Jolyfife in 1482, 
 and refounded in 1553 by King Edward vi. 
 In that grammar school there is reason to 
 believe that Shakespeare was educated ; at 
 first by Walter Roche, afterward by Simon 
 Hunt — who doubtless birched the little 
 boys then, even as the headmaster does 
 now ; it being a cardinal principle with the 
 British educator that learning, like other 
 goods, should be delivered in the rear. In
 
 HISTORIC NOOKS AND CORNEES. 1 37 
 
 that almshouse doubtless there were manj' 
 forlorn inmates, even as there are at present 
 — and Shakesjjeare must often have seen 
 them. On visiting one of the bedesmen I 
 found him moving slowly, with that mild, 
 aimless, inert manner and that bleak aspect 
 peculiar to such remnants of vanished life, 
 among the vegetable vines and the profuse 
 and rambling flowers in the sunny garden 
 behind the house ; and presently I went 
 into his humble room and sat by his fire- 
 side. The scene was the perfect fulfilment 
 of Shakespeare's line. A stone floor. A 
 low ceiling crossed with dusky beams. 
 Walls that had been whitewashed long ago. 
 A small iron kettle, with water in it, 
 simmering over a few smouldering coals. 
 A rough bed, in a corner. A little table, 
 on which were three conch -shells ranged in 
 a row. An old arm-chair, on which were 
 a few coarse wads of horsehair as a cushion. 
 A bench, whereon lay atom, tattered, soiled 
 copy of the Prayer Book of the Church of 
 England, beginning at the Epiphany. This 
 sumptuous place was lighted by a lattice 
 of small leaded panes. And upon one of 
 the walls hung a framed placard of wor- 
 sted work, bearing the inscription " Blessed 
 be the Lord for His Unspeakable Gift."
 
 138 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 The aged and infirm pensioner doddered 
 about the room, and when he was asked 
 what had become of his wife his dull eyes 
 filled with tears, and he said simply that 
 she was dead. *' So runs the world away." 
 The summons surely cannot be unwelcome 
 that calls such an old and lonely pilgrim as 
 that to his rest in yonder churchyard and 
 to his lost wife who is waiting for him. 
 
 Warwickshire is hallowed by shining 
 names of persons illustrious in the annals 
 of art. Drayton, Greene, and Heminge, 
 who belong to the Shakespeare period, were 
 born there. Walter Savage Landor was a 
 native of Warwick — in which quaint and 
 charming town you may see the house of his 
 birth, duly marked, close by the gate of 
 Warwick Castle. Croft, the composer, was 
 born near Ettington, hard by Stratford : 
 there is a tiny monument commemorative 
 of him in the ruins of Ettington Church, 
 near the manor-house. And in our own 
 day Warwickshire has enriched the world 
 -vvith George Eliot and Ellen Terry. But it 
 is a chief characteristic of England that, 
 whichever way you turn in it, your foot- 
 steps fall on haunted ground. Everyday 
 life here is continually impressed by inci- 
 dents of historic association. In an old
 
 HISTORIC NOOKS AND CORNERS. 1 39 
 
 church at Greenwich I asked that I might 
 be directed to the tomb of General Wolfe. 
 " He is buried just beneath where you are 
 now standing," the custodian said. It was 
 an elderly woman who showed the place, 
 and she presently stated that v/hen a girl 
 she once entered the vaults beneath this 
 church and stood beside the coffin of General 
 Wolfe and took a piece of laurel from it, 
 and also took a piece of the red velvet pall 
 from the coffin of the old Duchess of Bolton, 
 close by. That Duchess was Lavinia Fenton, 
 the first representative of Polly, in " The 
 Beggars' Opera," who died in 1760, aged 
 fifty-two.^ " Lord Clive," the dame added, 
 "is buried in the same vaults." An im- 
 pressive thought, that the ashes of the man 
 who established Britain's power in America 
 should at last mingle with the ashes of the 
 man who gave India to England. 
 
 1 Dr. Joseph Wharton, in a letter to the poet Gay, 
 described her as follows : "She was a very accom- 
 plished and most agreeable companion; had much 
 wit, good strong sense, and a just taste in polite 
 literature. Her person was agreeable and well made ; 
 though I think she could never be called a beauty. I 
 have had the pleasure of being at table with her w-hen 
 her conversation was much admired by the first char- 
 acters of the age, particularly old Lord Bathurst and 
 Lord Granville."
 
 SHAKESPEARE S TOWN. 
 
 TO traverse Stratford-upon-Avon is to re- 
 turn upon old tracks, but no matter 
 how often you visit this delightful place 
 you will always see new sights in it, and 
 find new incidents. After repeated visits 
 to Shakespeare's town the traveller begins 
 to take naore notice than perhaps at first he 
 did of its everyday life. In former days 
 the observer had no eyes except for the 
 Shakespearean shrines. The addition of a 
 new wing to the ancient Red Horse Inn, 
 the new gardens around the Memorial 
 Theatre, the new chimes of Trinity — these, 
 and matters like to these, attract atten- 
 tion now. And now, too, I have rambled, 
 in the gloaming, through scented fields 
 to Clifi'ord Church ; and strolled through 
 many a green lane to beautiful Preston ; 
 and climbed Borden Hill ; and stood by the 
 maypole on Welford Common ; and jour- 
 neyed along the battle-haunted crest of 
 
 140
 
 SHAKESPEAEE S TOWN. I4I 
 
 Edgehill ; and rested at venerable Conipton- 
 Winyate ; and climbed the hills of Wel- 
 combe to peer into the darkening valleys of 
 the Avon and hear the cuckoo-note echoed 
 and re-echoed from rhododendron groves, 
 and from the great, mysterious elms that 
 embower this country-side for miles and 
 miles around. This is the life of Stratford 
 to-day — the fertile farms, the garnished 
 meadows, the avenues of white and coral 
 hawthorn, masses of milky snow - ball, 
 honeysuckle, and syringa loading the soft 
 air with fragrance, chestnuts dropping 
 blooms of pink and white, and laburnums 
 swinging their golden censers in the breeze. 
 The building that forms the north-west 
 corner of High Street and Bridge Street in 
 Stratford was occupied in Shakespeare's 
 time by Richard Quiney, the wine-dealer, 
 who married the poet's youngest daughter, 
 Judith, and an inscription appears upon it, 
 stating that Judith lived in it for thirty-six 
 years. Ricliard Savage, that competent, 
 patient, diligent student of the church 
 registers and other documentary treasures 
 of Warwickshire, furnished the proof of this 
 fact from investigation of the town records 
 — which is but one of many services that he 
 has rendered to the old iiome of Shakespeare.
 
 142 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 The Quiney pi'eraises are now occupied by 
 Edward Fox, a journalist, a printer, and a 
 dealer in souvenirs of Shakespeare and of 
 Stratford. This house, in old times, was ofl5- 
 cially styled "The Cage," because it had 
 been used as a prison. Standing in the cellar 
 of it you perceive that its walls are five feet 
 thick. There likewise are seen traces of 
 the grooves down which the wine-casks 
 were rolled in the days of Shakespeare's 
 son-in-law, Richard Quiney. The shop now 
 owned by Edward Fox has been established 
 in Stratford more than a hundred years, and 
 as this tenant has a long lease of the build- 
 ing, and is of an energetic spirit in his busi- 
 ness, it bids fair to last as much longer. 
 One indication of his sagacity was revealed 
 in the cellar, where was heaped a quantity 
 of old oak, taken (in 1887) from the belfry 
 of Trinity Church, in which Shakespeare is 
 buried. This oak, which was there when 
 Shakespeare lived, and which had to be re- 
 moved because a stronger structure was 
 required for sustaining an augmented chime 
 of heavy bells, will be converted into various 
 carved relics, such as must find favour with 
 Shakespeare worshippers — of whom more 
 than 16,000 visited Stratford in 1887, at 
 least one-fourth of that number (4482)
 
 SHAKESPEARE S TOWN. I43 
 
 being Americans. A cross made of the 
 belfry wood is a pleasing souvenir of the 
 hallowed Shakespeare Church, When the 
 poet saw that church, the tower was sur- 
 mounted, not as now with a tall and grace- 
 ful spire, but with a spire of timber covered 
 with lead. The oak frame to support the 
 bells, however, has been in the tower more 
 than three hundred years. 
 
 The two sculptured groups, emblematic of 
 Comedy and Tragedy, which have been 
 placed upon the front of the Shakespeare 
 Memorial Theatre, are the gain of a benefit 
 performance which was given in that build- 
 ing on August 29, 1885, by Miss Mary 
 Anderson, who then, for the first time in 
 her life, impersonated Shakespeare's Rosa- 
 lind. This actress, since her first visit to 
 Stratford— a private visit made in 1883 — 
 has shown a deep interest in the town, 
 and in consequence of her services to the 
 Shakespeare Memorial she is now one of its 
 life-governors. Those services completed 
 the exterior decorations of the building. 
 The emblem of History had already been 
 put in its place — the scene in " Kiug John," 
 in which Prince Arthur melts the hard 
 and cruel purpose of Hubert to burn out 
 his eyes. Tragedy is represented by Uanilei
 
 14^4 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 and the Gravedigger in their colloquy over 
 Yorick's skull. In the emblem of Comedy, 
 the figure of Rosalind is that of Miss Ander- 
 son, in a boy's dress — a figure that may 
 perhaps be deemed inadequate to the origi- 
 nal, but one which certainly is expressive of 
 the ingenuous demeanour and artless grace of 
 that gentle lady. The grounds south of the 
 Memorial are diversified and adorned with 
 lawns, ti-ees, flowers, and commodious path- 
 ways, and this lovely, park-like enclosure — 
 thus beautified through the liberality of 
 Charles Edward Flower, the original pro- 
 moter of the Memorial — is now free to the 
 people, "to walk abroad and recreate them- 
 selves " beside the Avon. The Picture 
 Gallery of the Memorial lacks many things 
 which are needed, and it contains several 
 things which it might better lack. The 
 Library continues to grow, but the American 
 department of it needs accessions. Every 
 American edition of Shakespeare ought to 
 be there, and every book, of American 
 origin, on a Shakespearean subject. It was 
 at one time purposed to set up a special 
 case, surmounted with the American em- 
 blem, for the reception of contributions from 
 Americans. The Library contains (March 
 1890) 5790 volumes, in various languages.
 
 shakespeaee's town. 145 
 
 Of English editions of the complete -works 
 of Shakespeare it contains two hundred 
 and nine. A Russian translation of Shake- 
 speare, in nine volumes, appears in the 
 collection, together with three complete 
 editions in Dutch. An elaborate and beau- 
 tiful catalogue of these treasures, made 
 by Mr. Frederic Hawley, records them 
 in an imperishable form. Mr. Hawley, 
 long the Librarian of the Memorial, died at 
 Stratford on March 13, 1889, aged sixty- 
 two, and was buried at Kensal Green, in 
 London ; his wish being to rest in that 
 place. Mr. Hawley had been an actor, 
 under the name of Haywell, and he was 
 the author of more than one tragedy in 
 blank verse. Mr. A. H. Wall, who has 
 succeeded him as Librarian, is a learned 
 man, an antiquary, and an excellent writer. 
 To him the readers of the Stratford-on- 
 Avon Herald are indebted for many in- 
 structive articles — notably for those giving 
 an account of the original Shakespeare 
 quartos acquired for the Memorial Library 
 at the sale of the effects of J. 0. Halliwell- 
 Phillips. These quartos are "The Merchant 
 of Venice," "The Meriy Wives of Windsor," 
 and a first edition of "Pericles." A copy 
 of " Roger of Faversham " was also bought, 
 K
 
 146 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 and a copy of two of the plays of Aphra 
 Behn. Charles Edward Flower purchased 
 at that sale a copy of the First Folio of 
 Shakespeare, and all four of the Shake- 
 speare Folios now stand side by side in his 
 private library at Avonbank. It never 
 before was my good fortune to see those 
 precious volumes (1623 - 1632 - 1663 - 1685) 
 together in one collection. Mr. Flower 
 intimated the intention of giving them to 
 the Shakespeare Memorial Library. 
 
 A large collection of old writings was 
 found in a room of the Grammar School, 
 adjacent to the Guild Chapel, in 1887. 
 About five thousand separate papers were 
 discovered, the old commingled with the 
 new ; many of them indentures of appren- 
 ticeship ; many of them receipts for money ; 
 no one of them especially important as bear- 
 ing on the Shakespeare story. Several of 
 them are in Latin. The earliest date is 
 1560 — four years before the poet was born. 
 One document is a memorandum "present- 
 ing " a couple of the wives of Stratford for 
 slander of certain other women, and quoting 
 their bad language with startling fidelity. 
 Another is a letter from a citizen of London, 
 named Smart, establishing and endowing a 
 free school in Stratford for teaching Englisli
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN. I47 
 
 — the writer quaintly remarking that schools 
 for the teaching of Latin are numerous, 
 while no school for teaching English exists, 
 that he can discov^er. These papers have 
 been classified and arranged by Richard 
 Savage, but nothing directly pertinent to 
 Shakespeare has been found in them. I 
 saw a deed that bore the " mark" of Joan, 
 sister of Mary Arden, Shakespeare's mother, 
 but this may not be a recent discovery. All 
 these papers are written in that "cramped 
 penmanship" which baffled Tony Lumpkin 
 — and which baffles much wiser people than 
 he was. Richard Savage, however, is skil- 
 ful in reading this crooked and queer cali- 
 graphy ; and the materials and the duty of 
 exploring them are in the right hands. 
 When the researches and conclusions of this 
 scholar are published they will augment 
 the mass of evidence already extant — much 
 of it well presented by Halliwell-Phillips — 
 that the writer of Shakespeare's plays ^ was 
 a man familiar with the neighbourhood, the 
 names, and the everyday life of Sti'atford- 
 upon-Avon ; a fact which is not without its 
 admonitory suggestiveness to those credu- 
 
 1 A cogent paper on this subject, the learned and 
 logical work of John Taylor, Esq., may be found in 
 the London Athenceum, February 9, 18S9.
 
 148 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 lous persons who incline to heed the igno- 
 rant and idle theories and conjectures of 
 jSIr. Ignatius Donnelly. That dense person 
 visited Shakespeare's town in the summer 
 of 1888, and surveyed the scenes that are 
 usually viewed, and was entertained by the 
 vicar, the Rev. George Arbuthnot ; but he 
 attracted no attention other than the con- 
 tempt he deserves. " He did not address 
 himself to me," said Miss Chataway, who 
 was then at the Birthplace, as its custodian ; 
 " had he done so I should have informed him 
 that, in Stratford, Bacon is all gammon." 
 She was right. So it is. And not alone in 
 Stratford, but wherever men and women 
 have eyes to see and brains to understand. 
 
 The spot on which Shakespeare died 
 ought surely to be deemed as sacred as the 
 spot on which he was born : yet New Place 
 is not as much visited as the Birthplace — 
 perhaps because so little of it remains. 
 Only 537 visitors went there during the 
 year ending April 13, 1888. In repairing 
 the custodian's house at New Place the 
 crossed timbers in the one-remaining frag- 
 ment of the north wall of the original struc- 
 ture were found beneath plaster. These 
 have been left uncovered, and their dark 
 lines add to the picturesque effect of the
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN. 1 49 
 
 place. The aspect of the old house prior 
 to 1742 is known but vaguely, even if it be 
 known at all. Shakespeare bought it in 
 1597 when he was thirty-three years old, 
 and he kept it till his death, nineteen years 
 later. The street — Chapel Lane — that 
 separates it from the Guild Chapel was 
 narrower than it is now, and the house stood 
 in a grassy enclosure, encircled by a wall, 
 the entrance to the garden being at some 
 distance do%vn the lane, toward the river. 
 The chief rooms in New Place were faced 
 \vith square, sunken panels of oak, which 
 covered the walls from floor to roof and 
 probably formed the ceilings. Some of 
 these panels — obtained when Mr. Gastrell 
 tore down this house in 1759 — may be seen 
 in a parlour of the Falcon Hotel. There is 
 nothing left of Xew Place but the old well 
 in the cellar, the fragments of the founda- 
 tion, the lintel, the armorial stone, and the 
 fragment of wall that forms part of the 
 custodian's house. That custodian, Mr. 
 Bower Bulmer, a pleasant, appx'eciative 
 man, always attentive and genial, died on 
 January 17, 1888, and his widow has suc- 
 ceeded him in office. Another conspicuous 
 and interesting Stratford figure, well known, 
 and for a long time, was John Marshall, the
 
 150 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 antiquary, who died on June 25, 1887. Mr. 
 Marshall occupied the building near to New 
 Place, on the north side, and between the 
 keeper's house and the house once tenanted 
 by Julius Shaw, one of the witnesses to 
 Shakespeare's will. Mr. Marshall sold 
 Shakespeare souvenirs and quaint furniture. 
 He had remarkable skill in carving, and his 
 mind was full of knowledge of Shakespeare 
 antiquities and the traditional lore of Strat- 
 ford. His kindness, his eccentric ways, his 
 elaborate forms of speech, and his love and 
 faculty for art connnended him to the re- 
 spect and sympathy of all who really knew 
 him. He was a character — and in such a 
 place as Stratford such quaint beings are ap- 
 propriate and uncommonly delightful. He 
 will long be kindly remembered, long missed 
 from his accustomed round. He rests now 
 in an unmarked grave in Trinity churchyard, 
 close to the bank of the Avon — just in front 
 of the stone that marks the sepulchre of 
 Mary Pickering ; by which token the future 
 pilgrim may know the spot. Marshall was 
 well known to me, and we had many a talk 
 about the antiquities of the town. Among 
 my relics there is a precious piece of wood 
 bearing this inscription, written by him : 
 " Old Oak from Shakespeare's Birth-place.
 
 SHAKESPEARE S TOWN. 151 
 
 taken out of the building when it was Re- 
 stored in I808 by Mr. William Holtom, the 
 contractor for the restoration, who supplied it 
 to John Marshall, carver, Stratford-on-Avon, 
 and presented by him to W, Winter, August 
 27th, 1885, J. M." Another valued souvenir 
 of this quaint person exists in the possession 
 of Richard Savage, at the Birth-place — a fine 
 carved goblet, made from the wood of the 
 renowned mulberry-tree that was planted 
 by the poet in the garden of New Place, but 
 cut down by the Rev. Mr. Gastrell in 1756. 
 At the Shakespeare Birthplace you will 
 no longer meet with those gentle ladies — so 
 quaint, so characteristic, so harmonious 
 with the place — Miss ]\Iaria Chataway and 
 Miss Caroline Chataway. The former of 
 these was the official custodian of the cot- 
 tage, and the latter assisted her in the 
 work of its exposition. They retired from 
 office in June 1889, after seventeen years 
 of service, the former aged seventy-eight, 
 the latter seventy -six ; and now — being 
 infirm, and incapable of the active, incessant 
 labour that was required of them by the 
 multitude of visitors — they dwell in a quiet 
 house in the Warwick Road, where their 
 friends are welcomed, and where venerable 
 and honoured acre will henceforth haunt
 
 152 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 the chimney-corner, and " keep the flame 
 from wastmg by repose."^ The new guar- 
 dian of the Shakespeare Cottage is Joseph 
 Skipsey, of Newcastle, the miner poet : for 
 Mr. Skipsey was trained in the mines of 
 Northumberland, was long a labourer in 
 them, and his muse sings in the simple 
 accents of nature. He is the anthor of an 
 essay on Burns, and of various other essays 
 and miscellaneous writings. An edition of 
 his poems, under the title of " Carols, Songs, 
 and Ballads " has been published in London, 
 by Walter Scott, and that book will be 
 found interesting by those who enjoy the 
 study of original character and of a rhyth- 
 mical expression that does not savour of the 
 poetical schools. Mr. Skipsey is an elderly 
 man, with grizzled hair, a benevolent 
 countenance, and a simple, cordial manner. 
 He spoke to me, with much animation, 
 about American poets, and especially about 
 Richard Henry Stoddard, in whose rare and 
 line genius he manifested a deep, thoughtful, 
 and gratifying interest. Mr. Skipsey is 
 assisted at the Shakespeare Cottage by his 
 amiable wife. The visitor no longer hears 
 that earnest, formal, characteristic recital, 
 descriptive of the house, that was given 
 1 Miss Maria Chataway died on January 31, 1S91.
 
 SHAKESPEARE S TOWN. I53 
 
 daily and repeatedly for so many years by 
 Miss Caroline Chataway, — that delightful 
 allusion to "the mighty dome" that was 
 the "fit place for the mighty brain " ; but 
 doubtless Mr. and Mrs. Skipsey will, in 
 time, concoct a narrative of sufficient quaint- 
 ness. The Birthplace acquires new treasures 
 from year to j^ear — mainly in its library, 
 which is kept in perfect order by Richard 
 Savage, that ideal antiquarian, who even 
 collects and retains the bits of the stone 
 floor of the Shakespeare room that become 
 detached by age. In this library is preserved 
 the original manuscript of Wheler's History 
 of Stratford, together with his own anno- 
 tated and interleaved copy of the printed 
 book, which is thus enriched with much 
 new material relative to the antiquities of 
 tlae storied town. 
 
 In the Washington Irving parlour of the 
 Red Horse the American traveller will find 
 many objects that are specially calculated 
 to please his fancy and to deepen his interest 
 in the place. Among these are the chair in 
 which Irving sat ; the sexton's clock to 
 which he refers in the Sketch Book ; an 
 autograph letter by him ; another by Long- 
 fellow ; a view of Irving's house of Sunny- 
 side ; and pictures of Junius Booth, Edwin
 
 154 GEAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Booth, the elder and the present Jefferson, 
 Miss Mary Anderson, Miss Ada Rehan, 
 Elliston, Farren, Salvini, Henry Irving, 
 and Ellen Terry. To invest this storied 
 room with an atmosphere at once liter- 
 ary and dramatic was the intention of 
 its decorator, and this object has been 
 attained. "When AVashingtou Irving visited 
 Stratford and lodged at the Red Horse 
 the "pretty chambermaid," to whom he 
 alludes in his gentle and genial account of 
 that experience, was Sally Garner — then 
 in fact a middle-aged woman, and plain 
 rather than pretty. The head waiter was 
 William Webb. Both those persons lived to 
 an advanced age. Sally Garner was retired, 
 on a pension, by the late Mr. Gardner, 
 former proprietor of the Red Horse, and 
 she died at Tanworth and was buried there. 
 Webb died at Stratford. He had been a 
 waiter at the Red Horse for sixty years, and 
 he was esteemed by all who knew him. His 
 grave, in Stratford churchyard, remained 
 unmarked, and it is one among the many 
 that were levelled and obliterated in 1888, 
 by order of the present vicar. A few of 
 the older residents of the town might per 
 haps be able to indicate its situation ; but, 
 practically, this relic of the past is gone-
 
 SHAKESPEARE S TOWN. 1 55 
 
 and with it Vcanishes an element of valuable 
 interest to the annual multitude of Shake- 
 spearean pilgrims upon whom the prosperity 
 of Stratford is largely dependent, and for 
 whom, if not for the inhabitants, every 
 relic of its past should be perpetuated. 
 This sentiment is not without its practical 
 influence. Among other good results of it 
 is the restoration of the ancient timber front 
 and the quaint gables of the Shakespeare 
 Inn, which, already hallowed by its associa- 
 tion with Garrick and the Jubilee of 
 September 7, 1769, has now become one of 
 the most picturesque, attractive, and repre- 
 sentative buildings in Stratford, 
 
 There is a resolute disposition among 
 Stratford people to save and perpetuate 
 everything that is associated, however re- 
 motely, ^\'ith the great name of Shakespeare. 
 Mr. C. F. Loggin, a chemist in the High 
 Street, possesses a lock and key that were 
 affixed to one of the doors in Xew Place, 
 and also a sundial, that reposed upon a 
 pedestal in New Place garden, presumably 
 in Shakespeare's time. The lock is made of 
 brass ; the key of iron, with an ornamented 
 handle, of graceful design, but broken. On 
 the lock appears an inscription stating that 
 it was "taken from New Place in the year
 
 156 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 1759, and preserved by John Lord, Esq." 
 The sundial is made of copper, and upon 
 its surface are Roman numerals distributed 
 around the outer edge of the circle that en- 
 closes its rays. The corners of the plate 
 are broken, and one side of it is bent. This 
 injury was done to it by thieves, who 
 wrenched it from its setting, on a night in 
 1759, and were just making away with it 
 when they were captured and deprived of 
 their plunder. The sundial also bears an 
 inscription, certifying that it was preserved 
 by Mr. Lord. New Place Garden was at 
 one time owned by one of Mr. Loggin's 
 relatives, and from that former owner these 
 Shakespearean relics were derived. Shake- 
 speare's hand may have touched this lock, 
 and Shakespeare's eyes may have looked 
 upon this dial — perhaps on the day when 
 he made Jacqiits draw the immortal picture 
 of Touchstone in the forest, moralising on 
 the flight of time and the evanescence of 
 earthly things. "As You Like It" was 
 written in 1599. 
 
 Another remote relic of Shakespeare is 
 the shape of the foundation of Bishopton 
 Church, which remains distinctly traced, by 
 ridges of the velvet sod, in a green field a 
 little to the north-west of Stratford, in the
 
 SHAKESPEARE S TOWN. I57 
 
 direction of Wilmcote — the birthplace of 
 Shakespeare's mother, Mary Arden. The 
 parish of Bishopton adjoins that of Shottery, 
 and Bishopton is one of the three places 
 mentioned in association with Shakespeare's 
 marriage with Anne Hathaway, Many 
 scholars, indeed, incline to think that the 
 wedding occurred there. The church was 
 demolished about eighty years ago. The 
 house in Wilmcote, in which, as tradition 
 declares, Mary Arden was bom, is seen at 
 the eastern entrance to the village, and is 
 conspicuous for its quaint gables and for its 
 mellow colours and impressive antiquity. 
 Wilmcote is rougher in aspect than most 
 of the villages of Warwickshire, and the 
 country immediately around it is wdld and 
 bleak ; but the hedges are full of wild- 
 tlowers, and are haunted by many birds ; 
 and the wide, green, lonesome fields, especi- 
 ally when you see them in the gloaming, 
 possess that air of melancholy solitude — 
 vague, dream-like, and poetic rather than 
 sad — which always strongly sways the 
 imaginative mind. Inside the ^lary Arden 
 Cottage I saw nothing remarkable except 
 the massive old timbers. This house, and 
 also the Anne Hathaway cottage at Shot- 
 tery, ought to be purchased and added to
 
 158 GEAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 "the Amalgamated Trusts of Shakespeare's 
 Birthplace, the Museum, and New Place." 
 The Anne Hathaway cottage is falling into 
 decay ; it needs care ; and as an authentic 
 relic of Shakespeare and a charming bit of 
 rustic antiquity, its preservation is impor- 
 tant, as well to lovers of the poet, all the 
 world over, as to the town of Stratford, 
 which thrives by his renown. The beauti- 
 ful Guild Chapel also needs care. The 
 hand of restoration should, indeed, touch it 
 lightly and reverently ; but restored it 
 must be, at no distant day, for every 
 autumn storm shakes down fragments of 
 its fretted masonrj'- and despoils the vener- 
 able grandeur of that gray tower on which 
 Shakespeare so often gazed from the windows 
 of his hallowed home. Whatever is done 
 here, fortunately for the Shakespearean 
 world, will be done under the direction of 
 a man of noble spirit, rare ability, sound 
 scholarship, and fine taste — the Rev. R. S. 
 De Courcy Laflfan, the headmaster of the 
 Grammar School, and therefore pastor of 
 the Guild. Liberal in thought, manly in 
 character, simple, sincere, and full of sensi- 
 bility and goodness, this preacher strongly 
 impresses all who approach him, and is one 
 of the most imposing figures in the pulpit
 
 SHAKESPEARE S TOWN. 1 59 
 
 of his time. xVnd he is a reverent Shake- 
 spearean. 
 
 A modern feature of Stratford, interesting 
 to the Shakespeare pilgrim, is Lord Ronald 
 Gower's statue of the poet, erected in 
 October 1888, in the Memorial Garden. 
 This work is infelicitous in its site and not 
 fortunate in all of its details, hut in some 
 particulars it is fine. It consists of a huge 
 pedestal, on the top of which is the full- 
 length bronze figure of Shakespeare, seated 
 in a chair, while at the four comers of the 
 base are bronze effigies of Hamlet, Lady 
 Macbeth, Henry the Fifth, and Falstaff. 
 Hamlet is the expression of a noble ideal. 
 The face and figure are wasted with misery, 
 yet full of thought and strength. The type 
 of man thus embodied will at once be re- 
 cognised — an imxperial, powerful, tender, 
 gracious, but darkly introspective nature, 
 broken and subjugated by hopeless grief 
 and by vain brooding over the mystery of 
 life and death. Laxly Macbeth is depicted 
 in her sleep-walking, and, although the 
 figure is treated in a conventional manner, 
 it certainly conveys the idea of remorse and 
 of physical attenuation from sufi"ering, and 
 likewise the sense of being haunted and 
 accursed. Prince Henry is represented as
 
 l6o GRAY DAYS AND GOLD, 
 
 he may have appeared when putting on 
 his dying father's kingly crown. The figure 
 is lithe, graceful, and spirited ; the pose is 
 true, and the action is natural ; but the 
 personality is deficient of identity and of 
 royal distinction. Falstaff appears as a fat 
 man who is a type of gross, chuckling 
 humour ; so that this image might stand for 
 Gambrinus. The intellect and the pre- 
 dominant character of Falstaff are not indi- 
 cated. The figures are dwarfed, futhermore, 
 by the size of the stone which they surround 
 — a huge pillar, upon which appropriate lines 
 from Shakespeare, selected by Charles 
 Edward Flower, have been inscribed. The 
 statue of Shakespeare shows a man of solid 
 self-concentration and adamantine will ; an 
 observer, of universal view and incessant 
 vigilance. The chief feature of it is the 
 piercing look of the eyes. This is a man 
 who sees, ponders, and records. Imagina- 
 tion and sensibility, on the other hand, are 
 not suggested. The face lacks modelling : 
 it is as smooth as the face of a child : there 
 is not one characteristic curve or wrinkle in 
 all its placid expanse. Perhaps it was de- 
 signed to express an idea of eternal youth. 
 The man who had gained Shakespeare's 
 obvious experience must have risen to a
 
 Shakespeare's towx. i6i 
 
 composure not to be ruffled by anything 
 that this world can do to bless or to ban a 
 human life. But the record of his struggle 
 must have been written in his face. This 
 may be a fine statue of a practical thinker, 
 but it is not the image of a poet, and it is 
 not an adequate presentment of Shakespeare. 
 The structure stands on the south side of 
 the Memorial Building, and within a few 
 feet of it, so that it is almost swallowed up 
 by what was intended for its background. 
 It would show to better advantage if it 
 were placed further to the south, looking 
 down the long reach of the Avon toward 
 Shakespeare's Church. The form of the 
 poet could then be seen from the spot on 
 which he died, while his face would still 
 look, as it does now, toward his tomb. 
 
 A constant stream of American visitors 
 pours annually through the Red Horse Inn. 
 Within three days of July 1889 more than 
 a hundred American names appeared in the 
 register. The spirit of Washington Irving 
 is mighty yet. Looking through a few of 
 the old registers of this house, I came 
 upon many familiar names of distinguished 
 Americans. Bayard Taylor came here on 
 July 23, 1856 ; James E. Murdoch (the
 
 l62 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 on August 31, 1856 ; E.ev. Francis Vinton 
 on June 10, 1857 ; Henry Ward Beecher on 
 June 22, 1862; Elihu Burritt, "the learned 
 blacksmith," on September 19, 1865 ; George 
 Ripley on May 12, 1866. Poor " Artemus 
 Ward" arrived on September IS, 1866 — only 
 a little while before his death, which oc- 
 curred in March 1867 at Southampton. 
 The Rev. Charles T. Brooks, translator of 
 ' ' Faust, " registered his name here on Septem- 
 ber 20, 1866. Charles Dudley Warner came 
 on May 6, 1868 ; I\lr. and Mrs. W. J. Florence 
 on May 29, 1868; and S. R. GifFord and 
 Jervis M'Entee on the same day. The poet 
 Longfellow, accompanied by Tom Appleton, 
 arrived on June 23, 1868. These Red Horse 
 registers contain a unique and remarkable col- 
 lection of autographs. Within a few pages, 
 I observed the curiously contrasted signa- 
 tures of Cardinal Wiseman, Sam Co well, the 
 Due d'Aumale, Tom Thumb, ]\Iiss Burdett- 
 Coutts (1861), Blanchard Jerrold, Edmund 
 Yates, Charles Fechter, Andrew Carnegie, 
 David Gray (of Buffalo), the Duchess of 
 Coburg, Moses H. Grinnell, Lord Leigh of 
 Stoneleigh Abbey, J. M. Bellew, Samuel 
 Longfellow, Charles and Henry Webb (the 
 Dromios), Edna Dean Proctor, Gerald 
 iSIassey, Clarence A, Seward, Frederick
 
 Shakespeare's to\\\n*. 163 
 
 Maccabe, M, D. Conway, the Prince of 
 Conde, and John L. Toole. That this re- 
 pository of autographs is appreciated may 
 be inferred from the fact that special vigil- 
 ance has to be exercised to prevent the 
 hotel registers from being carried off or 
 mutilated. The volume containing the sig- 
 nature of Washington Irving was stolen 
 years ago, and it has been vaguely heard 
 of as being in America. 
 
 There is a collection of autographs of 
 visitors to the Shakespeare Birthplace that 
 was gathered many years since by Mary 
 Hornby, custodian of that cottage (it was 
 she who whitewashed the walls in order to 
 obliterate the wi'i tings upon them, when she 
 was removed from her office in 1820), and this 
 is now in the possession of her granddaugh- 
 ter, Mrs. Smith, a resident in Stratford ; but 
 many valuable names have been taken from 
 it — among others that of Lord Byron, who 
 visited Stratford, probably in 1806, when 
 staying at Malv^ern. His visit is said to have 
 been made in August 1816, but that is mani- 
 festly an inaccux-ate statement, since he left 
 England on April 25, 1816, never to return — 
 till he was brought home dead. The mania 
 for obtaining relics of Stratford antiquity 
 is remarkable. Mention is made of an un-
 
 164 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 known lady who came to the birth-room of 
 Shakespeare, and, after begging in vain for 
 a piece of the woodwork or of the stone, 
 presently knelt and wiped the floor with 
 her glove, which then she carefully rolled 
 up and secreted, declaring that she would, 
 at least, possess some of the dust of that 
 sacred chamber. It is a creditable senti- 
 ment, though not altogether a rational one, 
 that impels devotional persons to such con- 
 duct as this ; but the entire Shakespeare 
 cottage would soon disappear if such a pas- 
 sion for relics were practically gratified. 
 The elemental feeling is one of reverence, 
 and this is perhaps indicated in the follow- 
 ing lines with which the present writer be- 
 gan a new volume of the Red Horse register, 
 on July 21, 1889 :— 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 While evening waits and hearkens, 
 
 While yet the song-bird calls, — 
 Before the last light darkens. 
 
 Before the last leaf falls, — 
 Once more with reverent feeling 
 
 This sacred shrine I seek ; 
 By silent awe revealing 
 
 The love I cannot speak.
 
 XI. 
 
 UP AND DOWN THE AVON. 
 
 STEATFORD-UPON-AVON, August 22, 
 1889.— The river life of Stratford is 
 one of the chief delights of this delightful 
 town. The Avon, according to law, is 
 navigable from its mouth, at Tewkesbury, 
 where it empties into the Severn, as far 
 up^A'ard as Warwick ; but according to fact 
 it is passable only to the resolute navigator 
 who can surmount obstacles. From Tewkes- 
 bury up to Evesham there is plain sail- 
 ing. Above Evesham there are occasional 
 barriers. At Stratford there is an abrupt 
 pause at the Lucy MiU, and your boat 
 must be taken ashore and dragged a little 
 way over the meadow, and so launched 
 again. The Lucy Mill is just l)elow the 
 Shakespeare Church, and from this point 
 up to Clopton's Bridge the river is broad. 
 Here the boat-races are rowed almost every 
 year. Here the stream ripples against the 
 pleasure-ground called the Bancroft, skirts
 
 1 66 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 the gardens of the Shakespeare Memorial, 
 glides past the lovely lawns of Avonbank — 
 the home of that noble public benefactor 
 and fine Shakespearean scholar, Charles 
 Edward Flower — and breaks upon the sus- 
 taining wall of the churchyard, crowned 
 with the high and thick -leaved elms that 
 nod and whisper over Shakespeare's dust. 
 The town lies on the left or west bank of 
 the Avon, as you ascend the river, looking 
 northward. On the right or east bank 
 there is a wide stretch of meadow. To 
 float along here in the gloaming, when the 
 bats are winging their " cloistered flight," 
 when the great flocks of starlings are flying 
 rapidly over, when "the crow makes wing 
 to the rooky wood," when the water is as 
 smooth as a mirror of burnished steel, and 
 equally the grasses and flowers upon the 
 banks and the stately trees and the gray 
 and solemn and beautiful church are re- 
 flected deep in the lucid stream, is an ex- 
 perience of thoughtful pleasure that sinks 
 deep into the heart and will never be for- 
 gotten. You do not know Stratford till 
 you know the Avon. 
 
 From Clopton's Bridge upward the river 
 winds capriciously between banks that are 
 sometimes fringed with willows and some-
 
 UP AND DOWN THE AVON. 1 67 
 
 times bordered with grassy meadows or 
 patches of woodland or cultivated lawns, 
 enclosing villas that seem the chosen homes 
 of all this world can give of loveliness and 
 peace. The course is now entirely clear for 
 several miles. Not till you pass the foot of 
 Alveston village does any obstacle present 
 itself ; but here, as well as a little further 
 on, by Hatton Rock, the stream runs 
 shallow and the current becomes very swift, 
 dashing over sandy banks and great masses 
 of tangled grass and weeds. These are "the 
 rapids," and through these the mariner must 
 make his way by adroit steering and a vigor- 
 ous and expert use of oars and boat-hooks. 
 The Avon now is bowered by tall trees, and 
 upon the height that it skirts you see the 
 house of Ryon Hill — celebrated in the novel 
 of Asphodel, by Miss Braddon. This part of 
 the river, closed in from the world, and show- 
 ing in each direction twinkling vistas of sun 
 and shadow, is especially lovely. Here, in 
 a quiet hour, the creatures that live along 
 these shores will freely show themselves 
 and their busy ways. The water-rat comes 
 out of his hole and nibbles at the reeds or 
 swims sturdily across the stream. The 
 moor-hen flutters out of her nest among the 
 long, green rushes and skims from bank to
 
 1 68 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 bank. The nimble little wagtail flashes 
 through the foliage. The squirrel leaps 
 among the boughs, and the rabbit scampers 
 into the thicket. Sometimes a kingfisher, 
 with his shining azure shield, pauses for a 
 moment among the gnarled roots upon the 
 brink. Sometimes a heron, disturbed in 
 her nest, rises suddenly upon her great 
 wiugs and soars grandly away. Once, row- 
 ing down this river at nearly midnight, I 
 surprised an otter and heard the splash of 
 his precipitate retreat. The ghost of an old 
 gypsy, who died by suicide upon this 
 wooded shore, is said to haunt the neigh- 
 bouring crag ; but this, like all other ghosts 
 that ever I came near, eluded equally my 
 vision and my desire. But it is a weird spot 
 at night. 
 
 Near Alveston Mill you must drag your 
 boat over a narrow strip of land and launch 
 her again for Charlecote. Now once more 
 this delicious water-way is broad and fine 
 as it sweeps past the stately, secluded homes 
 upon the Warwick Road. A great bed of 
 white water-lilies (hitherto they have all 
 been yellow) presently adorns it, and soon 
 there are glimpses of the deer that browse 
 or prance or slumber beneath the magnifi- 
 cent oaks and elms and limes and chestnuts
 
 UP AND DOWN THE AVON. 169 
 
 of Charlecote Park. No view of Charlecote 
 can compare with the view of it that is 
 obtained from the river ; and if its pro- 
 prietor values its reputation for beauty, he 
 ought to be glad that lovers of the beautiful 
 sometimes have an opportunity to see it 
 from this point. The older wing, with its 
 oriel window and quaint belfry, is of a 
 peculiar, mellow red colour, relieved against 
 bright green ivy, to which only the brush 
 of an artist could do justice. Nothing more 
 delicious, in its way, is to be found ; at 
 least, the only piece of architecture in this 
 region that excels it in beauty of colour is 
 the ancient house of Compton-Winyate ; 
 but that is a marvel of loveliness, the gem 
 of Warwickshire, and surpasses all its 
 fellows. The towers of the main building of 
 Charlecote are octagon, and a happy alterna- 
 tion of thin and slender with stout and 
 stunted turrets much enhances the effect of 
 quaintness in this grave and opulent edifice, 
 A walled terrace, margined with urns and 
 blazing with flowers of gold and crimson, 
 extends from the river front to the water 
 side, and terminates in a broad flight of 
 stone steps, at the foot of which are moored 
 the barges of the house of Lucy. No spec- 
 tacle could suggest more of aristocratic
 
 I70 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 state and aiistere magnificence than this 
 sequestered edifice does, standing there, 
 silent, antique, venerable, gorgeous, sur- 
 rounded by its vast, thick-wooded park, 
 and musing, as it has done for hundreds 
 of years, on the silver Avon that murmurs 
 at its base. Close by there is a lovely 
 waterfall, over which some little tributary 
 of the river descends in a fivefold wave of 
 shimmering crystal, wafting a music that is 
 heard in every chamber of the house and in 
 all the fields and woodlands round about. 
 It needs the sun to bring out the rich colours 
 of Charlecote, but once when I saw it from 
 the river a storm was coming on, and vast 
 masses of black and smoke-coloured cloud 
 were driving over it in shapeless blocks and 
 jagged streamers, while countless frightened 
 birds were whirling above it ; and presently, 
 when the fierce lightning flashed across the 
 heavens and the deluge of rain descended 
 and beat upon it, a more romantic sight was 
 never seen. 
 
 Above Charlecote the Avon grows narrow 
 for a space, and after you pass under Hamp- 
 ton Lucy Bridge your boat is much entangled 
 in river grass and much impeded by whirls 
 and eddies of the shallowing stream. There 
 is another mill at Hampton Lucy, and a
 
 UP AND DOWN THE AVON. I7I 
 
 little way beyond the village your further 
 progress upward is stopped b}^ a waterfall — 
 beyond which, however, and accessible by 
 the usual expedient of dragging the boat 
 over the land, a noble reach of the river 
 is disclosed, stretching away toward War- 
 wick, where the wonderful Castle, and 
 sweet St. Mary's tower, and Leicester's 
 Hospital, and the cosy Warwick Arms 
 await your coming— with mouldering Kenil- 
 worth and majestic Stoneleigh Abbey re- 
 served to lure j^ou still further afield. But 
 the scene around Hampton Lucy is not one 
 to be quickly left. There the meadows are 
 rich and green and fragrant. There the 
 large trees give grateful shade and make 
 sweet music in the summer wind. There, 
 from the ruddy village, thin spires of blue 
 smoke curl upward through the leaves and 
 seem to tell of comfort and content beneath. 
 At a little distance the gray tower of the 
 noble church — an edifice of peculiar and 
 distinctive majesty, and one well worthy of 
 the exceptional beauty enshrined within it 
 — rears itself among the elms. Close by the 
 sleek and indolent cattle are couched upon 
 the cool sod, looking at you with large, 
 quiet, lustrous, indifferent eyes. The water- 
 fall sings on, with its low and melancholy
 
 172 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 plaint, while sometimes the silver foam of 
 it is caught up and whirled away by the 
 breeze. The waves sparkle on the running 
 stream, and the wild-flowers, in gay myriads, 
 glance and glimmer on the velvet shore. 
 And so, as the sun is setting and the rooks 
 begin to fly homeward, you breathe the 
 fragrant air from Scarbank and look upon 
 the veritable place that Shakespeare had in 
 mind when he wrote his line of endless 
 melody — 
 
 "I know a bank where the wild thyme 
 blows. "
 
 XII. 
 
 RAMBLES IN ARDEN. 
 
 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, August 27, 
 1889. — Among the many charming 
 rambles that may be enjoyed in the vicinity 
 of Stratford, the ramble to Wootton-Wawen 
 and Henley-in-Arden is not the least de- 
 lightful. Both these places are on the Bir- 
 mingham road ; the former six miles, the 
 latter eight miles from Stratford. When 
 you stand upon the bridge at Wootton you 
 are only one hundred miles from London, 
 but you might be in a wilderness a thousand 
 miles from any city, for in all the slumber- 
 ous scene around you there is no hint of 
 anything but solitude and peace. Close by 
 a cataract tumbles over the rocks and fills 
 the air with music. Not far distant rises 
 the stately front of Wootton Hall, an old 
 manor-house, surrounded with green lawns 
 and bowered by majestic elms, which has 
 always been a Catholic abode, and which is 
 never rented to any but Catholic tenants. 
 
 173
 
 174 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 A cosy, gabled house, standing among trees 
 and shrubs a little way from the roadside, 
 is the residence of the priest of this diocese 
 — an antiquarian and a scholar, of ample 
 acquirements and fine talent. Across the 
 meadows, in one direction, peers forth a 
 fine specimen of the timbered cottage of 
 ancient times — the black beams conspicuous 
 upon the white surface of plaster. Among 
 the trees, in another direction, appears 
 the great gray tower of Wootton-Wawen 
 Church, a venerable relic, and one in which, 
 by means of the varying orders of its archi- 
 tecture, you may trace the whole ecclesiasti- 
 cal history of England. The approach to this 
 church is through a green lane and a wicket- 
 gate, and when you come near to it you 
 find that it is surrounded with many graves, 
 some marked and some unmarked, on all of 
 which the long grass waves in rank luxuri- 
 ance and whispers softly in the summer 
 breeze. The place seems deserted. Not 
 a human creature is anywhere ^nsible, and 
 the only sound that breaks the stillness of 
 this August afternoon is the cawing of a 
 few rooks in the lofty tops of the neighbour- 
 ing elms. The actual life of all places, 
 when you come to know it well, proves to 
 be, for the most part, conventional, com-
 
 EAMBLES IN ARDEX. 1 75 
 
 monplace, and petty. Human beings, 
 with here and there an exception, are dull 
 and tedious, each resembling the other, and 
 each needlessly laborious to increase that 
 resemblance. In this respect all parts of 
 the -world are alike — and therefore the 
 happiest traveller is he who keeps mostly 
 alone, and uses his eyes, and communes 
 with his own thoughts. The actual life of 
 Wootton is, doubtless, much like that of 
 other hamlets — a "noiseless tenor" of 
 church squabbles, village gossip, and dis- 
 contented grumbling, diversified with feed- 
 ing and drinking, lawn tennis, matrimony, 
 birth, and death. But as I looked around 
 upon this group of nestling cottages, these 
 broad meadows, green and cool in the 
 shadow of the densely mantled trees, and 
 this ancient church, gray and faded with 
 antiquity, slowly crumbling to pieces amid 
 the fresh and everlasting vitality of nature, 
 I felt that surely here might at last be dis- 
 covered a permanent haven of refuge from 
 the incessant platitude and triviality of 
 ordinar}' experience and the strife and din 
 of the world. 
 
 Wootton- Wawen Church is one of the 
 numerous Catholic buildings of about the 
 eleventh century that still survive in this
 
 176 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 realm, devoted now to Protestant worship. 
 It has been partly restored, but most of it is 
 in a state of decay, and if this be not soon 
 arrested the building will become a ruin. 
 Its present vicar, the Rev. Francis T. 
 Bramston, is making vigorous eflforts to in- 
 terest the public in the preservation of this 
 ancient moniiment, and these efforts ought 
 to succeed. A more valuable ecclesiastical 
 relic it would be difficult to find, even in 
 this rich region of antique treasures, the 
 heart of England. Its sequestered situation 
 and its sweetly rural surroundings invest it 
 with peculiar beauty. It is associated, 
 furthermore, with names that are stately in 
 English history and eminent and honoured 
 in English literature — with Henry St. John, 
 Viscount Bolingbroke, whose sister reposes 
 in its ancient vaults, and with William 
 Somerville, the poet who wrote " The 
 Chase." It was not until I actually stood 
 upon his tombstone that my attention was 
 directed to the name of this old aiithor, 
 and to the presence of his relics in this 
 remote and lonely place, Somerville lived 
 and died at Edston Hall, near Wootton- 
 Wawen, and was famous in his day as a 
 Warwickshire Squire and huntsman. His 
 grave is in the chancel of the church, and
 
 RAMBLES IN ARDEN, 1 77 
 
 the following excellent epitaph, written by 
 himself, is inscribed upon the plain blue 
 stone that covers it : — 
 
 H. s. E. 
 
 OBIIT 17. JULY. 1742. 
 
 GULIELMUS SOMERVILE. ARM. 
 
 SI QUID IN ME BONI COMPERTUM 
 
 HABEAS, 
 
 IMITATE. 
 SI QUID MALI, TOTIS VIRIBUS 
 EVITA. 
 
 CHRISTO CONFIDE, 
 ET SCIAS TE QUOQUE FRAGILEM 
 ESSE 
 
 ET MORTALEM. 
 
 Such words have a meaning that sinks 
 deep into the heart when they are read 
 upon the gravestone that covers the poet's 
 dust. They came to me like a message 
 from an old friend who had long been 
 waiting for the opportunity of this solemn 
 greeting and wise counsel. Another epitaph 
 written by Somerville — and one that shows 
 equally the kindness of his heart and the 
 quaintness of his character — appears upon a 
 little, low, lichen-covered stone in Wootton- 
 Wawen churchyard, where it commemorates 
 his huntsman and butler, Jacob Bocter,
 
 178 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 who was hurt in the huntmg-field, and died 
 of this accident : — 
 
 H, s. E. 
 
 JACOBUS BOCTER. 
 
 GULIELMO SOMERVILE ARMIGRO 
 
 PROMUS ET CANIBUS VENATICIS 
 
 PRAEPOSITOR 
 
 DOMI. FORISQUE FIDELIS 
 
 EQUO INTER VENANDUM CORUEXTE 
 
 ET INTESTINIS GRAVITER COLLISIS 
 
 POST TRIDUUM DEPLORANDUS. 
 
 OBIIT 
 
 2S DIE JAN., 
 
 ANNO DNI 1719. 
 
 AETAT 38. 
 
 The pilgrim who rambles as far as Woot- 
 fcon-Wawen will surely stroll onward to 
 Henley-in-Arden. The whole of this region 
 was originally covered by the Forest of 
 Arden^ — the woods that Shakespeare had 
 in mind when he was writing " As You 
 Like It," a comedy whereof the atmo- 
 sphere, foliage, flowers, scenery, and spirit 
 are purely those of his native War wick - 
 
 1 That learned antiquarian W. G. Fretton, Esq. , of 
 Ct >ventry, has shown that the Forest of Arden covered 
 a large tract of land extending many miles west and 
 north of tlie bank of the Avon, around Stratford.
 
 RAMBLES IN ARDEN. 1 79 
 
 shire. Henley, if the observer may judge 
 by the numerous inns that fringe its long, 
 straggling, picturesque street, must once 
 have been a favourite halting-place for the 
 coaches that plied between London and 
 Birmingham. They are mostly disused 
 now, and the little town sleeps in the sun 
 and seems forgotten. There is a beautiful 
 specimen of the ancient market-cross in its 
 centre — gray and sombre and much frayed 
 by the tooth of time. Close beside Henley, 
 and accessible in a walk of a few minutes, 
 is the Church of Beaudesert, which is one of 
 the most precious of the ecclesiastic gems of 
 England, Here you will see architecture 
 of mingled Saxon and Norman — the solid 
 Norman buttress, the castellated tower, the 
 Saxon arch moulded in zig-zag, which is more 
 ancient than the dog-tooth, and the round, 
 compact columns of the early English order. 
 Above the church rises a noble hill, upon 
 which, in the middle ages, stood a castle — 
 probably that of Peter de Montfort — and 
 from which a comprehensive and superb 
 view may be obtained, over many miles of 
 verdant meadow and bosky dell, inter- 
 spersed with red-roofed villages from which 
 the smoke of the cottage-chimneys curls 
 up in thin blue spirals under the gray
 
 l8o GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 and golden sunset sky. An old graveyard 
 encircles the church, and by its orderly 
 disorder — the quaint, graceful work of 
 capricious time — enhances the charm of its 
 venerable and storied age. There are only 
 one hundred and forty -six members of the 
 parish of Beaudesert. I was privileged to 
 speak with the aged rector, the Rev. John 
 Anthony Peason Linskill, and to view the 
 church under his kindly guidance. In the 
 ordinary course of nature it is unlikely that 
 we shall ever meet again, but his goodness, 
 his benevolent mind, and the charm of his 
 artless talk will not be forgotten.^ My walk 
 that night took me miles away — to Claver- 
 don and home by Bearley ; and all the time 
 it was my thought that the best moments 
 of our lives are those in which we are 
 touched, chastened, and ennobled by part- 
 ing and by grief. Nothing is said so often 
 as good-bye. But in the lovely words of 
 Cowper — 
 
 " The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown." 
 
 1 This venerable clergyman died in the rectory of 
 Beaudesert in April 1890, and was buried within the 
 shadow of the church that he loved.
 
 XIII. 
 
 THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN. 
 
 AMERICAN interest in Stratford-upon- 
 Avon springs out of a love for the 
 works of Shakespeare as profound and 
 passionate as that of the most sensitive and 
 reverent of the poet's countrymen. It was 
 the father of American literature — Washing- 
 ton Irving — who in modern times made the 
 first pilgrimage to that Holy Land, and set 
 the good example, which since has been 
 followed by thousands, of worship at the 
 shrine of Shakespeare. It was an American 
 — the alert and expeditious Barnum — who 
 by suddenly proposing to buy the Shake- 
 speare cottage and transfer it to America 
 startled the English into buying it for the 
 nation. It is, in part, to Americans that 
 Stratford owes the Shakespeare Memorial ; 
 for while the land on which it stands was 
 given by that public-spirited citizen of 
 Stratford, Charles Edward Flower — a sound
 
 1 82 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 and fine Shakespeare scholar, as his acting 
 edition of the plays may testify — and while 
 money to pay for the building of it was freely 
 contributed by wealthy residents of "War- 
 wickshire, and by men of all ranks through- 
 out the kingdom, the gifts and labours of 
 Americans were not lacking to that good 
 cause. Edwin Booth was one of the earliest 
 contributors to the Memorial Fund, and the 
 names of Mr. Herman Vezin, Mr. M. D. 
 Conway, Mr. W. H. Reynolds, Mrs. Bate- 
 man, and Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton 
 appear in the first list of its subscribers. 
 Miss Kate Field worked for its advance- 
 ment with remarkable energy and practical 
 success. Miss Mary Anderson acted for its 
 benefit on August 29, 1885. In the Church 
 of the Holy Trinity, where Shakespeare's 
 dust is buried, a beautiful stained window, 
 illustrative, scripturally, of that solemn 
 epitome of human life which the poet 
 gives in the speech of Jacques on the seven 
 ages of man, evinces the practical devotion 
 of the American pilgrim ; and many a 
 heart has been thrilled with reverent joy 
 to see the soft light that streams through 
 its pictured panes fall gently on the poet's 
 grave.
 
 THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN. 1 83 
 
 Wherever in Stratford you come upon 
 anything that was ever associated, even re- 
 motely, with the name and fame of Shake- 
 speare, there you will find the gracious 
 tokens of American homage. The libraries 
 of the Birthplace and of the Memorial alike 
 contain gifts of American books. New Place 
 and Anne Hathaway 's Cottage are never 
 omitted from the American traveller's round 
 of visitations and duty of practical tribute. 
 The Falcon, with its store of relics ; the 
 romantic Shakespeare Inn, with its ram- 
 bling passages, its quaint rooms named after 
 Shakespeare's characters, its antique bar 
 parlour, and the rich collection of auto- 
 graphs and pictures that has been made 
 by Mrs. Justins ; the Grammar School in 
 which no doubt the poet, " with shining 
 morning face " of boj'hood, was once a 
 pupil ; John Marshall's antiquarian work- 
 shop, from which so many of the best 
 souvenirs of Stratford have proceeded — a 
 warm remembrance of his own quaintness, 
 kindness, and originality being perhaps the 
 most precious of them ; the Town-Hall, 
 adorned with Gainsborough's eloquent por- 
 trait of Garrick, to which no engraving 
 does justice ; the Guild Chapel ; the Clop-
 
 184 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 ton Bridge ; the old Lucy Mill ; the foot- 
 path across fields and roads to Shottery, 
 bosomed in great elms ; and the ancient 
 house of many gables, four miles away, at 
 Wilmcote, which was the home of Mary 
 Arden, Shakespeare's mother, — each and 
 every one of these storied places receives in 
 turn the tribute of the wandering Ameri- 
 can, and each repays him a hundredfold in 
 charming suggestiveness of association, in 
 high thought, and in the lasting impulse 
 of sweet and soothing poetic reverie. At 
 the Red Horse Inn, where Mr. Colboume 
 maintains the traditions of old-fashioned 
 English hosf'itality, he finds his home ; well 
 pleased to muse and dream in Washington 
 Irving's Parlour, while the night deepens 
 and the clock in the distant tower murmurs 
 drowsily in its sleep. Those who will may 
 mock at his enthusiasm. He would not 
 feel it but for the spell that Shakespeare's 
 genius has cast upon the world. He ought 
 to be glad and grateful that he can feel that 
 spell ; and, since he does feel it, nothing 
 could be more natural than his desire to 
 signify that he too, though born far away 
 from the old home of his race, and separated 
 from it by three thousand miles of stormy 
 ocean, has still his part in the divine legacy
 
 THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN. 1 85 
 
 of Shakespeare, the treasure and the glory 
 of the English tongue. 
 
 A noble token of this American sentiment, 
 and a permanent object of interest to the 
 pilgrim in Stratford, is supplied by the 
 Jubilee gift of a drinking-fountain made to 
 that city by George "W. Childs of Phila- 
 delphia. It never is a surprise to hear of 
 some new instance of that good man's con- 
 stant activity and splendid generosity in 
 good works ; it is only an accustomed plea- 
 sure. With fine-art testimonials in the old 
 world as well as at home his name will 
 always be honourably associated. A few 
 years ago he presented a superb window 
 of stained glass to Westminster Abbey, 
 to commemorate, in Poets' Corner, George 
 Herbert and William Cowper. He has 
 since given to St. Margaret's Church, West- 
 minster, where John Skelton and Sir James 
 Harrington (1611-1677) were entombed, and 
 where was buried the headless body of 
 Sir Walter Raleigh, a pictorial window 
 commemorative of John Milton. His foun- 
 tain at Stratford was dedicated on October 
 17, 1887, with appropriate ceremonies con- 
 ducted by the city's Mayor, Sir Arthur 
 Hodgson of Clopton Hall, and amid general 
 rejoicing. Henry Irving, the leader of the
 
 1 86 CRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 English stage and the most illustrious of 
 English actors since the age of Garrick, 
 delivered an address, of singular felicity and 
 eloquence, and also read a poem composed 
 for the occasion by Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 The countrymen of Mr. Childs are not less 
 interested in this structure than the com- 
 munity that it was intended to honour and 
 benefit. They observe with satisfaction 
 and pride tliat he has made this beneficent, 
 beautiful, and opulent offering to a town 
 which, for all of them, is hallowed by ex- 
 alted associations, and for many of them 
 is endeared by delightful memories. They 
 sympathise also with the motive and feeling 
 that prompted him to offer his gift as one 
 among many memorials of the fiftieth year 
 of the reign of Queen Victoria. It is not 
 every man who knows how to give with 
 grace, and the good deed is " done double " 
 that is done at the right time. Stratford 
 had long been in need of such a fountain as 
 Mr. Childs has given, and therefore it satis- 
 fies a public want, at the same time that it 
 serves a purpose of ornamentation and be- 
 speaks and strengthens a bond of inter- 
 national sympathy. Rother Square, in 
 which the structure stands, is the most 
 considerable open tract in Stratford, and is
 
 THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN, 1 87 
 
 situated near the centre of the town, on the 
 west side. There, as also at the intersection 
 of High and Bridge streets, which are the 
 principal thoroughfares of the city, the 
 farmers, at stated intervals, range their 
 beasts and wagons and hold a market. It 
 is easy to foresee that Rother, embellished 
 with this monument, which combines a con- 
 venient clock-tower, a place of rest and re- 
 freshment for man, and commodious drink- 
 ing -troughs for horses, cattle, dogs, and 
 sheep, will soon become the agricultural 
 centre of the region. 
 
 The base of the monument is made of 
 Peterhead granite ; the superstructure is of 
 gray stone from Bolton, in Yorkshire. The 
 height of the tower is fifty feet. On the 
 north side a stream of water flowing con- 
 stantly from a bronze spout falls into a 
 polished granite basin. On the south side 
 a door opens into the interior. The deco- 
 rations include sculptures of the arms of 
 Great Britain alternated with the eagle and 
 stripes of the American republic. In the 
 second story of the tower, lighted by glazed 
 arches, is placed a clock, and on the out- 
 ward faces of the third story appear four 
 dials. There are four turrets surrounding 
 a central spire, each surmounted with a
 
 1 88 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 gilded vane. The inscriptions on the base 
 are these : — 
 
 I. 
 
 The gift of an American citizen, George W. Childs 
 
 of Philadelphia, to the toN\Ti of Shakespeare, 
 
 in the Jubilee year of Queen Victoria. 
 
 II. 
 In her days every man shall eat, in safety 
 Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing 
 The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. 
 God shall be truly known : and those about her 
 From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, 
 And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. 
 Henry VIII. , Act v. Scene 4. 
 
 III. 
 Honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire. 
 Timon of A thens, Act i. Scene 2. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ten thousand honours and blessings on the 
 bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life 
 with innocent illusions. — TFas7ii?2^^0H- Irving'' s 
 " Sir at ford-on- Avon.' 
 
 Stratford-upon-Avon, fortunate in many 
 things, is especially fortunate in being situ- 
 ated at a considerable distance from the 
 main line of any railway. Two railroads 
 indeed skirt the town, but both are
 
 THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIX. 1 89 
 
 branches, and travel upon them has not 
 yet become too frequent. Stratford, there- 
 fore, still retains a measure of its ancient 
 isolation, and consequently a flavour of 
 quaintness. Antique customs are still pre- 
 valent there, and odd characters may still 
 bo encountered. The current of village 
 gossip flows with incessant vigour, and 
 nothing happens in the place that is not 
 thoroughly discussed by its inhabitants. An 
 event so important as the establishment of 
 the American Fountain would excite great 
 interest throughout Warwickshire. It would 
 be pleasant to hear the talk of those old 
 cronies who drift into the bar-parlour of the 
 Red Horse on a Saturday evening, as they 
 comment on the liberal American who has 
 thus enriched and beautified their town. 
 The Red Horse circle is but one of many 
 in which the name of George W. Childs is 
 spoken with esteem and cherished with affec- 
 tion. The present writer has made many 
 visits to Stratford, and has passed much time 
 there, and he has observed on many occa- 
 sions the admiration and gratitude of the 
 Wanvickshire people for the American phil- 
 anthropist. In the library of Charles Ed- 
 ward Flow^er, at Avonbank ; in the opulent 
 gardens of Edgar Flower, on the Hill ; in the
 
 I go GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 lovely home of Alderman Bird ; at the hos- 
 pitable table of Sir Arthur Hodgson, in 
 Clopton Hall ; and in many other represen- 
 tative places, he has heard that name spoken, 
 and always with delight and honour. Time 
 will only deepen and widen the loving respect 
 with which it is hallowed. In England more 
 than anywhere else on earth the record of 
 good deeds is made permanent, not alone 
 with imperishable symbols, but in the hearts 
 of the people. The inhabitants of Warwick- 
 shire, guarding and maintaining their Strat- 
 ford Fountain, will not forget by whom 
 it was given. Wherever you go, in the 
 British Islands, you find memorials of the 
 past and of individuals who have done good 
 deeds in their time, and you also find that 
 those memorials are respected and preserved. 
 Warwickshire abounds v.ith them. Many 
 such emblems might be indicated. Each 
 one of them takes its place in the regard 
 and gradually becomes entwined with the 
 experience of the whole community. So it 
 will be with the Childs Fountain at Strat- 
 ford. The children trooping home from 
 school will drink of it and sport in its 
 shadow, and, reading upon its base the name 
 of its founder, will think with pleasure of 
 a good man's gift. It stands in the track
 
 THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN. I9I 
 
 of travel between Banbury, Shipton, Strat- 
 ford, and Birmingham, and man}^ weary men 
 and horses will pause beside it every day, 
 for a moment of refreshment and rest. 
 On festival days it v/ill be hung with gar- 
 lands, while all around it the air is glad 
 with music. And often in the long, sweet 
 gloaming of the summer times to come the 
 rower on the limpid Avon, that murmurs by 
 the ancient town of Shakespeare, will pause 
 with suspended oar to hear its silver chimes. 
 If the founder of this fountain had been 
 capable of a selfish thought he could have 
 taken no way better or more certain than 
 this for the perpetuation of his name in the 
 affectionate esteem of one of the loveliest 
 places and one of the most sedate com- 
 munities in the world. 
 
 Autumn in England— and all the country 
 ways of lovely AYarwickshire are strewn 
 ■with fallen leaves. But the cool winds are 
 sweet and bracing, the dark waters of the 
 Avon, shimmering in mellow sunlight and 
 frequent shadow, flow softly past the hal- 
 lowed church, and the reaped and gleaned 
 and empty meadows invite to many a 
 healthful ramble far and wide over the 
 country of Shakespeare. It is a good time 
 to be there. Now will the robust pedestrian
 
 192 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 make his jaunt to Charlecote Park and 
 Hampton Lucy, to Stoneleigh Abbey, to 
 \Varwick and Kenilworth, to Guy's Cliff, 
 with its weird avenue of semi-blasted trees, 
 to the Blacklow Hill — where sometimes at 
 still midnight the shuddering peasant hears 
 the ghostly funeral bell of Sir Piers Gave- 
 ston sounding ruefully from out the black 
 and gloomy woods — and to many another 
 historic haunt and high poetic shrine. All 
 the country-side is full of storied resorts 
 and cosy nooks and comfortable inns. But 
 neither now nor hereafter will it be other- 
 wise than grateful and touching to such an 
 explorer of haunted Warwickshire to see, 
 among the emblems of poetry and romance 
 which are its chief glory, this new token 
 of American sentiment and friendship, the 
 Fountain of Stratford.
 
 XIV. 
 
 BOSWORTH FIELD. 
 
 WARWICK, August 29, 18S9.— It has 
 long been the conviction of the pre- 
 sent writer that the character of Eichard 
 III. has been distorted and maligned by 
 the old historians from whose authority 
 the accepted view of it is derived. He 
 was, it is certain, a superb soldier, a wise 
 statesman, a judicious legislator, a natural 
 ruler of men, and a prince most accom- 
 plished in music and the fine arts and in 
 the graces of social life. Some of the best 
 laws that ever were enacted in England 
 were enacted during his reign. His title to 
 the throne of England was absolutely clear, 
 as against the Earl of Richmond, and but 
 for the treachery of some among his fol- 
 lowers he would have prevailed in the con- 
 test upon Bosworth Field, and would have 
 vindicated and maintained that title over 
 all opposition. He lost the battle, and he 
 was too great a man to survive the ruin of 
 N
 
 194 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 his fortunes. He threw away his life in 
 the last mad charge upon Eichmond that 
 day, and when once the grave had closed 
 over him, and his usurping cousin had 
 seized the English cro-wn, it naturally nmst 
 have become the easy as well as the politic 
 business of history to blacken his char- 
 acter. England was never ruled by a more 
 severe monarch than the austere, crafty, 
 avaricious Henry vii., and it is certain 
 that no word in praise of his predecessor 
 could have been publicly said in England 
 during Henry's reign : neither would it 
 have been safe for anybody to speak for 
 Richard and the House of York in the time 
 of Henry viii., the cruel Mary, or the illus- 
 trious Elizabeth. The drift, in fact, was 
 all the other way. The Life of Richard 
 III. by Sir Thomas More is the fountain- 
 head of the other narratives of his career, 
 and there can be no doubt that More, 
 who as a j'^outh had lived at Canterbury, in 
 the palace of Archbishop Morton, derived 
 his views of Richard from that prelate. 
 "Morton is fled to Richmond." He was 
 Bishop of Ely when he deserted the King, 
 and Henry vii. rewarded him by mak- 
 ing him Archbishop of Canterbury. No 
 man of the time was so little likely as
 
 EOSWORTH FIELD. 1 95 
 
 Morton to take an unprejudiced view of 
 Richard iii. It is the Morton view that 
 has become history. The world still looks 
 at Richard through the eyes of his victo- 
 rious foe. Moreover, the Morton view 
 has been stamped indelibly upon the imagi- 
 nation and the credulity of mankind by 
 the overwhelming and irresistible genius 
 of Shakespeare — who wrote "Richard 
 III," in the reign of the granddaughter 
 of Henry vii., and who, aside from the 
 question of discretion, saw di-amatic pos- 
 sibilities in the man of dark passions and 
 deeds that he could not have seen in a 
 more human and a more virtuous mon- 
 arch. Goodness is generally monotonous. 
 " The low sun makes the colour." It is 
 not to be supposed that King Richard 
 was a model man ; but there are good 
 reasons for thinking that he was not so 
 black as his enemies painted him ; and, 
 good or bad, he is one of the most fascinat- 
 ing personalities that history and literature 
 have made immortal. It was with no com- 
 mon emotion, therefore, that I stood ui)on 
 the summit of Ambien Hill and looked 
 downward over the ]ilain where Richard 
 fought his last fight and went gloriously to 
 his death.
 
 196 GRAY DAVS AND GOLD. 
 
 The battle of Bosworth Field was fought 
 on August 22, 1485. More than four hun- 
 dred years have passed since then : yet 
 except for the incursions of a canal and a 
 railway the aspect of that plain is but little 
 changed from what it was when Richard 
 surveyed it on that gray and sombre morn- 
 ing when he beheld the forces of Richmond 
 advancing past the marsh and knew that 
 the crisis of his life had come. The Earl 
 was pressing forward that day from Tam- 
 worth and Atherstone, which are in the 
 northern part of Warwickshire — the latter 
 being close upon the Leicestershire border. 
 His course was a little to the south-east, and 
 King Richard's forces, facing north-westerly, 
 confronted their enemies from the summit 
 of a long and gently sloping hill that extends 
 for several miles, about east and west, from 
 Market Bosworth on the right, to the 
 vicinity of Dadlington on the left. The 
 King's position had been chosen with an 
 excellent judgment that has more than 
 once, in modern times, elicited the admira- 
 tion of accomplished soldiers. His right 
 wing, commanded by Lord Stanley, rested 
 on Bosworth. His left was protected by a 
 marsh, impassable to the foe. Sir William 
 Stanley commanded the left and had his
 
 EOS WORTH FIELD. 1 97 
 
 headquarters in Dadlington, Richard rode 
 in the centre. Far to the right he saw the 
 clustered houses and the graceful spire of 
 Bosworth, and far to the left his glance 
 rested on the little church of Dadlington. 
 Below and in front of him all was open 
 field, and all across that field waved the 
 banners and sounded the trumpets of rebel- 
 lion and defiance. It is easy to imagine 
 the glowing emotions — the implacable re- 
 sentment, the passionate fury, and the 
 deadly purpose of slaughter and vengeance 
 — with which the imperious and terrible 
 monarch gazed on his approaching foes. 
 They show, in a meadow, a little way over 
 the crest of the hill, where it is marked and 
 partly covered now by a pyramidal struc- 
 ture of gray stones, suitably inscribed with 
 a few commemorative lines in Latin, a 
 spring of water at which R.ichard paused 
 to quench his thirst before he made that 
 last desperate charge on Radmore Heath, 
 when at length he knew himself betrayed 
 and abandoned, and felt that his only hope 
 lay in killing the Earl of Richmond with 
 his own hand. The fight at Bosworth was 
 not a long one. Both the Stanleys deserted 
 the Kiug's standard eai-ly in the day. It 
 was easy for them, posted as thev were, to
 
 198 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 wheel their forces into the rear of the rebel 
 army at the right and the left. Nothing 
 then remained for Richard but to rush 
 down upon the centre, where he saw the 
 banner of Richmond — borne at that moment 
 by Sir William Brandon — and to crush the 
 treason at its head. It must have been a 
 charge of tremendous impetuosity. It bove 
 the fiery king a long way forward on the 
 level plain. He struck down Brandon with 
 his own hand. He plainly saw the Earl of 
 Richmond, and came almost near enough 
 to encounter him, when a score of swords 
 were buried in his body, and, hacked almost 
 into pieces, he fell beneath heaps of the 
 slain. The place of his death is now the 
 junction of three country roads, one leading 
 north-west to Shenton, one south-west to 
 Dadlington, and one bearing away easterly 
 toward Bos worth. A little brook, called 
 Sandy Ford, flows underneath the road, and 
 there is a considerable coppice in the field 
 at the junction. Upon the peaceful sign- 
 board appear the names of Dadlington and 
 Hinckley. Not more than five hundred 
 feet distant to the eastward rises the em- 
 bankment of a branch of the Midland Rail- 
 way, from Nuneaton to Leicester ; while 
 at about the same distance to the westward
 
 BOSWORTH FIELD. 1 99 
 
 rises the similar embankment of a canal. 
 No monument has been erected to mark 
 the spot where Richard iii. was slain. 
 They took up his mangled body, threw it 
 across a horse, and carried it into the town 
 of Leicester, and there it was buried, in 
 the Church of the Gray Fx-iars — also the 
 sepulchre of Cardinal Wolsey — now a ruin. 
 The only commemorative mark upon the 
 battlefield is the pyramid at the well, and 
 that stands at a long distance from the place 
 of the King's fall. I tried to picture the 
 scene of his final charge and his frightful 
 death as I stood there upon the hillside. 
 Many little slate-coloured clouds were drift- 
 ing across a pale blue sky. A cool summer 
 breeze was sighing in the branches of the 
 neighbouring trees. The bright green sod 
 was all alive with the sparkling yellow of 
 the colt's-foot and the soft red of the clover. 
 Birds were whistling from the coppice near 
 by, and overhead the air was flecked with 
 innumerable black pimous of fugitive rooks 
 and starlings. It did not seem possible 
 that a sound of war or a deed of violence 
 could ever have intruded to break the 
 Sabbath stillness of that scene of peace. 
 
 The water of King Richard's Well is a 
 shallow pool, choked now with moss and
 
 2CX) GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 weeds. The inscription, which was written 
 by Dr. Samuel Parr, reads as follows : — 
 
 AQVA. EX. HOC. PVTEO. HAVSTA 
 
 SITIM. SEDAVIT 
 
 RICHARDVS. TERTIVS. REX. ANGLIAE 
 
 CVM HENRICO. COMITE DE RICHMONDIA 
 
 ACERRIME. ATQVE. IXGENTISSIME. PRAELIANS 
 
 ET. VITA. PARITER. AC. SCEPTRO 
 
 ANTE NOCTEM. CARITVRUS 
 
 II KAL. SEP. A. D. M.C.C.C.C.LXXXV. 
 
 There are five churches in the immediate 
 neighbourhood of Bosworth Field, all of 
 which were in one way or another associ- 
 ated with that memorable battle. Ratclifie 
 Culey Church has a low square tower and a 
 short stone spire, and there is herbage 
 growing upon its tower and its roof. It 
 is a building of the fourteenth century, 
 one mark of this period being its perpen- 
 dicular stone font, an octagon in shape, and 
 much frayed by time. In three arches 
 of its chancel, on the south side, the sculp- 
 ture shows tri-foliated forms of exceptional 
 beauty. In the east window there are 
 fragments of old glass, rich in colour and 
 quaint and singular. The churchyard is 
 full of odd gravestones, various in shape 
 and irregular in position. An ugly slate-
 
 BOSWORTH FIELD. 20I 
 
 stone is much used in Leicestershire for 
 monuments to the dead. Most of these 
 stones record modern burials, the older 
 graves being unmarked. The grass grows 
 thick and dense all over the churchyard. 
 Upon the church walls are several fine 
 specimens of those mysterious ray and 
 circle marks which have long been a puzzle 
 to the archaeological explorer. Such marks 
 are usually found in the last bay but one, 
 on the south side of the nave, toward the 
 west end of the church. On Ratcliffe Culey 
 Church they consist of central points with 
 radial lines, like a star, but these are not 
 enclosed, as often happens, with circle lines. 
 Various theories have been advanced by 
 antiquarians to account for these designs. 
 Probably these marks were cut upon the 
 churches, by the pious monks of old, as 
 emblems of eternity and of the Sun of 
 Righteousness. 
 
 Shenton Hall (1629), long and still the 
 seat of the Woollastons, stood directly in 
 the path of the combatants at Bosworth 
 Field, and the fury of the battle must have 
 raged all around it. The Hall has been re- 
 cased, and, except for its old gatehouse and 
 semi-octagon bays, which are of the Tudor 
 style, it presents a modern aspect. Its
 
 202 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 windows open towaid Radmore Plain and 
 Ambien Hill, the scene of the conflict 
 between the E.ed Rose and the White. The 
 church has been entirely rebuilt — a hand- 
 some ediiiee of crucial form, containing 
 costly pews of old oak, together with 
 interesting brasses and busts taken from the 
 old church which it has replaced. The 
 brasses commemorate Richard Coate and 
 Joyce his wife, and Richard Everard and 
 his wife, and are dated 1556, 1597, and 1616. 
 The busts are of white marble, dated 1666, 
 and are commemorative of William Wool- 
 laston and his wife, once lord and lady of 
 the manor of Shenton. It M'as the rule, :n 
 building churches, that one end should face 
 to the east and the other to the west, but 
 you frequently find an old church that is 
 set at a slightly different angle — that, 
 namely, at which the sun arose on the 
 birthday of the saint to whom the church 
 was dedicated. 
 
 Dadlington was Richard's extreme left on 
 the day of the battle and Bosworth was his 
 extreme right. These positions were in- 
 trusted to the Stanleys, both of whom be- 
 trayed their King. Sir William Stanley's 
 headquarters were at Dadlington, and traces 
 of the earthworks then thrown up there,
 
 BOSWORTH FIELD. 203 
 
 by Richard's command, are still visible. 
 Dadlington Church has almost crumbled to 
 pieces, and is to be restored. It is a little 
 low structure, with a wooden tower, 
 stuccoed walls and a tiled roof, and it 
 stands in a graveyard full of scattered 
 mounds and slate -stone monuments. It 
 was built in Norman times, and although 
 still used it has long been little better than 
 a ruin. One of the bells in its tower is 
 marked " Thomas Arnold fecit, 1763" — but 
 this is comparatively a modern touch. The 
 church contains two pointed arches, and 
 across its roof are five massive oak beams 
 almost black with age. The plaster ceiling 
 has fallen, in several places, so that patches 
 of laths are visible in the roof. The pews 
 are square, box-like structures, made of oak, 
 and very old. The altar is a plain oak 
 table, supported on carved legs, covered 
 with a cloth. On the west wall appears a 
 tablet inscribed "Thomas Eames, church- 
 warden, 1773." Many human skeletons, 
 arranged in regular tiers, were found in 
 Dadlington churchyard, when a much-be- 
 loved clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Bourne, was 
 buried, in 1881 ; and it is believed that 
 those are remains of men who fell at Bos- 
 worth Field. The only inn at this lonely
 
 204 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 place bears the quaint name of " The Dog 
 and Hedgehog." 
 
 The following queer epitaph appears upon 
 a gravestone in Dadlington churchj-ard. It 
 is Thomas Bolland, 1765, who thus expresses 
 his mind, in mortuary reminiscence : — 
 
 " I lov'd my Honour'd Parents dear, 
 I lov'd my Wife's and Children dear, 
 And hope in Heaven to meet them there. 
 I lov'd my Brothers & Sisters too, 
 And hope I shall them in Heaven view. 
 I lov'd my Vncle's, Aunt's, & Cousin's too 
 And I pray God to give my children grace 
 the same to do." 
 
 Stoke Golding church w\as built in the 
 fourteenth century. It stands now, a gray 
 and melancholy relic of other days, strange 
 and forlorn, yet august and stately, in a 
 little brick village, the streets of which 
 are paved, like those of a city, with blocks 
 of stone. It is regarded as one of the best 
 specimens extant of the decorated style of 
 early English ecclesiastical architecture. 
 It has a fine tower and spire, and it consists 
 of nave, chantry, and south aisle. There is 
 a perforated parapet on one side, but not on 
 the other. The walls of the nave and the 
 chancel are continuous. The pinnacles, 
 though decayed, show that they must have
 
 BOS WORTH FIELD. 205 
 
 been beautifully carved. One of the deco- 
 rative pieces upon one of them is a rabbit 
 with his ears laid back. Lichen and grass 
 are growing on the tower and on the walls. 
 The roof is of oak, the mouldings of the 
 arches are exceptionally graceful, and the 
 capitals of the five main columns present, in 
 marked diversity, carvings of faces, flowers, 
 and leaves. The tomb of the founder is on 
 the north side, and the stone pavement is 
 everywhere lettered with inscriptions of 
 burial. There is a fine mural brass, bearing 
 the name of Brokesley, 1633, and a superb 
 *' stocke chest," 1636 ; and there is a 
 sculptured font, of exquisite symmetry. 
 Some of the carving upon the oak roof is 
 more grotesque than decorative — but this is 
 true of most other carving to be found in 
 ancient churches ; such, for example, as 
 you may see under the miserere seats in 
 the chancel of the Holy Trinity at Strat- 
 ford-upon-Avon. There was formerly some 
 beautiful old stained glass in the east win- 
 dow of Stoke Golding Church, but this has 
 disappeared. A picturesque stone slab, set 
 upon the church wall outside, arrests at- 
 tention by its pleasing shape, its venerable 
 aspect, and its decayed lettering ; the date 
 is 1684. Many XJersons slain at Bosworth
 
 206 GRAY DAYS A^^D GOLD. 
 
 Field were buried in Stoke Golding church- 
 yard, and over their nameless graves the 
 long grass is waving in indolent luxuriance 
 and golden light. So Nature hides waste 
 and forgets pain. Near to this village is 
 Crown Hill, where the crown of England 
 was taken from a hawthorn bush, whereon 
 it had been cast in the frenzied confusion of 
 defeat, after the battle of Bosworth was 
 over and the star of King Richard had been 
 quenched in death. Crown Hill is a green 
 meadow now, withoutdistinguishing feature, 
 except that two large trees, each having a 
 double trunk, are growing in the middle of 
 it. Not distant from this historic spot 
 stands Higham-on-the-Hill, where there is 
 a fine church, remarkable for its Norman 
 tower. From this village the view is 
 magnificent— embracing all that section of 
 Leicestershire which is thus haunted with 
 memories of King Richard and of the 
 carnage that marked the final conflict of 
 the white and red roses.
 
 XV. 
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 LICHFIELD, Staffordshire, July 31, 
 1890. — To a man of letters there is no 
 name in the long annals of English litera- 
 ture more interesting and significant than 
 the name of Samuel Johnson. It has been 
 truly said that no other man was ev^er sub- 
 jected to such a light as Boswell threw 
 upon Johnson, and that few other men 
 could have endured it so well. He was 
 many things that are noble, but for all 
 men of letters he is especially noble as the 
 champion of literature. He vindicated the 
 profession of letters. He lived by his pen. 
 and he taught the great world, once for 
 all, that it is honourable so to live. That 
 lesson was needed in the England of his 
 period ; and from that period onward the 
 literary vocation has steadily been held in 
 higher esteem than it enjoyed up to that 
 time. You will not be surprised that one 
 of the humblest of his followers should
 
 208 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 linger for a while in the ancient town 
 that is glorified by association with his 
 illustrious name, or should wish to send a 
 word of fealty and homage from the birth- 
 place of Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Lichfield is a cluster of rather dingy 
 streets and of red-brick and stucco build- 
 ings, lying in a vale a little northward 
 from Birmingham, diversified by a couple 
 of artificial lakes, and glorified by one of 
 the loveliest churches in Europe. Without 
 its church the town would be nothing ; 
 with its church it is everything. Lichfield 
 Cathedral, although an ancient structure -- 
 dating back, indeed, to the early part of 
 the twelfth century — has been so sorely 
 battered first and last, and so considerably 
 "restored," that it presents the aspect 
 of a building almost modern. The denote- 
 ments of antiquity, however, are not en- 
 tirely absent from it, and altogether it is 
 not less venerable than majestic. No one 
 of the cathedrals of England presents a 
 more beautiful facade. The multitudinous 
 statues of saints and kings that are upon it 
 create an impression of royal opulence. The 
 carving upon the recesses of the great door- 
 ways on the north and west is of astonish-
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON. 209 
 
 ing variety and loveliness. The massive 
 doors of dark oak, fretted with ironwork of 
 rare delicacy, are impressive, and altogether 
 are suitable for such an edifice. Seven of 
 the large gothic windows in the chancel are 
 filled with genuine old glass — not, indeed, 
 the glass that they originally contained, 
 for that was smashed by the Puritan 
 fanatics and ruffians, but a great quantity 
 (no less than at least 340 pieces, each about 
 twenty-two inches square) made in Ger- 
 many in the early part of the sixteenth 
 century when the art of staining glass was 
 at its summit of skill. This treasure was 
 given to the Cathedral by a liberal friend, 
 Sir Brooke Boothby, who had obtained it 
 by purchase, in 1802, from the dissolved 
 Abbey of Herckenrode. No such colour as 
 that old glass presents can be seen in the 
 glass that is manufactured now. It is imi- 
 tated indeed, but it does not last. The sub- 
 jects portrayed in those sumptuous windows 
 are mostly scriptural, but the centre window 
 on the north side of the chancel is devoted 
 to portraits of noblemen, one of them beinf, 
 Errard de la Marck, who was enthroned 
 Bishop of Liege in 1505, and who, toward 
 tlie end of his stormy life, adopted the old 
 o
 
 2IO GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Roman motto — comprehensive and final — 
 which, a little garbled, appears in the glass 
 beneath his heraldic arms : — 
 
 Decipimiis votis ; et tempore fallimur ; 
 Et Mors deridet curas ; anxia vita nihil. 
 
 The father of the illustrious Joseph 
 Addison was Dean of this Cathedral from 
 16S8 to 1703, and his remains are buried 
 in the ground, near the west door. The 
 stately Latin epitaph was written by his 
 son. This and several other epitaphs here 
 attract the interested attention of literary 
 students. A tablet on the north wall, in 
 the porch, commemorates the courage and 
 sagacity of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 
 who introduced into England the practice 
 of inoculation for the smallpox. Anna 
 Seward, the poet, who died in 1809, aged 
 sixty-six, and who was one of the friends 
 of Dr. Johnson, was buried and is comme- 
 morated here, and the fact that she placed 
 a tablet here in memory of her father is 
 celebrated in sixteen eloquent and felicitous 
 lines by Sir Walter Scott. The father was 
 a canon of Lichfield, and died in 1790. The 
 reader of Boswell will not fail to remark 
 the epitaph on Gilbert Walmesley, once 
 registrar of the ecclesiastical court of Lich-
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON. 211 
 
 field, and one of Dr. Johnson's especial 
 friends. Of Chappel Woodhouse it is sig- 
 nificantly said, upon his memorial stone, 
 that he was " lamented most by those who 
 knew him best." Here one sees two of the 
 best works of Chantrey — one called "The 
 Sleeping Children," erected in 1817, in me- 
 mory of the two young daughters of the 
 Rev. William Robinson ; the other a kneel- 
 ing figure of Bishop Ryder, who died in 
 1836. The former was one of the earliest 
 triumphs of Chantrey — an exquisite sem- 
 blance of sleeping innocence and heavenly 
 purity — and the latter was his last. Near 
 by is placed one of the most sumptuous monu- 
 ments in England, a recumbent statue, done 
 by the master-hand of Watts, the painter, 
 presenting Bishop Lonsdale, who died in 
 1867. This figure, in which the modelling 
 is very beautiful and expressive, rests upon 
 a bed of marble and alabaster. In Chan- 
 trey's statue of Bishop Ryder, which seems 
 no etHgy but indeed the living man, there 
 is marvellous perfection of drapery — the 
 marble having the effect of flowing silk. 
 Here also, in the south transept, is the urn 
 of the Gastrells, formerly of Stratford-on- 
 Avon, to whom was due the destruction 
 (1757) of the house of New Place in which
 
 212 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Shakespeare died. No mention occurs in 
 the epitaph of the Rev. Mr. Gastrell him- 
 self, but copious enlogium is lavished on his 
 widow, both in verse and prose, who must 
 indeed have been a good woman if the line 
 is true which describes her as "A friend to 
 want when each false friend withdrew." 
 Her chief title to remembrance, however, 
 like that of her husband, is an unhallowed 
 association with one of the most sacred of 
 literary shrines. In 1776 Johnson, accom- 
 panied by Bos well, visited Lichfield, and 
 Boswell records that they dined with Mrs. 
 < iastrell and her sister Mrs. Aston. The 
 Rev. Mr. Gastrell was then dead. " I was 
 not informed till afterward," says Boswell, 
 "that Mrs. Gasti-ell's husband was the 
 clergyman who, while he lived at Stratford- 
 upon-Avon, with Gothic barbarity cut down 
 Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, and as Dr. 
 Johnson told me, did it to vex his neigh- 
 bours. His lady, I have reason to believe, 
 on the same authority, participated in the 
 guilt of what the enthusiasts of our immor- 
 tal bard deem almost a species of saci'ilege."" 
 The destruction of the house followed close 
 upon that of the tree, and to both their 
 deaths the lady was doubtless accessary. 
 Upon the ledge of a casement on the east
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON. 213 
 
 side of the chancel, separated by the central 
 lancet of a threefold window, stand the 
 marble busts of Samuel Johnson and David 
 Garrick. Side by side they went through 
 life ; side by side tlieir ashes repose in the 
 great abbey at Westminster ; and side by 
 side they are commemorated here. Both 
 the busts were made by Westmacott, and 
 obviously each is a portrait. The head of 
 Johnson appears without his customary wig. 
 The colossal individuality of the man plainly 
 declares itself in form and pose, in every 
 line of the eloquent face and in the superb 
 dignity of the figure and the action. This 
 work was based on a cast taken after death, 
 and this undoubtedly is Johnson's self. The 
 head is massive, yet graceful, denoting a 
 compact brain and great natural refinement 
 of intellect. The brow is indicative of un- 
 common sweetness. The eyes are finely 
 shaped. The nose is prominent, long, and 
 slightly aquiline, with wide and sensitive 
 nostrils. The mouth is lai'ge, and the lips 
 are slightly parted, as if in speech. Pro- 
 digious perceptive faculties are shown in 
 the sculpture of the forehead — a feature 
 that is characteristic, in even a greatci- 
 degree, of the bust of Garrick. The total 
 expression of the countenance is benignant,
 
 214 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 yet troubled and rueful. It is a thought- 
 ful and venerable face, and yet it is the 
 passionate face of a man who has passed 
 through many storms of self- conflict and 
 been much ravaged by spiritual pain. The 
 face of Garrick, on the contrary, is eager, 
 animated, triumphant, happy, showing a 
 nature of absolute simplicity, a sanguine 
 temperament, and a mind that tempests 
 may have ruffled but never convulsed. 
 Garrick kept his " storm and stress " for 
 his tragic performances ; there was no par- 
 ticle of it in his personal experience. It 
 was good to see these old friends thus 
 associated in the beautiful church that they 
 knew and loved in the sweet days when their 
 friendship had just begun and their labours 
 and their honours were all before them. I 
 placed myself where, during the service, I 
 could look upon both the busts at once ; and 
 presently, in the deathlike silence, after the 
 last amen of ev^ensong had died away, I could 
 well believe that those familiar figures were 
 kneeling beside me, as so often they must 
 have knelt beneath this glorious and vener- 
 able roof : and for one worshipper at least 
 the beams of the westering sun, that made a 
 solemn splendour through the church, illu- 
 mined visions no mortal eyes could see.
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON. 2l5 
 
 Beneath the bust of Johnson, upon a 
 stone slab affixed to the wall, appears this 
 inscription : — 
 
 The friends of SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D., a 
 native of Lichfield, erected this monument as a 
 tribute of respect to the memory of a man of 
 extensive learning, a distinguished moral writer 
 and a sincere Christian. He died the 13th of 
 December, 1784, aged 75 years. 
 
 A similar stone beneath the bust of Gar- 
 rick is inscribed as follows : — 
 
 Eva Maria, relict of DAVID GARRICK, Esq., 
 caused this monument to be erected to the me- 
 mory of her beloved husband, who died the 20th 
 of January 1779, aged 63 years. He had not only 
 the amiable qualities of private life, but such 
 astonishing dramatick talents as too well veri- 
 fied the observation of his friend. " His death 
 eclipsed the gayety of nations and impoverished 
 the publick stock of harmless pleasure." 
 
 This "observation" is the well-known 
 statement of Johnson, who, however much 
 he may have growled about Garrick, always 
 loved him and deeply mourned for him. 
 These memorials of an author and an actor 
 are not rendered the more impressive by 
 being surmounted, as at present they are
 
 21 b GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 in Lichfield Cathedral, with old battle-flags 
 — commemorative souvenirs of the SOth 
 Regiment, Staffordshire volunteers — hon- 
 ourable and interesting relics in their place, 
 but inappropriate to the effigies of Johnson 
 and Garrick. 
 
 The house in which Johnson was born 
 stands at the corner of Market Street and 
 Breadmarket Street, facing the little Market 
 Place of Lichfield. It is an antiquated 
 building, three stories in height, having a 
 long, peaked roof. The lower story is re- 
 cessed, so that the entrance is sheltered by 
 a pent. Its two doors — for the structure 
 now consists of two tenements — are ap- 
 proached by low stone steps, guarded by an 
 iron rail. There are ten windows, five in 
 each row, in the front of the upper stories. 
 The pent-roof is supported by three sturdy 
 pillars. The house has a front of stucco. 
 A bill in one of the lower windows certifies 
 that now this house is "To Let.'" Here 
 old Michael Johnson kept his bookshop, in 
 the days of good Queen Anne, and from this 
 door young Samuel Johnson went forth to 
 his school and his play. The whole various, 
 pathetic, impressive story of his long, labori- 
 ous, sturdj', beneficent life drifts through 
 your mind as you stand at this threshold
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON. 21 7 
 
 and conjure up the pictures rif the past. 
 Opposite to the house, and facing it, is the 
 -tatue of Jolinson presented to Lichfield in 
 lbo8 by James Thomas Low, then Chan- 
 cellor of the diocese. On the sides of 
 its massive pedestal are sculptures, show- 
 ing first the boy, bonie on his father's 
 shoulders, listening to the preaching of Dr. 
 Sacheverell ; then the youth, victorious in 
 school, carried aloft in triumph by his ad- 
 miring comrades ; and, finally, the renowned 
 scholar and author, in the meridian of his 
 greatness, standing bareheaded in the mar- 
 ket-place of Uttoxeter, doing penance for 
 his undutiful refusal, when a lad, to relieve 
 his weary, infirm father in the work of 
 tending the bookstall at that place. Every 
 one knows that touching story, and no one 
 who thinks of it when standing here will 
 gaze with any feeling but that of reverence, 
 commingled with the wish to lead a true 
 and simple life, upon the noble, thoughtful 
 face and figure of the great moralist, who 
 now seems to look down with benediction 
 upon the scenes of his innocent and happy 
 youth. The statue, which is in striking 
 contrast with tlie humble birtli]) ace, points 
 the expressive moral of a splendid career. 
 No tablet has yet been placed on the house
 
 2l8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 in which Johnson was born. Perhaps it is 
 not needed. Yet surely this place, if any 
 place on earth, ought to be preserved and 
 protected as a literary shrine. Johnson 
 was not a great creative poet ; neither a 
 Shakespeare, a Dryden, a Byron, or a 
 Tennyson ; but he was one of the most 
 massive and majestic characters in English 
 literature. A superb example of self-con- 
 quest and moral supremacy, a mine of 
 extensive and diversified learning, an intel- 
 lect remarkable for deep penetration and 
 broad and sure grasp of the greatest sub- 
 jects, he exerted, as few men have ever 
 exerted, the original, elemental force of 
 genius ; and his immortal legacy to his 
 fellow-men was an abiding influence for 
 good. The world is better and happier 
 because of him, and because of the many 
 earnest characters and honest lives that his 
 example has inspired ; and this cradle of 
 greatness ought to be saved and marked for 
 every succeeding generation as long as time 
 endures. 
 
 One of the interesting features of Lich- 
 field is an inscription that vividly recalls the 
 ancient strife of Roundhead and Cavalier, 
 two centuries and a half ago. This is found 
 upon a stone scutcheon, set in the wall over
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 219 
 
 the door of the house that is No. 24 Dam 
 Street, and these are its words: — "March 
 2d, 1643, Lord Brooke, a General of the 
 Parliament Forces preparing to Besiege the 
 Close of Lichfield, then garrisoned For King 
 Charles the First, Received his death- 
 wound on the spot Beneath this Inscription, 
 By a shot in the forehead from Mr. Dyott, 
 a gentleman who had placed himself on the 
 Battlements of the great steeple, to annoy 
 the Besiegers." One of them he must 
 have " annoyed " seriously. It was "a long 
 shot, Sir Lucius," for, standing on the 
 place of that catastrophe and looking up to 
 "the battlements of the great steeple," it 
 seemed to have covered a distance of nearly 
 four hundred feet. Other relics of those 
 Roundhead wars were shown in the Cathe- 
 dral, in an ancient room now used for the 
 Bishop's Consistory Court — these being two 
 cannon-balls ( fourteen-pound ers) and the 
 ragged and rusty fragments of a shell that 
 were dug out of the ground near the church 
 a few years ago. Many of these practical 
 tokens of Puritan zeal have been discovered. 
 Lichfield Cathedral Close, in the time of 
 Bishop Walter de Langton, who died in 
 1321, was surrounded Avith a wall and fosse, 
 and thereafter whenever the wars came it
 
 2 20 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 was used as a fortification. In the Stuart 
 times it was often besieged. Sir John Gell 
 succeeded Lord Brooke, when the latter had 
 been shot by Mr. Dyott — who is said to have 
 been ' ' deaf and dumb, " but who certainly 
 was not blind. The Close was surrendered 
 on March 5, 1643, and thereupon the Parlia- 
 mentary victors, according to their ruthless 
 and brutal custom, straightway ravaged the 
 church, tearing the brasses from the tombs, 
 breaking the etfigies, and utterly despoiling 
 beauty which it had taken generations of 
 pious zeal and loving devotion to create. 
 The great spire was battered down by those 
 vandals, and in falling it wrecked the 
 chapter-house. The noble church, indeed, 
 was made a ruin— and so it remained till 
 1661, when its munificent benefactor, Bishop 
 Hackett, began its restoration, now happily 
 almost complete. Prince Rupert captured 
 Lichfield Close for the King in April 1643, 
 and General Lothian recovered it for the 
 Parliament in the summer of 1646, after 
 which time it was completely dismantled. 
 Charles i. came to this place after the 
 fatal battle of Xaseby, and sad enough 
 that picturesque, vacillating, shortsighted, 
 beatific aristocrat must have been, gazing 
 over the green fields of Lichfield, to know —
 
 THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON. 221 
 
 as surely even he must then have known — 
 that his cause was doomed, if not entirely 
 lost. 
 
 It will not take you long to traverse 
 Lichfield, and you may ramble all around it 
 through little green lanes between hedge- 
 rows. This you will do if you are wise, for 
 the walk, especially at evening, is peaceful 
 and lovely. The wanderer never gets far 
 away from the Cathedral. Those three 
 superb spires steadily dominate the scene, 
 and each new view of them seems fairer 
 than the last. All around this little city 
 the fields are richly green, and many trees 
 diversify the prospect. Pausing to rest 
 awhile in the mouldering graveyard of old 
 St. Chad's, I saw the rooks flocking home- 
 ward to the great tree-tops not far away, 
 and heard their many querulous, sagacious, 
 humorous croakings, while over the dis- 
 tance, borne upon the mild and fragrant 
 evening breeze, floated the solemn note of a 
 warning bell from the minster tower, as the 
 shadows deepened and the night came 
 down. Scenes like this sink deep into the 
 heart, and memory keeps them for ever.
 
 XVI. 
 
 FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 EDINBURGH, September 9, 1889. — 
 Scotland again, and never more beauti- 
 ful than now ! The harvest moon is shining 
 upon the grim old castle, and the bagpipes 
 are playing under my windows to-night. 
 It has been a lovely day. The train roiled 
 out of King's Cross, London, at ten this morn- 
 ing, and it rolled into Waverley, Edinburgh, 
 about seven to-night. The trip by the Great 
 Northern Railway is one of the most inte- 
 resting journeys that can be made in England. 
 At first indeed the scenery is not striking ; 
 but even at first you are whirled past spots 
 of exceptional historic and literary interest 
 — among them the battlefield of Barnet, 
 and the old church and graveyard of Horn- 
 sey where Tom Moore buried his little 
 daughter Barbara, and where the venerable 
 poet Samuel Rogers sleeps the last sleep. 
 Soon these are gone, and presently, dashing 
 through a flat country, you get a clear view
 
 FROM LONDOlSr TO EDINBURGH. 223 
 
 of Peterborough Cathedral, massive, dark, 
 and splendid, with its graceful cone-shaped 
 pinnacles, its vast square central tower, its 
 lofty spire, and the three great pointed and 
 recessed arches that adorn its west front. 
 This church contains the dust of Queen 
 Katherine, the Spanish wife of Henry viii. , 
 who died at Kimbolton Castle, Hunting- 
 donshire, in 1535, and there the remains 
 of Mary Stuart were first buried (1587), 
 — resting there a long time before her son, 
 James I., conveyed them to Westminster 
 Abbey. Both those queens were buried 
 by one and the same gravedigger — that 
 famous sexton, Old Scarlett, whose portrait 
 is, or was, in the cathedral, and who died 
 July 2, 1591, aged ninety-eight. 
 
 The country is so level that the receding 
 towers of Peterborough remain for a long 
 time in sight, but soon, — as the train speeds 
 through pastures of clover and through 
 fields of green and red and yellow herbage, 
 divided by glimmering hedges and diversi- 
 fied with red-roofed villages and gray church - 
 towers, — the land grows hilly, and long white 
 roads are visible stretching away like bands 
 of silver over the lonely hill-tops. Figures 
 of gleaners are seen, now and then, scattered 
 through fields whence the harvest has lately
 
 224 GRAY DATS AXD GOLD. 
 
 been gathered. Sheep are feeding in the 
 pastures, and cattle are coiiched under 
 fringes of woods. The bright emerald of 
 the sod sparkles with the golden yellow of 
 the colt's-foot, and sometimes the scarlet 
 waves of the poppy come tumbling into the 
 plain like a cataract of fire. Windmills 
 spread their whirling sails upon the summits 
 round about, and over the nestling ivy-clad 
 cottages and over the stately trees there are 
 great flights of rooks. A gray sky broods 
 above, faintly suffused with sunshine, but 
 there is no glare and no heat, and often the 
 wind is laden with a fragrance of wild- 
 flowers and of hay. 
 
 It is noon at Grantham, where there is 
 just time enough to see that this is a flourish- 
 ing city of red-brick houses and fine spa- 
 cious streets, with a lofty, spired church, 
 and far away eastward a high line of hills. 
 Historic Newark is presently reached and 
 passed — a busj^ contented town, smiling 
 through the sunshine and mist, and as it 
 fades in the distance I remember that we 
 are leaving Lincoln, with its glorious Cathe- 
 dral, to the south-east, and to the westward 
 Newstead Abbey, Annesley, Southwell, and 
 Hucknall-Torkard — places memorably asso- 
 ciated with the poet Byron, and dear to the
 
 FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH. 225 
 
 heart of every lover of poetic literature. 
 At Markham the country is exceedingly 
 pretty, with woods and hills over which 
 multitudes of rooks and starlings are in full 
 career, dark, rapid, and garrulous. About 
 Bawtry the land is flat, and flat it continues 
 to be until we have sped a considerable way 
 beyond York. But in the meantime we 
 flash through opulent Doncaster, famed for 
 manufactories and for horse-races, rosy and 
 active amid the bright green fields. There 
 are not many trees in this region, and as we 
 draw near Selby — a large red-brick city 
 upon the banks of a broad river — its massive 
 old church-tower looms conspicuous under 
 smoky skies. In the outskirts of this town 
 there are cosy houses clad with ivy, in 
 which the pilgrim might well be pleased to 
 linger. But there is no pause, and in a 
 little while magnificent York bursts upon 
 the view, stately and glorious, under a 
 black sky that is full of driving clouds. 
 The Minster stands out like a mountain, 
 and the giant towers rear themselves in 
 solemn majesty — the grandest piece of 
 church architecture in England ! The brim- 
 ming Ouse shines as if it were a stream of 
 liquid ebony. The meadows around the 
 city glow like living emeralds, while the 
 P
 
 226 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 harvest-fields are stored and teeming with 
 stacks of golden grain. Great flights of 
 startled doves people the air — as white as 
 snow under the sable fleeces of the driving 
 storm. I had seen York under difi"erent 
 guises, but never before under a sky at once 
 so sombre and so romantic. 
 
 We bear toward Thirsk now, leaving 
 behind us, westward of our track, old 
 Ripon, in the distance, memorable for many 
 associations, and cherished in theatrical 
 annals as the place of the death and burial 
 of the distinguished founder of the Jefferson 
 family of actors. Bleak Haworth is not far 
 distant, and remembrance of it prompts many 
 reverent thoughts of the strange genius of 
 Charlotte Bronte. Darlington is the next 
 important place, a towTi of manufacture, 
 conspicuous for its tall, smoking chimneys 
 and evidently prosperous. This is the land 
 of stone walls and stone cottages — the grim 
 precinct of Durham. The country is culti- 
 vated, but rougher than the Midlands, and 
 the essentially diversified character of this 
 small island is once again impressed upon 
 your mind. All through this region there 
 are little white-walled houses with red roofs. 
 At Ferry Hill the scenery changes again and 
 becomes American — a mass of rocky gorges
 
 FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH. 227 
 
 and densely wooded ravines. All trace of 
 storm has vanished by this time, and when, 
 after a brief interval of eager expectation, 
 the noble towers of Durham Cathedral 
 sweep into the prospect, that superb monu- 
 ment of ancient devotion, together with all 
 the dark gray shapes of that pictorial city 
 — so magnificently placed, in an abrupt 
 precipitous gorge, on both sides of the 
 brimming Weir — are seen under a sky of 
 the softest Italian blue, dappled with white 
 clouds of drifting fleece. Durham is all too 
 quickly passed — fading away in a landscape 
 sweetly mellowed by a faint blue mist. 
 Then stately rural mansions are seen, half 
 hidden among great trees. Wreaths of 
 smoke curl upward from scattered dwellings 
 all around the circle of the hills. Each 
 distant summit is seen to be crowned with 
 a tower or a town. A fine castle springs 
 into view just before Birtley glances by, 
 and we see that this is a place of woodlands, 
 piquant with a little of the roughness of 
 unsophisticated nature. But the scene 
 changes suddenly, as in a theatre, and 
 almost in a moment the broad and teeming 
 Tyne blazes beneath the scorching summer 
 sun, and the gray houses of Gateshead and 
 Newcastle fill the picture with life and
 
 228 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 motion. The waves glance and sparkle — 
 a wide plain of shimmering silver. The 
 stream is alive with shipping. There is 
 movement everywhere, and smoke and 
 industry and traffic — and doubtless noise, 
 though we are on a height and cannot hear 
 it. A busier scene could not be found in 
 all this land, nor one more strikingly 
 representative of the industrial character 
 and interests of England. 
 
 After leaving Newcastle we glide past a 
 gentle, winding ravine, thickly wooded on 
 both its sides, with a bright stream glancing 
 in its depth. The meadows all around are 
 green, fresh, and smiling, and soon our road 
 skirts by beautiful Morpeth, bestriding a 
 dark and lovely river and crouched in a 
 bosky dell. At Widdrington the land 
 shelves downward, the trees become sparse, 
 and you catch a faint glimpse of the sea — 
 the broad blue wilderness of the Northern 
 Ocean. From this point onward the pano- 
 rama is one of perfect and unbroken loveli- 
 ness. Around you are spacious meadows 
 of fern, diversified with clumps of fir-trees, 
 and the sweet wind that blows upon your 
 face seems glad and buoj^ant with its 
 exultant vitality. At Warkworth Castle 
 the ocean view is especially magnificent —
 
 FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH. 229 
 
 the brown and red sails of the ships and 
 various craft descried at sea contributing 
 to the prospect a lovely element of pictur- 
 esque character. Alnwick, with its storied 
 associations of "the Percy out of North- 
 umberland," is left to the westward, while 
 on the east the romantic village of Aln- 
 mouth wooes the traveller with an irresist- 
 ible charm. No one who has once seen that 
 exquisite place can ever be content without 
 seeing it again — and yet there is no greater 
 wisdom in the conduct of life than to avoid 
 for ever a second sight of any spot where 
 you have once been happj''. This village, 
 with its little lighthouse and graceful 
 steeple, is built upon a promontory in the 
 sea, and is approached over the sands by a 
 long, isolated road across a bridge of four 
 fine arches. All the country-side in this 
 region is rich. At Long Houghton a grand 
 church uprears its vast square tower, lonely 
 and solemn in its place of gi-aves. Royal 
 Berwick comes next, stately and serene 
 upon its ocean crag, with the white-crested 
 waves curling on its beach and the glad 
 waters of the Tweed kissing the fringes of 
 its sovereign mantle as they rush into the 
 sea. The sun is sinking now, and over the 
 many-coloured meadows, red and brown and
 
 230 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 golden and green, the long, thin shadows 
 of the trees slope eastward and softly hint 
 the death of day. The sweet breeze of 
 evening stirs the long grasses, and on many 
 a gray stone house shakes the late pink and 
 yellow roses and makes the ivy tremble. It 
 is Scotland now, and as we pass through the 
 storied Border we keep the ocean almost con- 
 stantly in view — losing it for a little while 
 at Dunbar, but finding it again at Drem 
 — till, past the battlefield of Prestonpans, 
 and past the quaint villages of Cockenzie 
 and Musselburgh and the villas of Portobello, 
 we come slowly to a pause in the shadow of 
 Arthur's Seat, where the great lion crouches 
 over the glorious city of Edinburgh.
 
 XVII. 
 
 INTO THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 LOCH AWE, September 14, 1889.- 
 Under a soft gray sky, and through 
 fields that still are slumbering in the early 
 morning mist, the train rolls out of Edin- 
 burgh, bound to the north. The wind blows 
 gently ; the air is cool ; strips of thin, fleecy 
 cloud are driving over the distant hill-tops, 
 and the birds are flying low. The track is 
 by Queensferry, and in that region many 
 little low stone cottages are seen, suri'ounded 
 with simple gardens of flowers. For a long 
 time the train runs through a deep ravine, 
 with rocky banks on either hand, but 
 presently it emerges into pastures where the 
 sheep are grazing, and into fields in which 
 the late harvest stands garnered in many 
 graceful sheaver;. Tall chimneys, vigorously 
 smoking, are visible here and there in 
 the distant landscape. The fat, black rooks 
 are taking their morning flight, clamouring 
 as they go. Stone houses with red roofs
 
 232 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 glide into the picture, and a graceful church- 
 spire rises on a remote hill-top. In all 
 directions there are trees, but they seem of 
 recent gro\\'th, for no one of them is large. 
 Soon the old cattle-market town of Falkirk 
 springs up in the prospect, girt with fine 
 hills and crested with masses of white and 
 black smoke tliat is poured upward from the 
 many tall chimneys of its busy ironworks. 
 The houses here are made of gray stone and 
 of red brick, and many of them are large, 
 square buildings, seemingly commodious and 
 opulent. A huge cemetery, hemmed in with 
 trees and shi'ubs, is seen to skirt the city. 
 Carron river, wnth its tiny but sounding 
 cataract, is presently passed, and at Larbert 
 your glance rests lovingly upon "the little 
 gray church on the windy hill." North of 
 this place, beyond the Forth, the country in 
 the distance is mountainous, while all the 
 intermediate region is rich with liarvest- 
 fields. Kinnaird lies to the eastward, while 
 northward a little way is the famous field 
 of Bannockburn. Two miles more and the 
 train pauses in "gray Stirling," glorious 
 with associations of historic splendour and 
 ancient romance. The Castle of Stirling is 
 not as ruggedly grand as that of Edinburgh, 
 but it is a noble architectural pile, and it is
 
 INTO THE HIGHLANDS. 233 
 
 nobly placed on a great crag fronting the 
 vast mountains and the gloomy heavens of 
 the North. The best view of it is obtained 
 looking at it southward, and as I gazed 
 upon it, under the cold and frowning sky, 
 the air was populous with many birds that 
 circled around its cone-shaped turrets, and 
 hovered over the plain below, while across 
 the distant mountain-tops, east, west, and 
 north, dark and ragged masses of mist were 
 driven in wild, tempestuous flight. Speed- 
 ing onward now, along the southern bank 
 of the Forth, the traveller takes a westerly 
 course, past Gargunnock and Kippen, see- 
 ing little villages of gray stone cottages 
 nestled in the hill-gaps, distant mountain- 
 sides, clad with furze, dark jjatches of 
 woodland, and moors of purple heather com- 
 mingled with meadows of brilliant green. 
 The sun breaks out, for a few moments, 
 and the sombre hue of the gray sky is light- 
 ened with streaks of gold. At Bucklyvie 
 there is a second pause, and then the course 
 is north-west, through bauks and braes of 
 heather, to peaceful Aberfoyle and the 
 mountains of Menteith. 
 
 The characteristic glory of the Scottish 
 hills is the inlinite variety and beauty 
 of their shapes, and the loveliness of their
 
 234 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 colour. The English mountains and lakes 
 in Westmoreland and Cumberland possess 
 a sweeter and softer grace, and are more 
 calmly and wooingly beautiful ; but the 
 Scottish mountains and lakes excel them in 
 grandeur, majesty, and romance. It would 
 be presumption to undertake to describe 
 the solemn austerity, the lofty and lonely 
 magnificence, the bleak, weird, haunted 
 isolation, and the fairy-like fantasy of this 
 poetic realm ; but a lover of it may de- 
 clare his passion and speak his sense of its 
 enthralling and bewitching charm. Sir 
 Walter Scott's spirited and trenchant lines 
 on the emotion of the patriot sang them- 
 selves over and over in my thought, and 
 were wholly and grandl}'- ratified, as the coach 
 rolled up the mountain road, ever climbing 
 height after height, while new and ever new 
 prospects continually unrolled themselves 
 before delighted eyes, on the familiar but 
 always novel journey from Aberfoyle to 
 the Trosachs. That mountain road, on its 
 iipward course, and during most part of the 
 way, winds through ti'eeless pastureland, 
 and in every direction, as your vision ranges, 
 j^ou behold other mountains equally bleak, 
 save for the bracken and the heather, 
 among which the sheep wander and the
 
 INTO THE HIGHLANDS. 235 
 
 grouse nestle in concealment, or whir away 
 on frightened wings. Ben Lomond, wrapt 
 in straggling mists, was dimly visible far 
 to the west ; Ben A'an towered conspicuous 
 in the foreground ; and further north Ben 
 Ledi heaved its broad mass and rugged 
 sides to heaven. Loch Vennacher, seen for 
 a few moments, shone like a diamond set in 
 emeralds, and as we gazed we seemed to see 
 the bannered barges of Roderick Dhu and 
 to hear the martial echoes of " Hail to the 
 Chief." Loch Achray glimmered forth for an 
 instant under the gray sky, as when "the 
 small birds would not sing aloud " and the 
 wrath equally of tempest and of war hung 
 silently above it in one awful moment of sus- 
 pense. There was a sudden and dazzling 
 vision of Loch Katrine, and then all prospect 
 was broken, and, rolling down among the 
 thickly wooded dwarf hills that give the name 
 of Trosachs to this jjlace, we were lost in the 
 masses of fragrant foliage that girdle and 
 adorn in perennial verdure the hallowed 
 scene of " The Lady of the Lake." 
 
 Loch Katrine is another Lake Horicon, 
 with a gentler environment, and this — like 
 all the Scottish lakes — has the advantage of 
 a more evenly sharp and vigorous air and 
 of leaden and frowning skies (in which.
 
 236 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD, 
 
 nevertheless, there is a peculiar, penetrating 
 light), that darken their waters and impart 
 to them a dangerous aspect that yet is 
 strangely beautiful. As we swept past 
 "Ellen's Island" and Fitz-James's " Silver 
 Strand " I was grateful to see them in the 
 mystery of this gray light and not in the 
 garish sunshine. All around this sweet lake 
 are the sentinel mountains, — Ben Venue 
 rising in the south, Ben A 'an in the east, 
 and all the castellated ramparts that girdle 
 Glen Finglas in the north. The eye dwells 
 enraptured upon the circle of the hills ; but 
 by this time the imagination is so acutely 
 stimulated, and the mind is so filled with 
 glorious sights and exciting and ennobling 
 reflections, that the sense of awe is tempered 
 with a pensive sadness, and you feel your- 
 self rebuked and humbled by the final and 
 effectual lesson of man's insignificance that 
 is taught by the implacable vitality of these 
 eternal mountains. It is a relief to be 
 brought back for a little to common life, 
 and this relief you find in the landing at 
 Stronachlachar and the ensuing drive — 
 across the narrow strip of the shire of 
 Stirling that intervenes between Loch Kat- 
 rine and Loch Lomond — to the port of In- 
 versnaid. This drive is through a wild and
 
 INTO THE HIGHLANDS. 237 
 
 picturesque country, but after the mountain 
 road from Aberfoyle to the Trosachs it could 
 not well seem otherwise than calm — at least 
 till the final descent into the vale of Inver- 
 snaid. From Inversnaid there is a short 
 sail upon the northern waters of Loch Lomond 
 — for ever haunted by the shaggy presence 
 of Rob Roy and the fierce and terrible image 
 of Helen Macgregor — and then, landing at 
 Ardlui, you drive past Inveraman and hold 
 a northern course to Crianlarich, travers- 
 ing the vale of the Falloch and skirting 
 along the western slope of the grim and 
 gloomy Grampians — on which for miles and 
 miles no human habitation is seen, nor any 
 living creature save the vacant, abject sheep. 
 The mountains are everywhere now, brown 
 with bracken and purple with heather, 
 stony, rugged, endless, desolate, and still 
 with a stillness that is awful in its pitiless 
 sense of inhumanity and utter isolation. 
 At Crianlarich the railway is found again, 
 and thence you whirl onward through lands 
 of Breadalbane and Argyle to the proud 
 mountains of Glenorchy and the foot of that 
 loveliest of all the lovely waters of Scotland 
 — the ebony crystal of Loch Awe. The 
 night is deepening over it as I write these 
 words. The dark and solemn mountains
 
 238 GEAY DAYS AJsD GOLD. 
 
 that guard it stretch away into the myste- 
 rious distance and are lost in the shuddering 
 gloom. The gray clouds have drifted by, 
 and the cold, clear stars of autumnal heaven 
 are reflected in its crystal depth, unmarred 
 by even the faintest ripple upon its surface. 
 A few small boats, moored to anchored 
 buoys, float motionless upon it a little 
 way from shore. There, on its lonely 
 island, dimly visible in the fading light, 
 stands the gray ruin of Kilchurn. A faint 
 whisper comes from the black woods that 
 fringe the mountain base, and floating from 
 far across this lonely, haunted water there 
 is a drowsy bird-note that calls to silence 
 and to sleep.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 HIGHLAND BEAUTIES. 
 
 OBAN, September 17, 1889.— Seen in the 
 twilight, as I first saw it, Oban is a 
 pretty and picturesque seaside village, gay 
 with glancing lights and busy with the 
 movements of rapid vehicles and expedi- 
 tious travellers. It is called the capital of 
 the Western Highlands, and no doubt it 
 deserves the name, for it is the common 
 centre of all the trade and enterprise of this 
 region, and all the threads of travel radiate 
 from it. Built in a semicircle, along the 
 margin of a lovely sheltered bay, it looks 
 forth upon the wdld waters of the Firth of 
 Lorn, visible, south-westerly, through the 
 sable sound of Kerrera, while behind and 
 around it rises a bold range of rocky 
 and sparsely wooded hills. On these are 
 placed a few villas, and on a point toward 
 the north stand the venerable, ivy-clad 
 ruins of Dunolly Castle, in the ancestral 
 domain of the ancient Highland family of 
 Macdougall. The houses of Oban are built
 
 240 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 of gray stone, and are mostly modern. There 
 are many hotels fronting upon the Parade, 
 which extends for a long distance upon the 
 verge of the sea. The opposite shore is 
 Kerrera, an island about a mile distant, and 
 beyond that island, and beyond Lorn water, 
 extends the beautiful island of Mull, con- 
 fronting the iron-ribbed Morven of Ossian. 
 In many ways Oban is suggestive of an 
 American seaport upon the New-England 
 coast. Various characteristics mark it 
 that may be seen at Gloucester, Massa- 
 chusetts (although that once romantic place 
 has been spoiled by the Irish peasantry), 
 and at Mount Desert in Maine. The sur- 
 roundings, indeed, are different ; for the 
 Scottish hills have a delicious colour and a 
 wildness all their own ; while the skies, 
 unlike those of blue and brilliant America, 
 lower and gloom and threaten, and tinge 
 the whole world beneath them — the moors, 
 the mountains, the clustered gray villages, 
 the lonely ruins, and the tumbling plains 
 of the desolate sea — with a melancholy, 
 romantic, shadowy darkness, the perfect 
 twilight of poetic vision. No place could 
 be more practical than Oban is, in its every- 
 day life, nor any place more sweet and 
 dreamlike to the pensive mood of contem-
 
 HIGHLAXD BEAUTIES. 24I 
 
 plation and the roving gaze of fancy. 
 Viewed, as I viewed it, under the starlight 
 and the drifting cloud, between two and 
 three o'clock this morning, it was a picture 
 of beauty, never to be forgotten. A few 
 lights were twinkling here and there among 
 the dwellings, or momentarily flaring on 
 the deserted Parade. No sound was heard 
 but the moaning of the night-wind and the 
 plash of waters softly surging on the beach. 
 Kow and then a belated passenger came 
 wandering along the pavement and dis- 
 appeared in a turn of the road. The air 
 was sweet with the mingled fragrance of 
 the heathery hills and the salt odours of the 
 sea. Upon the glassy bosom of the bay — 
 dark, clear, and gently undulating with the 
 pressure of the ocean tide — more than 
 seventy small boats, each moored at a buoy 
 and all veered in one direction, swung care- 
 less on the water ; and mingled with them 
 were upward of twenty schooners and little 
 steamboats, all idle and all at peace. Many 
 an hour of toil and sorrow is yet to come 
 before the long, strange journey of this life 
 is ended ; but the memory of that wonderful 
 midnight moment, alone with the majesty of 
 Nature, will be a solace in the darkest of 
 them 
 
 Q
 
 242 GRAY DAYS A^D GOLD 
 
 The Highland journe}^, from first to last, 
 is an experience altogether novel and pre- 
 cious, and it is remembered with gratitude 
 and delight. Before coming to Oban I gave 
 two nights and days to Loch Awe — a place 
 so beautiful and so fraught with the means 
 of happiness that time stands still in it, and 
 even "the ceaseless vulture" of care and 
 regret ceases for a while to vex the spirit 
 with remembrance of anjthing that is sad. 
 Looking down from the summit of one of 
 the great mountains that are the rich and 
 rugged setting of this jewel, I saw the 
 crumbling ruin of Kilchurn upon its little 
 island, gray relic first of the Macgregors 
 and then of the Campbells, who dispossessed 
 them and occupied their realm. It must 
 have been an imperial residence once. Its 
 situation — cut ofi" from the mainland and 
 commanding a clear view, up the lake and 
 down the valleys, southward and northward 
 — is superb. No enemy could approach it 
 unawares, and doubtless the followers of 
 the Macgregor occupied every adjacent pass 
 and were ambushed in every thicket on the 
 heights. Seen from the neighbouring moun- 
 tain-side the waters of Loch Awe are of such 
 crystal clearness that near some part of the 
 shore the white sands are visible in perfect
 
 HIGHLAND BEAUTIES. 243 
 
 outline beneath them, while all the glorious 
 eiigirdliug hills are reflected in their still 
 and shining depth. Sometimes the sun 
 flashed out and changed the waters to liquid 
 silver, lighting up the gray ruin and flood- 
 ing the mountain slopes with gold ; but 
 more often the skies kept their sombre hue, 
 darkening all beneath them with a lovely- 
 gloom. All around M^ere the beautiful hills 
 of Glenorchy, and far to the eastward great 
 waves of white and leaden mist, slowly 
 drifting in the upper ether, now hid and now 
 disclosed the Olympian head of Ben Lui 
 and the tangled hills of Glen Shirra and 
 Glen Fyne. Close by, in its sweet vale of 
 Sabbath stillness, was couched the little 
 town of Dalmally, sole reminder of the pre- 
 sence of man in these remote solitudes, where 
 Nature keeps the temple of her worship, and 
 where words are needless to utter her glory 
 and her praise. All day long the peaceful lake 
 slumbered in placid beauty under the solemn 
 sky — a few tiny boats and two little steamers 
 swinging at anchor on its bosom. All day 
 long the shadows of the clouds, commingled 
 with flecks of sunshine, went drifting over 
 the mountain. At nightfall two great flocks 
 of sheep, each attended by the pensive 
 shepherd in his plaid, and each guided and
 
 244 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 managed by those wonderfully intelligent 
 collies that are a never-failing delight in 
 these mountain lands, came slowly along 
 the vale and presently vanished in Glen Strae. 
 Nothing then broke the stillness but the 
 sharp cry of the shepherd's dog and the 
 sound of many cataracts, some hidden and 
 some seen, that lapse in music and fall 
 in many a mass of shattered silver and 
 flying spray, through deep, rocky rifts 
 down the mountain-side. After sunset a 
 cold wind came on to blow, and soon the 
 heavens were clear and " all the number 
 of the stars " were mirrored in beautiful 
 Loch Awe. 
 
 Tiiey speak of the south-western extremity 
 of this lake as the head of it. Loch Awe 
 station, accordingly, is at its foot, near 
 Kilchurn. Nevertheless, " where Macgregor 
 sits is the head of the table," for the foot of 
 the loch is lovelier than its head. And yet 
 its head also is lovely, although in a less 
 positive way. From Loch Awe station to 
 Ford, a distance of twenty-six miles, you 
 sail in a toy steamboat, sitting either on the 
 open deck or in a cabin of glass and gazing 
 at the panorama of the hills on either 
 hand, some w^ooded and some bare, and 
 all magnificent. A little after passing the
 
 I 
 
 HIGHLAND BEAUTIES. 245 
 
 mouth of the river Awe, which flows 
 through the black Pass of Brander and 
 unites with Loch Etive, I saw the double 
 crest of great Ben Cruachan towering into 
 the clouds and ^^sible at intervals above 
 them — the higher peak magnificently bold. 
 It is a wild country all about this region, 
 but here and there you see a little hamlet 
 or a lone farm-house, and among the moor- 
 lands the occasional figure of a sportsman 
 with his dog and gun. As the boat sped 
 onward into the moorland district the 
 mountains became great shapes of snowy 
 crystal, under the sullen sky, and presently 
 resolved into vast cloud-shadows dimly out- 
 lined against the northern heavens, and 
 seemingly based upon a sea of rolling vapour. 
 The sail is past Innisdrynich, the island of 
 the Druids, past Inishail and Inis Fraoch, 
 and presently past the lovely ruin of Innis- 
 Chonnel Castle, called also Ardchonnel, 
 facing southward, at the end of an island 
 promontory, and covered thick with ivy. 
 The landing is at Ford Pier, and about one 
 mile from that point you may see a little 
 inn, a few cottages crumbling in pictur- 
 esque decay, and a diminutive kirk, that 
 constitute the village of Ford. !My purpose 
 here was to view an estate close by this
 
 246 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 village, now owned by Henry Bruce, Esq., 
 but many years ago the domain of Alexander 
 Campbell, an ancestor of my children, being 
 their mother's grandsire ; and not in all 
 Scotland could be found a more romantic spot 
 than the glen by the lochside that shelters 
 the melancholy, decaying, haunted fabric of 
 the old house of Ederline. Such a poet as 
 Edgar Poe would have revelled in that 
 place — and well he might ! There is a new 
 and grand mansion on higher ground in the 
 park, but the ancient house, almost aban- 
 doned now, is a thousand times more char- 
 acteristic and interesting than the new one. 
 Both are approached through a long, wind- 
 ing avenue, overhung with great trees that 
 interlace their branches above it and make a 
 cathedral aisle ; but soon the pathway to the 
 older house turns aside into a grove of chest- 
 nuts, birches, and yews, — winding under vast 
 dark boughs that bend like serpents com- 
 pletely to the earth and then ascend once 
 more, — and so goes onward through sombre 
 glades and through groves of rhododendron to 
 the levels of Loch Ederline and the front of 
 the mansion, now desolate and half in ruins. 
 It was an old house a hundred years ago. It 
 is covered with ivy and biiried among the 
 trees, and on its surface and on the tree-
 
 HIGHLAND BEAUTIES. . 247 
 
 trunks around it the lichen and the yellow 
 moss have gathered in rank luxuriance. The 
 waters of the lake ripple upon a rocky land- 
 ing almost at its door. Here once lived as 
 proud a Campbell as ever breathed in Scot- 
 land, and here his liaughty spirit wrought 
 out for itself the doom of a lonely age and a 
 broken heart. His grave is on a little island 
 in the lake — a family burial-ground/ such as 
 may often be found on ancient sequestered 
 estates in the Highlands — where the tall 
 trees wave above it and the weeds are grow- 
 ing thick upon its surface, while over it the 
 rooks caw and clamour and the idle winds 
 career, in heedless indifference that is sadder 
 even than neglect. So destiny vindicates 
 its inexorable edict and the great law of 
 retribution is fulfilled. A stranger sits in 
 
 1 On the stone that marks this seimlchre are the 
 following inscriptions, which may suitably be pre- 
 served in this chronicle : — 
 
 Alexander Campbell Esquire, of Ederline. Died 
 2^ October, 1841. In his 76«i> year. 
 
 Matilda Campbell. Second daughter of William 
 Campbell Esq., of Ederline. Died on the 21=' Nov^ 
 1S42. In her 6^^ year. 
 
 William Campbell, Esq. of Ederline. Died 15"» 
 January 1855, in his 42°^iyear. 
 
 Lachlan Aderson Campbell. His son. Died Jan- 
 uary 27'!', 1859. In his 5ti> year.
 
 248 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 his seat and rules in his hall, and of all the 
 followers that once waited on his lightest 
 word there remains but a single one — aged, 
 infirm, and nearing the end of the long jour- 
 ney — to scrape the moss from his forgotten 
 gravestone and to think sometimes of his 
 ancient greatness and splendour, for ever 
 past away. We rowed around Loch Eder- 
 line and looked down into its black waters 
 (that in some parts have never been sounded, 
 and are fabled to reach through to the other 
 side of the world), and as our oars dipped 
 and plashed the timid moor-fowl scurried 
 into the bushes and the white swans sailed 
 away in haughty wrath, while, warned by 
 gathering storm-clouds, multitudes of old 
 rooks that long have haunted the place came 
 flying overhead, with many a querulous 
 croak, toward their nests in Ederline 
 grove. 
 
 Back to Loch Awe station, and presently 
 onward past the Falls of Cruachan and 
 through the grim Pass of Brander — down 
 which the waters of the Awe rush in a sable 
 flood between jagged and precipitous cliffs 
 for miles and miles — and soon we see the 
 bright waves of Loch Etive smiling under a 
 sunset sky, and the many bleak, brown hills 
 that fringe Glen Lonan and range along to
 
 HIGHLAND BEAUTIES. 249 
 
 Oban and the verge of the sea. There will 
 be an hour for rest and thought. It seems 
 wild and idle to write about these things. 
 Life in Scotland is deeper, richer, stronger, 
 and sweeter than any words could possibly 
 be that any man could possibly expend upon 
 it. The place is the natural home of ima- 
 gination, romance, and poetry. Thought is 
 grander here, and passion is wilder and 
 more exuberant than on the velvet plains 
 and among the chaste and stately elms of 
 the South. The blood flows in a stormier 
 torrent and the mind takes on something of 
 the gloomy and savage majesty of those 
 gaunt, barren, lonely hills. Even Sir Walter 
 Scott, speaking of his own great works 
 (which are precious beyond words, and must 
 always be loved and cherished by readers 
 who know what beauty is), said that all 
 he had ever done was to polish the brasses 
 that already were made. This is the soul 
 of excellence in British literature, and 
 this, likewise, is the basis of stability in 
 British civilisation — that the country is 
 lovelier than the loveliest poetry that ever 
 was written about it or ever could be written 
 about it, and that the land and the life 
 possess an inherent fascination for the 
 inhabitants that nothing else could supply,
 
 250 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 and that no influence can ever destroy or 
 ever seriously disturb. Democracy is rife 
 all over the world, but it will as soon impede 
 the eternal courses of the stars as it will 
 change the constitution or shake the social 
 fabric of this realm. " Once more upon the 
 waters — yet once more ! " Soon upon the 
 stormy billows of Lorn I shall see these 
 lovely shores fade in the distance. Soon, 
 merged again in the strife and tumult of the 
 commonplace world, I shall murmur, with 
 as deep a sorrow as the sad strain itself 
 expresses, the tender words of Scott : — 
 
 " Glenorchy's proud mountains, 
 Kilchurn and her towers, 
 Glenstrae and Glenlyon 
 No longer are ours."
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 ** The, Heart of Scotland, Britain's other 
 eyf\ " — Bex Joxsox. 
 
 EDINBURGH, August 24, 1890. — A 
 bright blue sky, across which many 
 masses of thin white cloud are borne swiftly 
 on the cool western wind, bends over the 
 stately city, and all her miles of gray man- 
 sions and spacious, cleanly streets sparkle 
 beneath it in a flood of summer sunshine. 
 It is the Lord's Day, and most of the high- 
 ways are deserted and quiet. From the top 
 of the Calton Hill you look down upon hun- 
 dreds of blue smoke-wreaths curling upward 
 from the chimneys of the resting and restful 
 town, and in every direction the prospect is 
 one of opulence and peace. A thousand 
 years of history are here crystallised within 
 the circuit of a single glance, and while you 
 gaze upon one of the grandest emblems that 
 the world contains of a storied and romantic 
 past, you behold likewise a living and re-
 
 252 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 splendent pageant of the beauty of to-day. 
 Nowhere else are the Past and the Present 
 so lovingly blended. There, in the centre, 
 towers the great crown of St. Giles. Hard 
 by are the quaint slopes of the Canongate, 
 — teeming with illustrious, or picturesque, 
 or terrible figui-es of Long Ago. Yonder the 
 glorious Castle Crag looks steadfastly west- 
 ward, — its manifold, wonderful colours con- 
 tinuously changing in the changeful daylight. 
 Down in the valley Holyrood, haunted by a 
 myriad of memories and by one resplendent 
 face and entrancing presence, nestles at the 
 foot of the giant Salisbury Crag ; while the 
 dark, rivened peak of Arthur's Seat rears 
 itself supremely over the whole stupendous 
 scene. Southward and westward, in the 
 distance, extends the bleak range of the 
 Pentland Hills ; eastward the cone of Ber- 
 wick Law and the desolate Bass Rock 
 seem to cleave the sea ; and northward, 
 beyond the glistening crystal of the Forth, 
 — with the white lines of embattled Inch- 
 keith like a diamond on its bosom, — the 
 lovely Lomonds, the virginal mountain 
 breasts of Fife, are bared to the kiss of 
 heaven. It is such a picture as words can 
 but faintly suggest ; but when you look upon 
 it you readily compi'eheud the pride and the
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAND. 253 
 
 passion with which a Scotsman loves his 
 native land. 
 
 Dr. Johnson named Edinburgh as "a city 
 too well known to admit description." That 
 judgment was proclaimed more than a hun- 
 dred years ago — before yet Caledonia had 
 bewitched the world's heart as the haunted 
 land of Robert Burns and Walter Scott — 
 and if it were true then it is all the more 
 true now. But while the reverent pilgrim 
 along the ancient highways of history maj- 
 not wisely attempt description, which would 
 be superfluous, he perhaps may usefully 
 indulge in brief chronicle and impression — 
 for these sometimes prove suggestive to 
 minds that are kindred with his own. 
 Hundreds of travellers visit Edinburgh ; but 
 it is one thing to visit and another thing to 
 see; and every suggestion, surely, is of value 
 that helps to clarify our vision. This capital 
 is not learned by driving about it in a cab ; 
 for Edinburgh to be truly seen and com- 
 prehended must be seen and comprehended 
 as an exponent of the colossal individu- 
 ality of the Scottish character ; and there- 
 fore it must be observed with thought. 
 Here is no echo and no imitation. Many 
 another provincial city of Britam is a minia- 
 ture copy of London ; but the quality of
 
 254 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Edinburgh is her own. Portions of her 
 architecture do indeed denote a reverence 
 for ancient Italian models, while certain 
 other portions reveal the influence of the 
 semi-classical taste that prevailed in the 
 time of the Regent, afterwards George 
 IV, The democratic tendency of this 
 period — expressing itself here precisely as 
 it does everywhere else, in button-making 
 pettiness and vulgar commonplace — is like- 
 wise sufficient!}^ obvious. Xevertheless in 
 every important detail of Edinburgh, and 
 of its life, the reticent, resolute, formid- 
 able, impetuous, passionate character of the 
 Scottish race is conspicuous and predominant. 
 Much has been said against the Scottish 
 spirit — the tide of cavil purling on from Dr. 
 Johnson to S^^dney Smith. Dignity has 
 been denied to it, and so has magnanimit}', 
 and so has humour ; but there is no audience 
 more quick than the Scottish audience to 
 respond either to pathos or to mirth ; there 
 is no literature in the world so musically, 
 tenderly, and weirdly poetical as the Scottish 
 literature ; there is no place on earth where 
 the imaginative instinct of the national 
 mind has resisted, as it has resisted in Scot- 
 land, the encroachment of utility upon the 
 domain of romance ; there is no people whose 
 history has excelled that of Scotland in the
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAND. 255 
 
 display of heroic, intellectual, and moral pur- 
 pose, combined with passionate sensibility ; 
 and no city could surpass the physical 
 fact of Edinburgh as a manifestation of 
 broad ideas, unstinted opulence, and grim 
 and rugged grandeur. Whichever way you 
 turn, and whatever object you behold, that 
 consciousness is always present to your 
 thought — the consciousness of a race of 
 beings intensely original, individual, pas- 
 sionate, authoritative, and magnificent. 
 
 The capital of Scotland is not only beauti- 
 ful but eloquent. The present writer does 
 not assume to describe it, or to instruct the 
 reader concerning it, but only to declare 
 that at every step the sensitive mind is 
 impressed with the splendid intellect, the 
 individual force, and the romantic charm of 
 the Scottish character, as it is commem- 
 orated and displayed in this delightful 
 place. What a wealth of significance it 
 possesses may be indicated by even the most 
 meagre record and the most superficial com- 
 mentary upon the passing events of a 
 traveller's ordinary day. The greatest name 
 in the literature of Scotland is Walter 
 Scott. He lived and laboured for twenty- 
 four years in the modest three-storj^, gray 
 stone house which is No. 39 Castle Street. 
 It has been my privilege to enter that
 
 256 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 house, and to stand in the room in which 
 Scott began the novel of Waverley. Many 
 years roll backward under the spell of 
 such an experience, and the gray-haired 
 man is a boy again, with all the delights of 
 the Waverley Novels before him, health 
 shining in his eyes and joy beating in his 
 heart, as he looks onward through vistas of 
 golden light into a paradise of fadeless 
 flowers and of happy dreams. The room 
 that was Scott's study is a small one, on 
 the first floor, at the back, and is lighted 
 by one large window, opening eastward, 
 through which you look upon the rear walls 
 of sombre, gray buildings, and upon a small 
 slope of green lawn, in which is the un- 
 marked grave of one of Sir Walter's dogs. 
 *' The misery of keeping a dog," he once 
 wrote, "is his dying so soon; but, to be 
 sure, if he lived for fifty years and then 
 died, what would become of me ? " My 
 attention was called to a peculiar fastening 
 on the window of the study, — invented and 
 placed there by Scott himself, — so arranged 
 that the sash can be kept safely locked when 
 raised a few inches from the sill. On the 
 south side of the room is the fireplace, facing 
 which he would sit as he wrote, and into 
 which, of an evening, he has often gazed.
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAND. 257 
 
 hearing meanwhile the moan of the winter 
 wirul, and conjuring up, in the blazing 
 brands, those figures of brave knights and 
 gentle ladies that were to live for ever in 
 the amber of his magical art. Next to the 
 study, on the same floor, is the larger apart- 
 ment that was his dining-room, where his 
 portrait of Claverhouse (now at Abbotsford) 
 once hung above the mantel, and where so 
 many of the famous people of the past 
 enjoyed his hospitality and his talk. On 
 the south wall of this room now hang two 
 priceless autograph letters, one of them in 
 the handwriting of Scott, the other in that 
 of Burns. Both rooms are used for business 
 oflBces now, — the house being tenanted by 
 the agency of the New-Zealand Mortgage 
 Company, — and both are furnished with 
 large presses for the custody of deeds and 
 family archives. Nevertheless these rooms 
 remain much as they were when Scott lived 
 in them, and his spirit seems to haunt the 
 place. I was brought very near to him that 
 day, for in the same hour was placed in 
 my hands the original manuscript of his 
 Journal, and I saw, in his own handwriting, 
 the last words that ever fell from his pen. 
 That Journal is in two quarto volumes 
 of unruled, faded paper, bound in vellum,
 
 258 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 now yellowed with age, and each provided 
 with a lock. Sir "Walter kept this diary 
 from Kovember 20, 1S25, to April 16, 1S32, 
 and these are the famous "locked books*' 
 which were consulted by Lockhart when he 
 v.-as writing the Life. One of them is filled 
 vrith writing : the other half filled : and the 
 lines in both are of a fine, small character, 
 crowded closely together. Toward the last 
 the writing manifests only too well the 
 growing infirmity of the broken Minstrel — 
 the forecast of the hallowed deathbed of 
 Abbotsford and the venerable and glorious 
 tomb of Dryburgh. He was on his tour in 
 Italy, from which so much was hoped — and 
 hoped in vain. These are his last words : 
 ' ' We slept reasonably, but on the next 
 morning" — and so the Journal abruptly ends. 
 I can in no way express the emotion with 
 which I looked upon those feebly scrawled 
 syllables — the last efi"ort of the nerveless 
 hand that once had been strong enough to 
 thrill the heart of all the world. The Jour- 
 nal has been lovingly and carefully edited 
 by David Douglas, whose fine taste and 
 great gentleness of nature, together with 
 his ample knowledge of Scottish litera- 
 ture and society, eminently qualify him 
 for the performance of this sacred duty ;
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAND. 259 
 
 and the world will possess this treasure 
 and feel the charm of its beauty and pathos 
 — which is the charm of a great nature ex- 
 pressed in its perfect simplicity; but the 
 spell that is cast upon the heart and the 
 imagination by a prospect of the actual hand- 
 writing of Sir Walter Scott, in the last 
 words that he wrote, cannot be conveyed 
 in print. 
 
 From the house in Castle Street I went 
 to the rooms of the Eoyal Society, where 
 there is a portrait of Scott — by John 
 Graham Gilbert — more life-like — being re- 
 presentative of his soul as well as his 
 face and person — than any other that is 
 known. It hangs there, in company with 
 other paintings of former presidents of 
 this institution, — notably one of Sir David 
 Brewster and one of James Watt, — in the 
 hall in which Sir Walter often sat, pre- 
 siding over the deliberations and literary 
 exercises of his comrades in scholarship and 
 art. In another hall I saw the pulpit in 
 which John Knox used to jDreach, in the 
 old days of what Dr. Johnson expressively 
 called "The raffians of Reformation," and 
 hard by was "The Maiden," the terrible 
 Scottish guillotine, with its great square 
 knife set in a thick weight of lead, by which
 
 260 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 the grim Regent Morton was slain in 15S1, 
 the Marquis of Argyle in 1661, and the gal- 
 lant, magnanimous, devoted Earl of Argyle 
 in 1685 — one more sacrifice to the insatiate 
 House of Stuart. This monster has drunk 
 the blood of many a noble gentleman, and 
 there is a weird, sinister suggestion of grati- 
 fied ferocity and furtive malignity in its 
 rude, grisly, uncanny fabric of blackened 
 timbers. You may see in the quaint little 
 panelled chapel of St. Mary Magdalen, not 
 many steps distant from the present abode 
 of the sanguinary "Maiden," — brooding 
 over her hideous consummation of slaughter 
 and misery, — the place where the mangled 
 body of the heroic Earl of Argyle was laid, 
 in secret sanctuary, for several nights after 
 that scene of piteous sacrifice at the old 
 Market Cross ; and w^hen you walk in the 
 solemn enclosure of the Greyfriars Church, 
 —so fitly styled by Sir Walter "The West- 
 minster Abbey of Scotland," — your glance 
 will fall upon a sunken pillar, low down 
 upon the northern slope of that storied, 
 lamentable ground, which bears the letters 
 "I. M.," and which marks the grave of the 
 baleful ^Morton, whom the Maiden decapi- 
 tated for his share in the murder of Rizzio. 
 In these old cities there is no keeping away
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAND. 261 
 
 from sepulchres. " The paths of glory," in 
 every sense, "lead but to the grave.'"' 
 George Buchanan and Allan E,amsay (poets 
 whom no literary pilgrim will neglect) rest 
 in this churchyard, though the exact places 
 of their interment are not positively denoted, 
 and here, likewise, rest the elegant historian 
 Robertson, and "The Addison of Scotland," 
 Henry Mackenzie. The building in the High 
 Street in which Allan Ramsay once had 
 his abode and his bookshop, and in which 
 he wrote his pastoral of " The Gentle Shep- 
 herd," is occupied now by a barber ; but 
 since he is one that scorns not to proclaim 
 over his door in mighty letters the poetic 
 lineage of his dwelling, it seems not amiss 
 that this haunt of the Muses should have 
 fallen into such pious though lowly hands. 
 Of such a character, hallowed with asso- 
 ciations that pique the fancy and touch 
 the heart, are the places and the names that 
 an itinerant continually encounters in his 
 rambles in Edinburgh. 
 
 One could muse for many an hour over 
 the little Venetian mirror that hangs in 
 the bedroom of Mary Stuart in Holyrood 
 Palace. What faces and what scenes it 
 must have reflected ! How often her own 
 beautiful countenance and person, — the
 
 262 GEAY DAYS A>'D GOLD. 
 
 dazzling eyes, the snowy brow, the red gold 
 hair, the alabaster bosom — may have blazed 
 in its crystal depths, now tarnished and dim, 
 like the record of her own calamitous and 
 wretched days ! Did those lovely eyes look 
 into this mirror — and was their glance scared 
 and tremulous, or fixed and terrible — on 
 that dismal February night, so many years 
 ago, when the fatal explosion in the Kirk o' 
 Field resounded with an echo that has never 
 died away? Who can tell? This glass 
 saw the gaunt and livid face of Ruthven 
 when he led his comrades of murder into 
 that royal chamber, and it beheld Rizzio 
 screaming in mortal terror as he was torn 
 from the skirts of his mistress and savagely 
 slain before her eyes. Perhaps, also, when 
 that hideous episode was over and done 
 with, it saw Queen Maiy and her despicable 
 husband the next time they met and were 
 alone together in that ghastly room. "It 
 shall be dear blood to some of you," the 
 Queen had said, while the miirder of Eizzio 
 was doing. Surely, having so injured a 
 woman, any man with eyes to see might 
 have divined his fate, in the perfect calm of 
 her heavenly face and the quiet tones of her 
 gentle voice, at such a moment as that. 
 "At the fireside tragedies are acted " — and
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAND. 263 
 
 tragic enough must have been the scene of 
 that meeting, apart from human gaze, in 
 the chamber of crime and death. No other 
 relic of Mary Stuart stirs the imagination 
 as this mirror does — unless, perhaps, it be 
 the little ebony crucifix once owned and 
 reverenced by Sir Walter Scott and now 
 piously treasured at Abbotsford, which she 
 held in her hands when she went to her 
 death in the hall of Fotheringay Castle. 
 
 Holyrood Palace, in Mary Stuart's time, 
 was not of its present shape. The tower 
 containing her rooms was standing, and 
 from that tower the building extended east- 
 ward to the abbey, and then it veered to the 
 south. Much of this building was destroyed 
 by fire in 1544, and again in Cromwell's 
 time, but both church and palace were 
 rebuilt. The entire south side, with its 
 tower that looks directly towards the crag, 
 was added in the later period of Charles 
 II. The furniture in Mary Stuart's room 
 is mostly spurious, but the rooms are gen- 
 uine. Musing thus, and much striving to 
 reconstruct those strange scenes of the 
 past, in which that beautiful, dangerous 
 woman bore so great a part, the pilgrim 
 strolls away into the Canon gate, — once 
 clean and elegant, now squalid and noisome.
 
 264 GEAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 — and still the storied figures of history 
 walk by his side or come to meet him 
 at every close and wynd. John Knox, 
 Robert Burns, Tobias Smollett, David Hume, 
 Dugald Stuart, John Wilson, Hugh Miller 
 — Gay, led onward by the blythe and gracious 
 Duchess of Queensberry, and Dr. Johnson, 
 escorted by the affectionate and faithful 
 James Boswell, the best biographer that 
 ever lived, — these and many more, the 
 lettered worthies of long ago, throng into 
 this haunted street and glorify it with the 
 rekindled splendours of other days. You 
 cannot be lonely here. This it is that 
 makes the place so eloquent and so precious. 
 For what did those men live and labour? 
 To what were their shining talents and 
 wonderful forces devoted ? To the dissemi- 
 nation of learning ; to the emancipation of 
 the human mind from the bondage of error ; 
 to the ministry of the beautiful— and thus 
 to the advancement of the human race in 
 material comfort, in gentleness of thought, in 
 charity of conduct, in refinement of manners, 
 and in that spiritual exaltation by which, and 
 only by which, the true progress of mankind 
 is at once accomplished and proclaimed. 
 
 But the dark has come, and this Edin- 
 burgh ramble shall end with the picture
 
 THE HEART OF SCOTLAXD. 265 
 
 that closed its own magnificent day. 
 You are standing on the rocky summit of 
 Arthur's Seat. From that superb mountain 
 peak your gaze takes in the whole capital, 
 together with the country in every direction 
 for many miles around. The evening is 
 uncommonly clear. Only in the west dense 
 masses of black cloud are thickly piled upon 
 each other, through which the sun is sink- 
 ing, red and sullen with menace of the 
 storm. Elsewhere and overhead the sky is 
 crystal, and of a pale, delicate blue. A 
 cold wind blows briskly from the east and 
 sweeps a million streamers of white smoke 
 in turbulent panic over the darkening roofs 
 of the city, far below. In the north the 
 lovely Lomond Hills are distinctly visible 
 across the dusky level of the Forth, which 
 stretches away toward the ocean, one broad 
 sheet of glimmering steel — its margin in- 
 dented with many a graceful bay, and the 
 little islands that adorn it shining like stones 
 of amethyst set in polished flint. A few 
 brown sails are visible, dotting the waters, 
 and far to the east appears the graceful out- 
 line of the Isle of May, — which was the 
 shrine of the martyred St. Adrian, — and the 
 lonely, wave-beaten Bass Eock, with its 
 millions of seagulls and solan geese. Busy
 
 266 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 Leith and picturesque Newhaven and every 
 little village on the coast is sharply defined 
 in the frosty light. At your feet is St. 
 Leonards, with the tiny cottage of Jeanie 
 Deans. Yonder, in the south, are the gray 
 ruins of Craigmillar Castle — once the favour- 
 ite summer home of the Queen of Scots, now 
 open to sun and rain, mossgrown and deso- 
 late, and swept by every wind that blows. 
 More eastward the eye lingers upon Carberry 
 Hill, where Mary surrendered herseK to her 
 nobles just before the romantic episode of 
 Loch Leven Castle ; and far beyond that 
 height the sombre fields, intersected by 
 green hawthorn hedges and many-coloured 
 with the various hues of pasture and harvest, 
 stretch away to the hills of Lammermoor 
 and the valleys of Tweed and Esk, Darker 
 and darker grow the gathering shadows of 
 the gloaming. The lights begin to twinkle 
 in the city streets. The echoes of the rifles 
 die away in the Hunter's Bog. A piper far 
 off is playing the plaintive music of "The 
 Blue Bells of Scotland." And as your steps 
 descend the crag the rising moon, now 
 nearly at the full, shines through a gauzy 
 mist and hangs above the mountain like a 
 shield of gold upon the towered citadel of 
 night.
 
 XX. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 MORE than a century has passed since 
 \Yalter Scott was born — a poet des- 
 tined to exercise a profound, far-reaching, 
 permanent influence upon the feelings of the 
 human race, and thus to act a conspicuous 
 part in its moral and spiritual development 
 and guidance. To the greatness of his mind, 
 the nobility of his spirit, and the beauty of 
 his life there is abundant testimony in his 
 voluminous and diversified writings, and in 
 his ample and honest biography. Every- 
 body who reads has read something from the 
 pen of Scott, or something commemorative of 
 him, and in every mind to which his name 
 is known it is kno-^Ti as the synonym of great 
 faculties and wonderful achievement. There 
 must have been enormous vitality of spirit, 
 prodigious power of intellect, irresistible 
 charm of personality, and lovable purity of 
 moral nature in the man whom thousands 
 that never saw him livinc; — men and women
 
 268 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 of a later age and different countries — know 
 and remember and love as Sir Walter 
 Scott. Others have written greatly. Milton, 
 Dryden, Addison, Pope, Cowper, Johnson, 
 Wordsworth, Coleridge, Landor, — these 
 are only a few of the imperial names that 
 cannot die. But these names live in the 
 world's respect. The name of Scott lives 
 in its affection. What other name of the 
 past in English literature — unless it be 
 that of Shakespeare — arouses such a deep 
 and sweet feeling of affectionate interest, 
 gentle pleasure, gratitude, and reverential 
 love? 
 
 The causes of Sir Walter Scott's ascendency 
 are to be found in the goodness of his heart ; 
 the integrity of his conduct ; the romantic 
 and picturesque accessories and atmosphere 
 of his life ; the fertile brilliancy of his literary 
 execution ; the charm that he exercises, 
 both as man and artist, over the imagina- 
 tion ; the serene, tranquillising spirit of his 
 works ; and, above all, the buoyancy, the 
 happy freedom, of his genius. He was 
 not simply an intellectual power ; he was 
 also a human and gentle comforter. He 
 wielded an immense mental force, but he 
 always wielded it for good, and always with 
 tenderness. It is impossible to conceive of
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 269 
 
 his ever having done a wrong act, or ot any 
 contact with his influence that would not 
 inspire the wish to be virtuous and noble. 
 The scope of his sympathy was as broad as 
 the weakness and the need are of the human 
 race. He understood the hardship, the 
 dilemma, in the moral condition of mankind : 
 he wished people to be patient and cheerful, 
 and he tried to make them so. His writings 
 are full of sweetness and cheer, and they 
 contain nothing that is morbid, — nothing 
 that tends toward surrender and misery. 
 He did not sequester himself in mental 
 pride, but simply and sturdily, through 
 years of conscientious toil, he employed the 
 faculties of a strong, tender, gracious genius 
 for the good of his fellow-creatures. The 
 world loves him because he is worthy to be 
 loved, and because he has lightened the 
 burden of its care and augmented the sum 
 of its happiness. 
 
 Certain differences and confusions of 
 opinion have arisen from the consideration 
 of his well-known views as to the literary 
 art, together with his equally well-knowTi 
 ambition to take and to maintain the rank 
 and estate of a country squire. As an 
 artist he had ideals that he was never able 
 to fulfil. As a man, and one who was
 
 270 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 influenced by imagination, taste, patriotism, 
 family pride, and a profound belief in estab- 
 lished monarchical institutions, it was 
 natural that he should wish to found a 
 grand and beautiful home for himself and 
 his posterity. A poet is not the less a poet 
 because he thinks modestly of his writings 
 and practically knows and admits that 
 there is something else in the world beside 
 literature ; or because he happens to want 
 his dinner and a roof to cover him. In 
 trying to comprehend a great man, a good 
 method is to look at his life as a whole, and 
 not to deduce petty inferences from the dis- 
 torted interpretation of petty details. Sir 
 Walter Scott's conduct of life, like the 
 character out of which it sprang, was simple 
 and natural. In all that he did you may 
 perceive the influence of imagination acting 
 upon the finest reason ; the involuntary con- 
 sciousness of reserve power ; habitual defer- 
 ence to the voice of duty ; an aspiring and 
 picturesque plan of artistic achievement and 
 personal distinction ; and deep knowledge 
 of the world. If ever there was a man who 
 lived to be and not to seem, that man was 
 Sir Walter Scott. He made no pretensions. 
 He claimed nothing, but he quietly and 
 earnestly earned all. His means were the
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 27 1 
 
 oldest and the best ; self-respect, hard work, 
 and fidelity to duty. The development of 
 his nature was slow, but it was thorough 
 and it was wholesome. He was not ham- 
 pered by precocity and he was not spoiled 
 by conceit. He acted according to himself, 
 honouring his individuality and obeying the 
 inward monitor of his genius. But, combined 
 with the delicate instinct of a gentleman, 
 he had the wise insight, foresight, and 
 patience of a philosopher ; and therefore he 
 respected the individuality of others, the 
 established facts of life, and the settled con- 
 ventions of society. His mind was neither 
 embittered by revolt nor sickened by delu- 
 sion. Having had the good fortune to be 
 born in a country in which a right plan 
 of government prevails — the idea of the 
 family — the idea of the strong central 
 power at the head, with all other poA\er3 
 subordinated to it, — he felt no impulse 
 toward revolution, no desire to regulate all 
 things anew ; and he did not suffer perturba- 
 tion from the feverish sense of being sur- 
 rounded with uncertainty and endangered 
 by exposure to popular caprice. During the 
 period of immaturity, and notwithstanding 
 physical weakness and pain, his spirit was 
 kept equable and cheerful, not less by the
 
 272 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 calm environment of a permanent civilisa- 
 tion than by the clearness of his perceptions 
 and the sweetness of his temperament. In 
 childhood and youth he endeared himself to 
 all who came near him, winning affection 
 by inherent goodness and charm. In riper 
 years that sweetness was reinforced by 
 great sagacit}^ which took broad views of 
 individual and social life ; so that both by 
 knowledge and by impulse he was a serene 
 and happy man. 
 
 The quality that first impresses the 
 student of the character and the writings of 
 Sir Walter Scott is truthfulness. He was 
 genuine. Although a poet, he sufi"ered no 
 torment from vague aspirations. Although 
 once, and miserably, a disappointed lover, 
 he permitted no morbid repining. Although 
 the most successful author of his time, he 
 displayed no egotism. To the end of his 
 days he was frank and simple — not indeed 
 sacrificing the reticence of a dignified, self- 
 reliant nature, but suffering no blight from 
 success, and wearing illustrious honours 
 with spontaneous, unconscious grace. This 
 truthfulness — the consequence and the sign 
 of integrity and of great breadth of intel- 
 lectual vision — moulded Sir Walter Scott's 
 ambition and stamped the practical results
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 273 
 
 of his career. A striking illustration of this 
 is seen in his first adventure in literature. 
 The poems originally sprang from the spon- 
 taneous action of the poetic impulse and 
 faculty ; but they were put forth modestly, 
 in order that the author might guide him- 
 self according to the response of the public 
 mind. He knew that he might fail as an 
 author, but for failure of that sort, although 
 he was intensely ambitious, he had no dread. 
 There would always remain to him the 
 career of private duty and the life of a 
 gentleman. This view of him gives the key 
 to his character and explains his conduct. 
 Neither amid the experimental vicissitudes 
 of his youth, nor amid the labours, achieve- 
 ments, and splendid honours of his man- 
 hood, did he ever place the imagination 
 above the conscience, or brilliant writing 
 above virtuous living, or art and fame above 
 morality and religion. "I have been, per- 
 haps, the most voluminous author of the 
 day," he said, toward the close of his life ; 
 *'and it is a comfort to me to think that I 
 have tried to unsettle no man's faith, to 
 coi'rupt no man's principles, and that I 
 have written nothing which, on my death- 
 bed, I should wish blotted." When at last 
 he lay upon that deathbed the same thought
 
 274 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 animated and sustained him. "My dear," 
 he said, to Lockhart, " be a good man, be 
 virtuous, be religious — be a good man. 
 Nothing else will give you any comfort 
 when you come to lie here." The mind 
 which thus habitually dwelt upon goodness 
 as the proper object of human ambition and 
 the chief merit of human life was not likely 
 to vaunt itself on its labours or to indulge 
 any save a modest and chastened pride in 
 its achievements. 
 
 And this view of him explains the affec- 
 tionate reverence with which the memory 
 of Sir Walter Scott is cherished. He was 
 pre-eminently a tj'^pe of the greatness that 
 is associated with virtue. But his virtue 
 was not decorum and it was not goodyism. 
 He does not, with Addison, represent 
 elegant austerity ; and he does not, with 
 Montgomery, represeiat amiable tameness. 
 His goodness was not insipid. It does not 
 humiliate ; it gladdens. It is ardent with 
 heart and passion. It is brilliant with 
 imagination. It is fragrant with taste and 
 grace. It is alert, active, and triumphant 
 with splendid mental achievements and 
 practical good deeds. And it is the good- 
 ness of a great poet — the poet of natural 
 beauty, of romantic legend, of adventure,
 
 SIR WAI.TER SCOTT. 275 
 
 of chivalry, of life in its heyday of action 
 and its golden glow of pageantry and 
 pleasure. It found expression, and it wields 
 invincible and immortal power, through an 
 art whereof the charm is the magic of sun- 
 rise and sunset, the sombre, holy silence of 
 mountains, the pensive solitude of dusky 
 woods, the pathos of ancient, ivy-mantled 
 ruins, and ocean's solemn, everlasting chant. 
 Great powers have arisen in English litera- 
 ture ; but no romance has hushed the voice 
 of the autlior of V/averley, and no harp has 
 drowned the music of the Minstrel of the 
 North. 
 
 The publication of a new book by Sir 
 Walter Scott is a literary event of great im- 
 portance. The time has been when the 
 announcement of such a novelty would 
 have roused the reading public as with the 
 sound of a trumpet. That sensation, fami- 
 liar in the early part of the present cen- 
 tury, is possible no more. Yet there are 
 thousands of persons all over the world 
 through whose hearts the thought of it 
 sends a thrill of joy. The illustrious author 
 of " Marmion " and of Waverley passed away 
 in 1832 : and now (1890), at the distance of 
 fifty-eight years, his private Journal is made 
 a public possession. It is the bestowal of a
 
 276 GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 great privilege and benefit. It is like hearing 
 the voice of a deeply-loved and long-lamented 
 friend suddenly speaking from beyond the 
 grave. 
 
 In literary history the position of Scott 
 is unique. A few other authors, indeed, 
 might be named toward whom the general 
 feeling was once exceedingly cordial, but in 
 no other case has the feeling entirely lasted. 
 In the case of Scott it endures in undimin- 
 ished fervour. There are, of course, persons 
 to whom his works are not interesting, and 
 to whom his personality is not signifi- 
 cant. Those persons are the votaries of 
 the photograph, who wish to see upon the 
 printed page the same sights that greet their 
 vision in the streets and in the houses to 
 which they are accustomed. But those prosy 
 persons constitute only a single class of the 
 public. People in general are impressible 
 through the romantic instinct that is a part 
 of human nature. To that instinct Scott's 
 writings were addressed, and also to the heart 
 that commonly goes with it. The spirit that 
 responds to his genius is universal and peren- 
 nial. Caprices of taste will reveal them- 
 selves and will vanish ; fashions will rise and 
 will fall ; but these mutations touch nothing 
 that is elemental, and they will no more dis-
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 277 
 
 place Scott than they will displace Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 The Journal of Sir Walter Scott — valuable 
 for its copious variety of thought, humour, 
 anecdote, and chronicle — is precious, most of 
 all, for the confirmatory light that it casts 
 upon the character of its writer. It has long 
 been known that Scott's nature was excep- 
 tionally noble, that his patience was beau- 
 tiful, that his endurance was heroic. These 
 pages disclose to his votaries that he sur- 
 passed even the highest ideal of him that 
 their affectionate partiality has formed. The 
 period that it covers was that of his adver- 
 sity and decline. He began it on November 
 20, 1825, in his town house, No. 39 Castle 
 Street, Edinburgh, and he continued it, with 
 almost daily entries — except for various 
 sadly significant breaks, after July 1830 — 
 until April 16, 1832. Five months later, on 
 September 21, he was dead. He opened 
 it with the expression of a regret that he had 
 not kept a regular journal during the whole 
 of his life. He had just seen some chapters 
 of Byron's vigorous, breezy, off-hand memo- 
 randa, and the perusal of those inspiriting 
 pages had revived in his mind the long-cher- 
 ished, often-deferred plan of keeping a diary. 
 "I have myself lost recollection," he says,
 
 278 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 "of much that was interesting, and I have 
 deprived my family and the public of some 
 curious information by not carrying this re- 
 solution into effect." Having once begun 
 the work he steadily persevered in it, ar.d 
 evidently he found a comfort in its com- 
 panionship. He wrote directly, and there- 
 fore fluently, setting down exactly what was 
 in his mind from day to day ; but, as he had 
 a well-stored and well-ordered mind, he 
 wrote with reason and taste, seldom about 
 petty matters, and never in the strain of 
 insipid babble that egotistical scribblers 
 mistake for the spontaneous flow of nature. 
 The facts that he recorded were mostly 
 material facts, and the reflections that he 
 added, whether serious or humorous, were 
 important. Sometimes a bit of history 
 would glide into the current of the chronicle ; 
 sometimes a fragment of a ballad ; some- 
 times an analytic sketch of character — 
 subtle, terse, clear, and obviously true ; some- 
 times a memory of the past ; sometimes a 
 portraiture of incidents in the present ; 
 sometimes a glimpse of political life, a word 
 about painting, a reference to music or the 
 stage, an anecdote, a tale of travel, a trait 
 of social manners, a precept upon conduct, 
 or a thought upon religion and the destiny
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 279 
 
 of mankind. There was no pretence of order, 
 and there was no consciousness of an 
 audience ; yet the Journal unconsciously as- 
 sumed a symmetrical form ; and largely be- 
 cause of the spontaneous operation of its 
 author's fine literary instinct it became a 
 composition worthy of the best readers. It 
 is one of the saddest and one of the strongest 
 books ever written. 
 
 The original manuscript of this remarkable 
 work is contained in two volumes, bound in 
 vellum, each volume being furnished with a 
 steel clasp that can be fastened. The covers 
 are slightly tarnished by time. The paper is 
 yellow with age. The handwriting is fine, 
 cramped, and often obscure. " This hand of 
 mine," writes Scott (vol. i. page 386), "gets 
 to be like a kitten's scratch, and will require 
 mucli deciphering, or, what may be as well for 
 the writer, cannot be deciphered at all. I am 
 sure I cannot read it myself." The first vol- 
 ume is full of \\T.uting ; the second about half 
 full. Toward the end the record is almost 
 illegible. Scott was then at Rome, on that 
 melancholy, mistaken journey whereby it 
 had been hoped, but hoped in vain, that he 
 would recover his health. The last entry 
 that he made is this unfinished sentence : 
 " We slept reasonabh', but on the next morn-
 
 28o GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 ing . " It is not known that he ever wrote 
 
 a word after that time. Lockhart, who had 
 access to his papers, made some use of 
 the Journal in his Life of Scott, which is 
 one of the best biographies in our language ; 
 but the greater part of it was withheld from 
 publication till a more auspicious time for 
 its perfect candour of speech. To hold those 
 volumes and to look upon their pages — so 
 eloquent of the great author's industry, so 
 significant of his character, so expressive 
 of his inmost soul — was almost to touch 
 the hand of the Minstrel himself, to see 
 his smile, and to hear his voice. Now that 
 they have fulfilled their purpose, and im- 
 parted their inestimable treasure to the 
 world, they are restored to the ebony 
 cabinet at Abbotsford, there to be trea- 
 sured among the most precious relics of the 
 past. "It is the saddest house in Scot- 
 land," their editor, David Douglas, said to 
 me, when we were walking together upon 
 the Braid Hills, "for to my fancy every 
 stone in it is cemented with tears." Sad 
 or glad, it is a shrine to which reverent 
 pilgrims find their way from every quar- 
 ter of the earth, and it will be honoured 
 and cherished for ever. 
 
 The great fame of Scott had been acquired
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 28 1 
 
 by the time lie began to wTite his Journal, 
 and it rested upon a broad foundation of 
 solid achievement. He was fifty-four j^ears 
 old, having been born August 15, 1771, the 
 same year in which Smollett died. He had 
 been an author for about thirty years — his 
 first publication, a translation of Burger's 
 " Lenore," having appeared in 1796, the same 
 year that was darkened bj' the death of Robert 
 Burns. His social eminence also had been 
 established. He had been sheriff of Selkirk 
 for twenty-five years. He had been for 
 twenty years a clerk of the Court of Session. 
 He had been for five j'ears a baronet, hav- 
 ing received that rank from King George 
 IV., who always loved and admired him, in 
 1820. He had been for fourteen years the 
 owner of Abbotsford, which he bought in 
 1811, occupied in 1812, and completed in 
 1824. He was yet to write WoodstocJc the 
 six tales called The Chronicles of the Canon- 
 gate, The Fair Maid of Perth, Anne of 
 Geierstein, Count Robert of Paris, Castle 
 Dangerous, the Life of Napoleon, and the 
 lovely Stories from the History of Scot- 
 land. All these works, together with many 
 essays and reviews, were produced by 
 him between 1825 and 1832, while also 
 he was maintaining a considerable corre-
 
 282 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 spondence, doing his official duties, writiDg 
 his Journal, and carrying a suddenly imposed 
 load of debt — which finally his herculean 
 laboui-s paid — amounting to £130,000. But 
 between 1S05 and 1817 he had written " The 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Ballads and 
 Lyrical Pieces," "Marmion," "The Lady 
 of the Lake," "The Vision of Don Roder- 
 ick," "Rokeby," "The Lord of the Isles," 
 " The Field of Waterloo," and " Harold the 
 Dauntless," thus creating a great and diver- 
 sified body of poetry — then in a new school 
 and a new style, in which, although he has 
 often been imitated, he never has been 
 equrvUed. Between 1814 and 1825 he had 
 likewise produced Waverley, Guy Manner - 
 ing, The Antiquary, Old Mortality, The 
 Black Dwarf, Bob Roy, The Heart of Mid- 
 lothian, A Legend of Montrose, The Bride 
 of Lammermoor, Ivanhoe, The Monastery, 
 The Abbot, Kenihcorth, The Pirate, The 
 Fortunes of Nigel, Peveril of the Peak, 
 Quentin Durward, St. Bonan's Well, Red- 
 gauntlet, The Betrothed, and The Talisman. 
 This vast body of fiction was also a new 
 creation in literature, for the English novel 
 prior to Scott's time was the novel of 
 manners, as chiefly represented by the 
 works of Richardson, Fielding, and Smol-
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 2S3 
 
 lett. That admirable author Miss Jane 
 Porter had, indeed, written the Scottish 
 Chiefs (1809), in which the note of imagi- 
 nation, as applied to the treatment of 
 historical fact and character, rings true 
 and clear ; and probably that beautiful book 
 should be remembered as the beginning of 
 English historical romance. Scott himself 
 said that it was the parent, in his mind, of 
 the Waverley Novels. But he surpassed 
 it. Another and perhaps a deeper impulse 
 to the composition of those novels was the 
 consciousness, when Lord Byron, by the pub- 
 lication of "Childe Harold" (the first and 
 second cantos, in 1812), suddenly checked 
 or eclipsed his immediate popularity as a 
 poet, that it would be necessary for him 
 to strike out a new path. He had begun 
 Waverley in 1805 and thrown the fragment 
 aside. He took it up again in 1814, wrought 
 upon it for three weeks and finished it, 
 and so began the career of "the Great 
 Unknown." The history of literature pre- 
 sents scarce a comparable example of such 
 splendid industry sustained upon such a high 
 level of endeavour, animated by such a glori- 
 ous genius, and resultant in such a noble 
 and beneficent fruition. The life of Balzac, 
 whom his example inspired, and who may
 
 284 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 be accounted the greatest of French writers 
 since Voltaire, is perhaps the only life that 
 drifts suggestively into the scholar's memory 
 as he thinks of the prodigious labours of Sir 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 During the days of his prosperity Scott 
 maintained his manor at Abbotaford and his 
 town-house in Edinburgh, and frequently 
 migrated from one to the other, dispensing 
 a liberal hospitality at both. He was not 
 one of those authors who think that there 
 is nothing in the world but pen and ink. 
 He esteemed living to be more important 
 than viTiting about it and the development 
 of the soul to be a grander result than the 
 production of a book. "I hate an author 
 that's all author," said Byron ; and in this 
 virtuous sentiment Scott participated. His 
 character and conduct, his unaffected mo- 
 desty as to his own works, his desire to found 
 a great house and to maintain a stately rank 
 among the land-owners of his country, have, 
 for this reason, been greatly misunderstood 
 by dull people. They never, indeed, would 
 have found the least fault with him if he had 
 not become a bankrupt ; for the mouth of 
 every dunce is stopped by practical success. 
 When he got into debt, though, it was dis- 
 covered that he ought to have had a higher
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 2S5 
 
 ambition than the wish to maintain a place 
 among the landed gentry of Scotland ; and 
 even though he ultimately paid his debts — • 
 literally working himself to death to do it — 
 he was not forgiven by that class of censors ; 
 and to some extent their chatter of paltry 
 disparagement still survives. While he was 
 rich, however, his halls were thronged with 
 fashion, rank, and renown. Edinburgh, still 
 the stateliest city on which the sun looks 
 down, must have been, in the last days of 
 George iii., a place of peculiar beauty, 
 opulence, and social brilliancy. Scott, whose 
 father was a Writer to the Signet, and who 
 derived his descent from a good old Border 
 family — the Scotts of Harden — had, from 
 his youth, been accustomed to refined society 
 and elegant surroundings. He was born and 
 reared a gentleman, and a gentleman he 
 never ceased to be. His father's house was 
 in George Square (No. 25), then an aristo- 
 cratic quarter, now somewhat fallen into the 
 sere and yellow. In that house, as a boy, 
 he saw some of the most distinguished men 
 of the age. In after years, when his for- 
 tunes were ripe and his fame as a poet had 
 been established, he drew around himself 
 a kindred class of associates. The record 
 of his life blazes with splendid names. As
 
 286 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 a lad of fifteen, iu 17S6, he saw Burns, then 
 twenty-seven, and in the hej^day of fame ; 
 and he also saw Dugald Stewart, seventeen 
 years his senior. Lord Jefl&'ey was his eon- 
 temporary and friend — only two years younger 
 than himself. With Henry Mackenzie, "the 
 Addison of Scotland " — born in the first year 
 of the last Jacobite rebellion, and therefore 
 twenty-six years his senior — he lived on 
 terms of cordial friendship. David Hume, 
 who died when Scott was but five years 
 old, was one of the great celebrities of 
 his early days ; and doubtless Scott saw 
 the Calton Hill when it was as Jane Porter 
 remembered it, "a vast green slope, with 
 the line of its 
 iw but Hume's 
 monument on one part and the astronomical 
 observatory on the other." He knew John 
 Home, the author of "Douglas," who was his 
 senior by forty-seven years ; and among his 
 miscellaneous prose writings there is an efi"ec- 
 tive review of Home's works, which was 
 written for the Quarterly, in March 1827. 
 Among the actors his especial friends were 
 John Philip Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, the 
 elder Mathews, John Bannister, and Daniel 
 Terry. He knew Yates also, and he saw 
 Miss Foote, Fanny Kemble, and the Mathews
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 2S7 
 
 of our day as "a clever, rather forward lad/' 
 Goethe was his correspondent. Byron was 
 his friend and fervent admirer. Wordsworth 
 and Moore were among his visitors and 
 especial favourites. The aged Dr. Adam 
 Ferguson was one of his intimates. Hogg, 
 when in trouble, always sought him, and 
 always was helped and comforted. He was 
 the literary sponsor for Thomas Campbell. 
 He met Madame D'Arblay, who was nine- 
 teen years his senior, when she was seventy- 
 eight years old ; and the author of Evelina 
 talked with him, in the presence of old 
 Samuel Rogers, then sixty-three, about her 
 father, Dr. Burney, and the days of Dr. 
 Johnson. He was honoured wdth the cordial 
 regard of the great Duke of Wellington, a 
 contemporary, being only two years his 
 senior. He knew Croker, Haydon, Chantrey, 
 Landseer, Sydney Smith, and Theodore 
 Hook. He read Vivian Grey as a new pub- 
 lication and saw Disraeli as a beginner. 
 Coleridge he met and marvelled at. Mrs. 
 Coutts, who had been Harriet Mellon, the 
 singer, and who became the Duchess of St. 
 Albans, was a favourite with him. He knew 
 and liked that savage critic William Gifford. 
 His relations with Sir Humphry Davy, 
 seven years his senior, were those of kind-
 
 255 GEAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 ness. He had a great regard for Lord 
 Castlereagh and Lord Melville. He liked 
 Robert Sonthey, and he cherished a deep 
 aflfection for the poet Crabbe, who was 
 twenty-three years older than himself, and 
 who died in the same year. Of Sir George 
 Beaumont, the fond friend and wise patron 
 of Wordsworth, who died in February 1827, 
 Scott wrote that he was " by far the most 
 sensible and pleasing man I ever knew." 
 Amid a society such as is indicated by these 
 names Scott passed his life. The brilHant 
 days of the Cauongate indeed were gone, 
 when all those wynds and closes that fringe 
 the historic avenue from the Castle to Holy- 
 rood were as clean as wax, and when the 
 loveliest ladies of Scotland dwelt amongst 
 them, and were borne in their chairs from 
 one house of festivity to another. But Xew 
 Street, once the home of Lord Kames, still 
 retained some touch of its ancient finery. 
 St. John Street, where once lived Lord 
 Monboddo and his beautiful daughter, Miss 
 Burnet (immortalised by Burns), and where 
 (at No. 10) Ballantyne often convoked ad- 
 mirers of the unknown author of Waverley, 
 was still a cleanly place. Alison Square, 
 George Square, Buccleuch Place, andkindred 
 quarters were still tenanted by the polished
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 289 
 
 classes of the stately old-time society of 
 Edinburgh, The movement northerly had 
 begun, but as yet it was inconsiderable. 
 In those old drawing-rooms Scott was an 
 habitual visitor, as also he was in many 
 of the contiguous county manors — in Seton 
 House, and Pinkie House, and Blackford, 
 and Ravelstoue, and Craigcrook, and Caro- 
 line Park, and wherever else the intellect, 
 beauty, rank, and fashion of the Scottish 
 capital assembled ; and it is certain that after 
 his marriage, in December 1797, with Miss 
 Charlotte Margaret Carpenter the scenes of 
 hospitality and of elegant festival were 
 numerous and gay, and were peopled with 
 all that was brightest in the ancient city, 
 beneath his roof-tree in Castle Street and 
 his turrets of Abbotsford. 
 
 There came a time, however, when the 
 fabric of Scott's fortunes was to be shat- 
 tered and his imperial genius bowed into 
 the dust. He had long been a business 
 associate with Constable, his publisher, and 
 also with Ballantyne, his printer. The 
 publishing business failed and they were 
 ruined together. It has long been customary 
 to place the blame for that catastrophe on 
 Constable alone, Mr. Douglas, who has 
 edited the Journal with characteristic dis- 
 T
 
 290 GRAY DATS AND GOLD. 
 
 cretion and taste, records his opinion that 
 "the three parties — printer, publisher, 
 and author — were equal sharers in the im- 
 prudences that led to the disaster ; " and he 
 directs attention to the fact that the charge 
 that Constable ruined Scott was not made 
 during the lifetime of either. It matters 
 little now in what way the ruin was induced. 
 Mismanagement caused it, and not misdeed. 
 There was a blunder, but there was no 
 fraud. The honour of all the men con- 
 cerned stands vindicated before the world. 
 Moreover, the loss was retrieved and the 
 debt was paid — Scott's share of it in full : 
 the other shares in part. It is to the period 
 of this ordeal that Scott's Journal mainly 
 relates. Great though he had been in pro- 
 sperity, he was to show himself greater amid 
 the storms of disaster and affliction. The 
 earlier pages of the diary are cheerful, 
 vigorous, and confident. The mind of the 
 writer is in no alarm. Presently the sky 
 changes and the tempest breaks ; and from 
 that time onward you behold a spectacle of 
 indomitable will, calm resolution, inflexible 
 purpose, patient endurance, steadfast indus- 
 try, and productive genius that is simply 
 sublime. Many facts of living interest and 
 many gems of subtle thought and happy
 
 SIE, WALTER SCOTT. 29 1 
 
 phrase are found in his daily record. The 
 observations on immortality are in a fine 
 strain. The remarks on music, on dramatic 
 poetry, on the operation of the mental 
 faculties, on painting, and on national char- 
 acteristics, are freighted with suggestive 
 thought. But the noble presence of the 
 man overshadows even his best words. He 
 lost his fortune in December 1825. His wife 
 died in I>Iay 1826. On the pages that im- 
 mediately follow his note of this bereave- 
 ment Scott has written occasional words 
 that no one can read unmoved, and that 
 no one who has suffered can read without 
 a pang that is deeper than tears. 
 
 But his spirit was slow to break. *' Duty 
 to God and to my children," he said, " must 
 teach me patience." Once he speaks of 
 "the loneliness of these watches of the 
 night." Not until his debts were paid and 
 his duties fulfilled would that great soul 
 yield. " I may be bringing on some serious 
 disease," he remarks, "by working thus 
 hard ; if I had once justice done to other 
 folks, I do not much care, only I would not 
 like to suffer long pain." A little later the 
 old spirit shows itself : " I do not like to 
 have it thought that there is any way in 
 which I can be beaten. . . . Let us use the time
 
 292 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 and faculties which God has left us, and 
 trust futurity to His guidance. ... I want 
 to finish my task, and then good-night. I 
 will never relax my labour in these aflfairs 
 either for fear of pain or love of life. I will 
 die a free man, if hard working will do it. . . . 
 My spirits are neither low nor high — grave, 
 I think, and quiet — a complete twilight of 
 the mind. . . . God help — but rather God 
 bless — man must help himself. . . . The 
 best is, the long halt will arrive at last and 
 cure all. ... It is my dogged humour to 
 yield little to external circumstances. . . . 
 I shall never see the threescore and ten, 
 and shall be summed up at a fliscount. No 
 help for it, and no matter either." In the 
 mood of mingled submission and resolve 
 denoted by these sentences (which occur at 
 long intervals m the story), he wrought at 
 his task until it was finished. By Wo yd stock 
 he earned £8000 ; by the Life of Xajooleon 
 £18,000 ; by other writings still other sums. 
 The details of his toil appear day by day in 
 these quiet pages, tragic through all their 
 simplicity. He was a heart-broken man 
 from the hour when his wife died, but he sus- 
 tained himself by force of will and sense of 
 honour, and he endured and worked till the 
 end without a murmur ; and when he had
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 293 
 
 done his task he laid down his pen and 
 died. 
 
 The lesson of Scott's Journal is the most 
 important lesson that experience can teach. 
 It is taught in two words — honour and duty. 
 Nothing is more obvious, from the nature 
 and environment and the consequent condi- 
 tion of the human race, than the fact that 
 this world is not, and was not intended to 
 be, a place of settled happiness. All human 
 beings have troubles, and as the years pass 
 away those troubles become more numerous, 
 more heavy, and more hard to bear. The 
 ordeal through which humanity is pass- 
 ing is an ordeal of discipline for spiritual 
 development. To live in honour, to labour 
 with steadfast industry, and to endure with 
 cheerful patience is to be victorious. What- 
 ever in literature will illustrate this doc- 
 trine, and whatever in human example will 
 commend and enforce it, is of transcendent 
 value : and that value is inherent in the 
 example of Sir Walter Scott.
 
 XXL 
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS. 
 
 ONE denotement — among many — of a 
 genial change, a relaxation of the old 
 ecclesiastical austerity long prevalent in Scot- 
 land, is perceptible in the lighter character 
 of her modern sepulchral monuments. In the 
 old churchyard of St. Michael, at Dumfries, 
 the burial-place of Burns, there is a hideous, 
 dismal mass of misshapen, weather-beaten 
 masonry, the mere aspect of which — before 
 any of its gruesome inscriptions are read — 
 is a rebuke to hope and an alarm to despair. 
 Thus the religionists of old tried to make 
 death terrible. Much of this same order of 
 abhorrent architecture — the ponderous ex- 
 ponent of immitigable woe — may be found 
 in the old Greyfriars Churchyard in Edin- 
 burgh, and in that of the Canongate. But 
 the pilgrim to the Dean Cemetery and the 
 Warriston — both comparatively modem, and 
 beautifully situated at different points on the
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS. 295 
 
 north side of the Water of Leith — finds them 
 adorned with every gi'ace that can hallow 
 the repose of the dead, or soothe the grief, 
 or mitigate the fear, or soften the bitter 
 resentment of the living. Hope, and not 
 despair, is the spirit of the new epoch in 
 religion, and it is hope not merely for a sect 
 but for all mankind. 
 
 The mere physical loveliness of those 
 cemeteries may well tempt yon to explore 
 them ; but no one will neglect them who 
 cares for the storied associations of the past. 
 Walking in the Dean, on an afternoon 
 half-cloudy and half-bright, when the large 
 trees that guard its western limit and all 
 the masses of foliage in the dark ravine of 
 the Leith were softly rustling in the balmy 
 summer wind, while overhead and far 
 around the solemn cawing of the rooks 
 mingled sleepily with the twitter of the 
 sparrows, I thought, as I paced the sunlit 
 aisles, that Nature could nowhere show 
 a scene of sweeter peace. In this gentle 
 solitude has been laid to its everlasting rest 
 all that could die of some of the greatest 
 leaders of thought in modem Scotland. It 
 was no common experience to muse beside 
 the tomb of Francis Jeffrey — the formidable 
 Lord Jeffrey of The Edinhuy^gh Review. He
 
 29b GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 lies buried near the great wall on the 
 western side of the Dean Cemetery, with his 
 wife beside him. A flat, oblong stone tomb, 
 imposed upon a large stone platform and 
 overshadowed with tall trees, marks the 
 place, on one side of which is written that 
 once-famous and dreaded name, now spoken 
 with indifference or not spoken at all : 
 "Francis Jeffrey. Born Oct. 23, 1773. 
 Died Jan. 25, 1850." On the end of the 
 tomb is a medallion portrait of Jefirey, in 
 bronze. It is a profile, and it shows a 
 sj'mmetrical head, a handsome face — severe, 
 refined, frigid — and altogether it is the 
 denotement of a personality remarkable for 
 the faculty of taste and the instinct of 
 decorum, though not for creative power. 
 Close by Lord Jefirey, a little to the south, 
 are buried Sir Archibald Alison, the his- 
 torian of Europe, and Henry Cockburn, the 
 great jurist. Combe, the philosopher, rests 
 near the south front of the wall that bisects 
 this cemetery from east to west. Not far 
 from the memorials of these famous persons 
 is a shaft of honour to Lieutenant John 
 Irving, who was one of the companions of 
 Sir John Franklin, and who perished amid 
 the Polar ice in "King William's Land" in 
 1818-'49.
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS. 297 
 
 In another part of the ground a tall cross 
 commemorates David Scott, the painter 
 (1807-1849), presenting a superb effigy of his 
 head, in one of the most animated pieces 
 of bronze that have copied human life. 
 Against the eastern wall, on the terrace 
 overlooking the ravine and the rapid Water 
 of Leith, stands the tombstone of John 
 Blackwood, "Editor of Blachicood' s Maga- 
 zine for thirty-three years : Died at Strath- 
 tyrum, 29th Oct. 1879. Aged 60." This 
 inscription, cut upon a broad white marble, 
 with scroll-work at the base, and set against 
 the wall, is surmounted with a coat of arms, 
 in gray stone, bearing the motto, "Per vias 
 rectas." Many other eminent names may 
 be read in this garden of death ; but most 
 interesting of all, and those that most of all 
 I sought, are the names of Wilson and 
 Aytoun. Those worthies were buried close 
 together, almost in the centre of the ceme- 
 tery. The grave of the great "Christopher 
 North " is marked by a simple monolith of 
 Aberdeen granite, beneath a tree, and it 
 bears only this inscription: "John Wilson, 
 Professor of Moral Philosophy. Born 18th 
 of May, 1785. Died 3d April, 1854." Far 
 more elaborate is the white marble monu- 
 ment — a square tomb, with carvings of re-
 
 298 GRAY DAYS AST) GOLD. 
 
 cessed Gothic windows on its sides, support- 
 ing a tall cross — erected to the memory of 
 Aytoun and of his mfe, who was Wilson's 
 daughter. The inscriptions tell their suffi- 
 cient story: "Jane Emily Wilson, beloved 
 wife of William Edmondstoune Aytoun. 
 Obiit 15 April, 1859. " ' ' Here is laid to rest 
 William Edmondstoune Aytoun, D.C.L., 
 Oxon., Professor of Rhetoric and English 
 Literature in the University of Edinburgh. 
 Sheriff of Orkney and Zetland. Born at 
 Edinburgh, 21st June, 1813. Died at Black- 
 hills, Elgin, 4th August, 1865. ' Waiting 
 for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.' 
 1 Cor. i. 7." So they sleep, the poets, wits, 
 and scholars that were once so bright in 
 genius, so gay in spirit, so splendid in 
 achievement, so vigorous in affluent and 
 brilliant life ! It is the old story, and it 
 teaches the old moral. 
 
 Warriston, not more beautiful than Dean, 
 is perhaps more beautiful in situation ; cer- 
 tainly it commands a more beautiful pro- 
 spect. You will visit Warriston for the 
 sake of Alexander Smith ; for you have not 
 forgotten the Life Drama, the City Poems, 
 Edwin of Deira, Alfred Hagart's Household, 
 and A Summer in Skye. He lies in the 
 north-east corner of the ground, at the foot
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS. 299 
 
 of a large lona cross which is bowered by a 
 chestnut tree. Above him the green sod is 
 like a carpet of satin. The cross is thickly 
 carved with laurel, thistle, and holly, and it 
 bears upon its front the face of the poet, in 
 bronze, and the harp that betokens his art. 
 It is a bearded face, having small, refined 
 features, a slightly pouted, sensitive mouth, 
 and being indicative more of nervous sensi- 
 bility than of rugged strength. The inscrip- 
 tion gives simply his name and dates : "Alex- 
 ander Smith, Poet and Essayist. Born at 
 Kilmarnock, 31st December, 1829. Died at 
 Wardie, 5th January, 1867. Erected by 
 some of his personal Friends." Standing by 
 his grave, at the foot of this cross, you can 
 gaze straight away southward to Arthur's 
 Seat, and behold the whole line of imperial 
 Edinburgh at a glance, from the Calton Hill 
 to the Castle. It is such a spot as he would 
 have chosen for his sepulchre — face to face 
 with the city that he so dearly loved. Near 
 him on the east wall appears a large slab of 
 Aberdeen ga^anite, to mark the grave of still 
 another Scottish worthy, "James Ballantine, 
 Poet. Born 11th Jime, 1808. Died 18th 
 Dec, 1877." And midway along the slope 
 of the northern terrace, a little eastward of 
 the chapel, under a freestone monolith bear-
 
 303 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 ing the butterfly that is Nature's sj^mbol of 
 immortalit}', you will see the grave of " Sir 
 James Young Simpson, Bart., M.D., D.C.L. 
 Born 1811. Died 1870." And if you are 
 wearj'^ of thinking about the evanescence of 
 the poets you can reflect that there was no 
 exemption from the common lot even for one 
 of the greatest physical benefactors of the 
 human race. 
 
 The oldest and the most venerable 
 and mysterious of the cemeteries of Edin- 
 burgh is that of the Greyfriars. Irregular 
 in shape and uneven in surface, it encircles 
 its famous old church, in the storied neigh- 
 bourhood of the West Bow, and is itself 
 hemmed in with many buildings. More 
 than four centuries ago this was the 
 garden of the Monastery of the Greyfriars, 
 founded by James i. of Scotland, and 
 thus it gets its name. The monastery 
 disappeared long ago : the garden was 
 turned into a graveyard in the time of 
 Queen Mary Stuart, and by her order. 
 The building, called the Old Church, dates 
 back to 1612, but it was burnt in 1845 and 
 subsequently restored. Here the National 
 Covenant was subscribed (163S) by the 
 lords and by the people, and in this 
 doubly consecrated ground are laid the
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS. 3OI 
 
 remains of many of those heroic Covenanters 
 who subsequently suffered death for con- 
 science and their Church. There is a large 
 book of "The Epitaphs and Monumental 
 Inscriptions in Greyfriars Churchj^ard, '' 
 made by James Brown, keeper of the 
 grounds, and published in 1867. That 
 record does not pretend to be complete, and 
 yet it mentions no less than 2271 persons 
 who are sepulchred in this place. Among 
 those sleepers are Duncan Forbes of Cul- 
 loden ; Robert Mylne, who built a part of 
 Holyrood Palace ; Sir George Mackenzie, 
 the persecutor of the Covenanters ; Car- 
 stares, the adviser of King William iii. ; 
 Sir Adam Ferguson, Henry Mackenzie ; 
 Robertson and Tytler the historians ; Sir 
 Walter Scott's father, and several of the 
 relatives of Mrs. Siddons. Captain John 
 Porteous, who was hanged in the Grass- 
 market by riotous citizens of Edinbiirgh, on 
 the night of September 7, 1736, and whose 
 story is so vividly told in Tlie Heart ofMid- 
 lothian, was buried in the Greyfriars 
 Churchyard, "three dble. pace from the 
 S. corner Chalmers' tomb " [1736], James 
 Brown's record of the churchyard contains 
 various particulars, quoted from the old 
 church register. Of William Robertson,
 
 302 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 minister of the parish, \vho died in 1745, 
 we read that he "lyes near the tree next 
 Blackwood's ground." "Mr. Allan Ram- 
 say," says the same quaint chronicle, "lies 
 5 dble. paces southwest the blew stone : 
 A poet: old age: Buried 9th January 175S." 
 Christian Ross, his wife, who preceded 
 the aged bard by fifteen years, lies in 
 the same grave. Sir Walter Scott's father 
 was laid there on April 18, 1799, and 
 his daughter Anne was placed beside him 
 in 1801. In a letter addressed to his 
 brother Thomas, in 1819, Sir Walter wrote : 
 "When poor Jack was buried in the 
 Greyfriars Churchyard, where my father 
 and Anne lie, I thought their graves more 
 encroached upon than I liked to witness." 
 The remains of the Regent Morton were, it 
 is said, wrapped in a cloak and secretly 
 buried there at night — the 2d of June 1581 — 
 low down toward the northern wall. The 
 supiDosed gi'ave of the superb Latin poet 
 George Buchanan ("the elegant Buchanan," 
 Dr. Johnson calls him) is not distant from 
 this spot ; and in the old church may be 
 seen a beautiful window, a triple lancet, in 
 the south aisle, placed there to commemo- 
 rate that illustrious author. 
 
 Hugh Miller and Dr. Chalmers were laid
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS. 303 
 
 in the Grange Cemetery, whicli is in the 
 southern part of the city, near Momingside. 
 Adam Smith is commemorated by a heavy 
 inece of masonry, over his dust, at the south 
 end of the Canongate Churchyard, and 
 Dugald Stewart by a ponderous tomb at the 
 north end of it, where he was buried, as 
 also by the monument on the Calton Hill. 
 It is to see Ferguson's gravestone, however, 
 that the pilgrim explores the Canongate 
 Churchyard — and a dreary place it is for 
 the last rest of a poet. Robert Bui^ns 
 placed the stone, and on the back of it is 
 inscribed : "By special grant of the mana- 
 gers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, 
 this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred 
 to Robert Ferguson." That poet was born 
 September 5, 1751, and died October 16, 
 1774. These lines, written by Burns, with 
 an intentional reminiscence of Gray, whose 
 elegy he fervently admired, are his epitaph — 
 
 " No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
 No storied urn nor animated bust — 
 This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
 To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust." 
 
 One of the greatest minds of Scotland, 
 and indeed of the world, was David Hume, 
 who could think more clearly and express
 
 304 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD, 
 
 his thoughts more precisely and cogently 
 upon great subjects than almost any meta- 
 physician of our English-speaking race. His 
 tomb is in the old Calton Cemetery, close 
 by the prison, a grim Roman tower, pre- 
 dominant over the Waverley Vale and visible 
 from every part of it. This structure is 
 open to the sky, and within it and close 
 around its interior edge nine melancholy 
 bushes are making a forlorn effort to grow 
 in the stony soil that covers the great his- 
 torian's dust. There is an urn above the 
 door of this mausoleum, and surmounting 
 the urn is this inscription : " David Hume, 
 born April 26th, 1711. Died August 25th, 
 177G. Erected in memory of him in 1778." 
 In another part of this ground you may find 
 the sepulchre of Sir Walter Scott's friend 
 and publisher, Archibald Constable, born 
 24th February 1774, died 21st July 1827. 
 Several priests were roaming over the ceme- 
 tery when I saw it, making its dismal aspect 
 still more dismal by that furtive aspect 
 which often marks the ecclesiastic of the 
 Roman Catholic Church. 
 
 Another great man, Thomas de Quincey, 
 is buried in the old churchyard of the 
 West Church, that lies in the valley just 
 beneath the west front of the crag of
 
 ELEGIAC MEMORIALS. 305 
 
 Edinburgh Castle. I went to that spot on 
 a bright and lovely autumn evening. The 
 place was deserted, except for the pre- 
 sence of a gardener, to whom I made my 
 request that he would guide me to the 
 grave of De Quincey. It is an incon- 
 spicuous place, marked by a simple slab of 
 dark stone, set against the wall, in an angle 
 of the enclosure, on a slight acclivity. As 
 you look upward from this spot you see the 
 grim, magnificent castle frowning on its 
 precipitous height. The grave was covered 
 thick with grass, and in a narrow trench of 
 earth cut in the sod around it many pansies 
 and marigolds were in bloom. Upon the 
 gravestone is wi-itten : "Sacred to the me- 
 mory of Thomas de Quincey, who was born 
 at Greenhay, near Manchester, August loth, 
 1785, and died in Edinburgh, December 8th, 
 1859. And of Margaret, his wife, who died 
 August 7, 1837." Just over the honoured 
 head of the illustrious sleeper were two 
 white daisies peeping through the green; 
 one of which I thought it not a sin to take 
 away — for it is the symbol at once of peace 
 and hope, and therefore a sufficient embodi- 
 ment of the best that death can teach.
 
 XXII. 
 
 SCOTTISH PICTURES 
 
 STRONACHLACHER, Loch Katrine, 
 September 1, 1890. — Xo one needs to 
 be told that the Fortli Bridge is a wonder. 
 All the world knows it, and knows that the 
 art of the engineer has here achieved its 
 masterpiece. The bridge is not beautiful, 
 whether viewed from afar or close at hand. 
 You see it — or some part of it — from every 
 height to which you mount in Edinburgh. 
 It is visible from the Calton Hill, from the 
 Nelson Column, from the Scott Monument, 
 from the ramparts of the Castle, from Salis- 
 bury Crags, from the Braid Hills, and of 
 course from the eminence of Arthur's Seat. 
 Other objects of interest there are which 
 seek the blissful shade, but the Forth Bridge 
 is an object of interest that insists upon 
 being seen. The visitor to the shores of 
 the Forth need not mount any height in 
 order to perceive it, for all along those
 
 SCOTTISH PICTURES. 307 
 
 shores, from Dirleton to Leith and from Elie 
 to Burntisland, it frequently comes into 
 the picture. While, however, it is not 
 beautiful, it impresses the observer with a 
 sense of colossal magnificence. It is a more 
 triumphant structure even than the Eiffel 
 Tower, and it predominates over the vision 
 and the imagination by the same audacity of 
 purpose and the same consummate fulfilment 
 which mark that other marvel and establish 
 it in universal admiration. Crossing the 
 bridge early this morning I deeply felt its 
 superb potentiality, and was charmed like- 
 wise vrith. its pictorial effect. That effect is 
 no doubt due in part to its accessories. Both 
 waj's the broad expanse of the Forth was 
 visible for many miles. It was a still morn- 
 ing, overcast and mournful. There was a 
 light breeze from the south-east, — the air 
 at that elevation being as sweet as new milk. 
 Beneath, far down, the surface of the steel- 
 gray water was crinkled like the scaly back 
 of a fish. Midway a little island rears its 
 spine of rock out of the stream. "Westward 
 at some distance rises a crag, on which is 
 a tiny lighthouse-tower, painted red. The 
 long, graceful stone piers that stretch into 
 the Forth at this point, — which are break- 
 waters to form a harbour, — and all the little
 
 308 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 gray houses of Queensferry, Inverkeithing, 
 and the adjacent villages looked like the toy 
 buildings which are the playthings of chil- 
 dren. A steamboat was making her way 
 up the river, while near the shores were 
 many small boats swinging at their moorings, 
 for the business of the day was not yet 
 begun. Over this scene the scarce-risen sun, 
 much obscured by dull clouds, cast a faint 
 rosy light — and even while the picture was 
 at its best we glided away from it into the 
 storied land of Fife. 
 
 In former days the traveller to Stirling 
 commonly went by the way of Linlithgow, 
 which is the place where Mary Stuart was 
 born, and he was all the more prompted to 
 think of that enchanting woman because he 
 usually caught a glimpse of the ruins of Nid- 
 dry Castle — one of the houses of her faithful 
 Lord Seton — at which she rested, on the ro- 
 mantic and memorable occasion of her flight 
 from Loch Leven. Now, since the Forth 
 Bridge has been opened, the most direct route 
 to Stirling is by Dunfermline. And this is a 
 gain, for Dunfermline is one of the most 
 interesting places in Scotland. That Mal- 
 colm of whom we catch a glimpse when we 
 see a representation of Shakespeare's tragedy 
 of " Macbeth " had a royal castle there nine
 
 SCOTTISH PICTURIL5, 309 
 
 hundred years ago, of which a fragment 
 still remains ; and on a slope of the Forth, 
 a few miles west from Dunfermline, the 
 vigilant antiquarian has fixed the site of 
 Macduff's castle, where Lady Macduff and 
 her children were slaughtered by the tyrant. 
 In the ancient church at Dunfermline, the 
 Church of the Holy Trinity — devastated at 
 the Reformation, but since restored — you 
 may see the great blue-grey stone which 
 covers the tomb of Malcolm and of Mar- 
 garet, his queen — an angel among women 
 when she lived, and worthy to be remem- 
 bered now as the saint that her Church has 
 made her. The body of Margaret, who died 
 at Edinburgh Castle, November 16, 1093, 
 was secretly and hastily conveyed to Dun- 
 fermline, and there buried, — Edinburgh 
 Castle ("The Maiden Castle" it was then 
 called) being assailed by her husband's 
 brother, Donald Bane. The remains of this 
 noble and devoted woman, however, do 
 not rest in that tomb, for long afterward, 
 at the Reformation, they were taken away, 
 and after various wanderings were enshrined 
 at the Church of St. Laurence in the 
 Escurial. I had often stood in the little 
 chapel that this good queen founded in 
 Edinburgh Castle, — a place which they
 
 310 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 desecrate no^y, by using it as a shop for the 
 sale of pictures and memorial trinkets, — 
 and I was soon to stand in the ruins of 
 Saint Oran's Chapel in far lona, which also 
 was built by her ; and so it was with many 
 reverent thoughts of an exalted soul and a 
 beneficent life that I saw the great dark 
 tower of Dunfermline Church vanish in the 
 distance. At Stirling the rain, which had 
 long been lowering, came down in floods, and 
 after that for many hours there was genuine 
 Scotch weather and a copious abundance of 
 it. This also is an experience, and, al- 
 though that superb drive over the mountain 
 from Aberfoyle to Loch Katrine was marred 
 by the wet, I was well pleased to see the 
 Trosachs country in storm, which I had be- 
 fore seen in sunshine. It is a land of infinite 
 variety, and lovely even in tempest. The 
 majesty of the rocky heights ; the bleak and 
 barren loneliness of the treeless hills ; the 
 many thread-like waterfalls which, seen 
 afar oflf, are like rivulets of silver frozen into 
 stillness on the mountain-sides ; the occa- 
 sional apparition of precipitous peaks, over 
 which presently are driven the white 
 streamers of the mist — all these are strik- 
 ing elements of a scene which blends into 
 the perfection of grace the qualities of
 
 SCOTTISH PICTCP.ES, 3II 
 
 gentle beauty and wild romance. Ben 
 Lomond in the west and Ben Venue and 
 Ben Ledi in the north were indistinct, and 
 so was Ben A'an in its nearer cloud ; but 
 a brisk wind had swept the mists from Loch 
 Drunkie, and under a black sky the smooth 
 surface of "lovely Loch Achray" shone 
 like a liquid diamond. An occasional grouse 
 rose from the ferns and quickly winged its 
 way to cover. A few cows, wet but indiffe- 
 rent, composed, and contented, were now 
 and then visible, grazing in that desert ; 
 while high up on the crags appeared many 
 sure-footed sheep, the ineWtable inhabitants 
 of those solitudes. So onward, breathing 
 the sweet air that here was perfumed by 
 miles and miles of purple heather, I de- 
 scended through the dense coppice of birch 
 and pine that fringes Loch Katrine, and all 
 in a moment came out upon the levels of the 
 lake. It was a long sail down Loch Katrine 
 for a pilgrim drenched and chilled by the 
 steady fall of a penetrating rain ; but Ellen's 
 Isle and Fitz-James's Silver Strand brought 
 pleasant memories of one of the sweetest 
 of stories, and all the lonesome waters 
 seemed haunted with a ghostly pageant of 
 the radiant standards of Roderick Dliu. 
 To-night the mists are on the mountains,
 
 312 GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 and upon this little pine-clad promontory of 
 Stronachlacher the darkness comes down 
 early and seems to close it in from all the 
 world. The waters of Loch Katrine are 
 black and gloomy, and no sound is heard 
 but the rush of the rain and the sigh of the 
 pines. It is a night for memory and for 
 thought, and to them let it be devoted. 
 
 The night-wind that sobs in the trees — 
 Ah, would that my spirit could tell 
 What an infinite meaning it breathes, 
 What a sorrow and longing it ^Yake* !
 
 XXIII. 
 
 IMPERIAL RUIXS. 
 
 OBAN, September 4, 1890. — Going west- 
 ward from Stronachlacher a drive of 
 several delicious miles, through the country 
 of Rob Roy, ends at Inversnaid and the 
 shore of Loch Lomond. The rain had 
 passed, but under a dusky, lowering sky the 
 dense white mists, driven by a fresh morn- 
 ing wind, were drifting along the heath-clad 
 hills, like a pageant of angels trailing robes 
 of light. Loch Arklet and the little shieling 
 where was born Helen, the wife of the 
 Macgregor, were soon past — a peaceful re- 
 gion smiling in the vale ; and presently, 
 along the northern bank of the Arklet, 
 whose copious, dark and rapid waters, 
 broken into foam upon their rocky bed, 
 make music all the way, I descended that 
 precipitous road to Loch Lomond which, 
 through many a devious turning and sudden 
 peril in the fragrant copi^ice, reaches safety 
 at last in one of the wildest of Highland
 
 314 GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 glens. This drive is a chief delight of High- 
 land travel, and it appears to be one that 
 " the march of improvement," — meaning the 
 extension of railways, — can never abolish ; 
 for, besides being solitary and beautiful, the 
 ■way is difficult. You easily divine what a 
 sanctuary that region must have been to the 
 bandit chieftain, when no road traversed it 
 save perhaps a sheep-track or a path for 
 horses, and when it was darkly covered with 
 the thick pines of the Caledonian forest. 
 Scarce a living creature was anywhere 
 visible. A few hardy sheep, indeed, were 
 grazing on the mountain slopes ; a few 
 cattle were here and there couched among 
 the tall ferns ; and sometimes a sable com- 
 pany of rooks flitted by, cawing drearily 
 overhead. Once I saw the slow-stepping, 
 black-faced, puissant Highland bull, with 
 his menacing head and his dark air of sus- 
 pended hostility and inevitable predomi- 
 nance. All the cataracts in those mountain 
 glens were at the flood because of the 
 continuous heavy rains of an uncommonly 
 wet season, and at Inversnaid the magnifi- 
 cent waterfall — twin sister to Lodore and 
 Aira Force — came down in great floods of 
 black and silver, and with a long resounding 
 roar that seemed to shake the forest. Soon
 
 IMPERIAL RUINS. 315 
 
 the welcome sun began to pierce the mists ; 
 patches of soft blue sky became visible 
 through rifts in the gray ; and a glorious 
 rainbow, suddenly cast upon a mountain- 
 side of opposite Inveruglas, spanned the 
 whole glittering fairy realm with its great 
 arch of incommunicable splendour. The 
 place of Rob Roy's cavern was seen, as the 
 boat glided down Loch Lomond, — a snug 
 nest in the wooded crag, — and, after all too 
 brief a sail upon those placid ebon waters, 
 I mounted the coach that plies between 
 Ardlui and Crianlarich. Not much time 
 will now elapse before this coach is displaced 
 — for they are building a railroad through 
 Glen Falloch, which, running southerly 
 from Crianlarich, will skirt the western 
 shore of Loch Lomond and reach to Balloch 
 and Helensburgh, and thus will make the 
 railway communication complete, continuous, 
 and direct between Glasgow and Oban. At 
 intervals all along the glen were visible the 
 railway embankments, the piles of ' ' sleepers, " 
 the heaps of steel rails, the sheds of the 
 builders, and the red flag of the dynamite 
 blast. The new road will be a popular 
 line of travel. No land "that the eye of 
 Heaven visits " is lovelier than this one. 
 But it may perhaps be questioned whether
 
 3l6 GRAY DAYS AST GCLD. 
 
 the exquisite loveliness of the Scottish High- 
 lands will not become vulgarised by over- 
 easiness of accessibility. Sequestration is 
 one of the elements of the beautiful, and 
 numbers of people invariably make common 
 everything upon which rhey swarm. But no- 
 thing can debase the unconquerable majesty 
 of those encircling mountains. I saw "the 
 skyish head'' of Ben More, at one angle, 
 and of Ben Lui at another, and the lonely 
 slopes of the Grampian Hills ; and over the 
 surrounding pasture-land, for miles and 
 miles of solitary waste, the thick, ripe 
 heather burnished the earth with brown 
 and purple bloom and filled the air with 
 dewy fragrance. 
 
 This day proved capricious, and by the 
 time the railway train from Crianlarich had 
 sped a little way into Glen Lochy the land- 
 scape was once more drenched with wild 
 blasts of rain. Loch-an-Beach, always 
 gloomy, seemed black with desolation. 
 Vast mists hung over the mountain-tops 
 and partly hid them ; yet down their fern- 
 clad and heather-mantled sides the many 
 snowy rivulets, seeming motionless in the 
 impetuosity of their motion, streamed in 
 countless ribands of silver lace. The moun- 
 tain ash, which is in perfect bloom in Sep-
 
 IMPERIAL E,UI>*S. 317 
 
 tember, bearing great pendent clusters of 
 scarlet berries, gave a frequent touch of 
 brilliant colour to this "vWld scenery. A 
 numerous herd of little Highland steers, 
 mostly brown and black, swept suddenly 
 into the picture as the express ilashed along 
 Glen Lochy, and at beautiful Dalmally the 
 sun again came out with sudden transient 
 gleams of intermittent splendour ; so that 
 gray Kilchurn and the jewelled waters of 
 sweet Loch Awe, and even the cold and grim 
 grandeur of the rugged Pass of Brander, 
 were momentarily clothed with tender, 
 golden haze. It was afternoon when I 
 alighted in the seaside haven of Oban ; yet 
 soon, beneath the solemn light of the wan- 
 ing day, I once more stood amid the ruins 
 of DunstaShage Castle and looked upon one 
 of the most representative, even as it is one 
 of the most picturesque, relics of the feudal 
 times of Scottish history. You have to 
 journey about three miles out of the town in 
 order to reach that place, which is upon a 
 promontory where Loch Etive joins Loch 
 Linnhe. The carriage was driven to it 
 through a shallow water and across some 
 sands which soon a returning tide would 
 deeply submerge. The castle is so placed 
 that, when it was fortified, it must have
 
 3l8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 been well-nigh impregnable. It stands 
 upon a broad, high, massive, precipitous 
 rock, looking seaward toward Lismore Is- 
 land. Nothing of that old fortress now 
 remains except the battlemented walls, 
 upon the top of which there is a walk, and 
 portions of its towers, of which originally 
 there were but three. The roof and the 
 floors are gone. The courtj^^ard is turfed, 
 and over the surface within its enclosure the 
 grass grows thick and green, while weeds 
 and wild-flowers fringe its slowly mouldering 
 walls, upon which indeed several small trees 
 have rooted themselves, in crevices stufied 
 with earth. One superb ivy tree, of great 
 age and size, covers much of the venerable 
 ruin, upon its inner surface, with a wild 
 luxuriance of brilliant foliage. There are 
 the usual indications in the masonry, show- 
 ing how the area of this castle was once 
 subdivided into rooms of various shapes and 
 sizes, some of them large, in which were 
 ample fireplaces and deeply recessed em- 
 brasures, and no doubt arched casements 
 opening on the inner court. Here dwelt 
 the early Kings of Scotland. Here the 
 national story of Scotland began. Here for 
 a long time was treasured the Stone of 
 Destiny (Lia Fail) before it was taken to
 
 IMPERIAL RUINS. 319 
 
 Scoue Abbey, thence to be borne to Lon- 
 don by Edward i., in 1296, and placed, 
 where it has ever since remained, and is 
 visible now, in the old Coronation Chair in 
 the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, at 
 Westminster, Here through the slow- 
 moving centuries many a story of love, am- 
 bition, sorrow, and death has had its course 
 and left its record. Here, in the stormy, 
 romantic period that followed 1745, was 
 imprisoned for a while the beautiful, in- 
 trepid, constant, and noTale Flora Macdonald 
 — who had saved the person and the life 
 of the fugitive Pretender, after the fatal 
 defeat and hideous carnage of Culloden. 
 What pageants, what festivals, what glories 
 and what horrors have those old walls 
 beheld ! Their stones seem agonised with 
 ghastly memories and weary with the in- 
 tolerable burden of hopeless age ; and as I 
 stood and pondered amid their gray de- 
 crepitude and arid desolation, — while the 
 light grew dim and the evening wind sighed 
 in the ivy and shook the tremulous wall- 
 flowers and the rustling grass, — the ancient, 
 worn-out pile seemed to have a voice and 
 to plead for the merciful death that should 
 put an end to its long, consuming misery 
 and dumb decay. Often before, when
 
 320 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 standing alone among ruins, have I felt this 
 spirit of supplication, and seen this strange, 
 beseechful look, in the silent, patient stones : 
 never before had it appealed to my heart 
 with such eloquence and such pathos. 
 Truly nature passes through all the experi- 
 ence and all the moods of man, even as man 
 passes through all the experience and all the 
 moods of nature . 
 
 On the western side of the courtyard of 
 DunstafFnage stands a small stone building, 
 accessible by a low flight of steps, which 
 bears upon its front the sculptured date 
 1725, intertwined with the letters AE. C. 
 and LC, and the words Laus Deo. From 
 the battlements I had a wonderful view of 
 adjacent lakes and engirdling mountains, — 
 the jewels and their giant guardians of the 
 lonely land of Lorn, — and saw the red sun 
 go down over a great inland sea of purple 
 heather, and upon the wide waste of the 
 desolate ocean. These and such as these 
 are the scenes that make this country dis- 
 tinctive, and that have stamped their im- 
 press of stately thought and romantic senti- 
 ment upon its people. Amid such scenes 
 the Scottish national character has been 
 developed, and under their influence have 
 naturally been created the exquisite poetry,
 
 IMPERIAL RUINS. 32 1 
 
 the enchanting music, the noble art and 
 architecture, and the austere civilisation of 
 imperial Scotland. 
 
 After dark the rain again came on, and all 
 night long, through light and troubled 
 slumber, I heard it beating on the window- 
 panes. The morning dawned in gloom and 
 drizzle, and there was no prophetic voice to 
 speak a word of cheer. One of the expedi- 
 tions that may be made from Oban compre- 
 hends a visit to Fingal's Cave, on the island 
 of Staffa, and to the ruined Cathedral of 
 Saint Columba, on the island of lona, and, 
 incidentally, a voj-age around the great 
 island of Mull. It is the most beautiful, 
 romantic, diversified, and impressive sail 
 that can be made in these waters. The 
 expeditious itinerant in Scotland waits not 
 upon the weather, and at an early hour this 
 day I was speeding out of Oban, with the 
 course set for Lismore Light and the Sound 
 of Mull.
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE LAND OF MARMION. 
 
 BERWICK-UPON-TWEED, September 
 8, 1890.— It had long been my wish to 
 see something of Royal Berwick, and our 
 acquaintance has at length begun. This is 
 a towTi of sombre gray houses capped with 
 red roofs ; of elaborate, old-fashioned, dis- 
 used fortifications ; of dismantled military 
 walls ; of noble stone bridges and stalwart 
 piers ; of breezy battlement walks, fine sea- 
 views, spacious beaches, castellated remains, 
 steep streets, broad squares, narrow, wind- 
 ing ways, many churches, quiet customs, and 
 ancient memories. The present, indeed, has 
 marred the past in this old town, dissi- 
 pating the element of romance and putting 
 no adequate substitute in its place. Yet the 
 element of romance is here, for such ob- 
 servers as can look on Berwick through the 
 eyes of the imagination ; and even those 
 who can imagine nothing must at least per- 
 ceive that its aspect is regal. Viewed, as I
 
 THE LAND OF MAHMION. 323 
 
 had often viewed it, from the great Border 
 Bridge between England and Scotland, it 
 rises on its graceful promontory, — bathed 
 in sunshine and darkly bright amid the 
 sparkling silver of the sea, — a veritable 
 ocean queen. To-day I have walked upon 
 its walls, threaded its principal streets, 
 crossed its ancient bridge, explored its 
 suburbs, entered its municipal hall, \nsited 
 its parish church, and taken long drives 
 through the country that encircles it : and 
 now at midnight, sitting in a lonely chamber 
 of the King's Arms and musing upon the 
 past, I hear not simply the roll of a carriage 
 wheel or the footfall of a late traveller 
 dying away in the distance, but the music 
 with which warriors proclaimed their vic- 
 tories and kings and queens kept festival 
 and state. This has been a pensive day, for 
 in its course I have said farewell to many 
 lovely and beloved scenes. Edinburgh was 
 never more beautiful than when she faded 
 in the yellow mist of this autumnal morning. 
 On Preston battlefield the golden harvest 
 stood in sheaves, and the meadows glimmered 
 green in the soft sunshine, while over them 
 the white clouds drifted and the peaceful 
 rooks made wing in happy indolence and 
 peace. Soon the ruined church of Seton
 
 324 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 came into view, with its singular stunted 
 tower and its venerable gray walls couched 
 deep in trees, and around it the cultivated, 
 many-coloured fields and the breezy, emerald 
 pastures stretching away to the verge of the 
 sea. A glimpse — and it is gone. But one 
 sweet picture no sooner vanishes than its 
 place is filled with another. Yonder, on the 
 hillside, is the manor-house, stately with 
 battlement and tower, its antique aspect 
 softened by great masses of clinging ivy. 
 Here, nestled in the sunny valley, are the 
 little stone cottages, roofed with red tiles 
 and bright with the adornment of arbutus and 
 hollyhock. All around are harvest-fields 
 and market-gardens, — the abundant dark 
 green of potato-patches being gorgeously lit 
 with the intermingled lustre of millions of 
 wild-flowers, white and gold, over which 
 drift many flights of doves. Sometimes upon 
 the yellow level of the hayfields a sudden 
 wave of brilliant poppies seems to break, 
 dashing itself into scarlet foam. Timid, 
 startled sheep scurry away into their pastures 
 as the swift train flashes by them. A 
 woman standing at her cottage door looks at 
 it with curious yet regardless gaze. Farms 
 teeming with plenty are swiftly traversed, 
 their many circular, cone-topped hayricks
 
 THE LAND OF MARMIOX. 325 
 
 standing like towers of amber. Tall, 
 smoking chimneys in the factory villages flit 
 by and disappear. Everywhere are signs of 
 industry and thrift, and everywhere also are 
 denotements of the sentiment and taste that 
 are spontaneous in the nature of this people. 
 Tantallon lies in the near distance, and 
 speeding toward ancient Dunbar I dream once 
 more the dreams of boyhood, and can hear 
 the trumpets, and see the pennons, and catch 
 again the silver gleam of the spears of 
 Marmion. Dunbar is left behind, and with 
 it the sad memory of Mary Stuart, infatuated 
 with barbaric Bothwell, and wliirled away 
 to shipwreck and ruin, — as so many great 
 natures have been before and will be again, 
 — upon the black reefs of human passion. 
 This heedless train is skirting the hills of 
 Lammermoor now, and speeding through 
 plains of a fertile verdure that is brilliant and 
 beautiful dov/n to the margin of the ocean. 
 Close by Cockburnspath is the long, lonely, 
 melancholy beach that well may have been 
 in Scott's remembrance when he fashioned 
 that weird and tragic close of the most 
 poetical and pathetic of his works, while, 
 near at hand, on its desolate headland, the 
 grim ruin of Fast Castle, — which is deemed 
 the original of his Wolf's Crag, — frowns
 
 326 GRAY DAYS AXD GOLD. 
 
 darkly on the white breakers at its surge- 
 beaten base. Edgar of Ravenswood is no 
 longer an image of fiction, when you look 
 upon this scene of gloomy grandeur and 
 mystery. But do not look upon it too 
 closely, nor for long — for of all scenes that 
 are conceived as distinctively weird it may 
 truly be said that they are more impressive 
 in the imagination than in the actual pro- 
 spect. This coast is full of dark ravines, 
 stretching seaward and thickly shrouded 
 with trees, but in them now and then a 
 glimpse is caught of a snugly sheltered house, 
 overgrown with flowers, securely protected 
 from every blast of storm. The rest is open 
 land, which many dark stone walls partition, 
 and many hawthorn hedges, and many little 
 white roads winding away toward the shore : 
 for this is Scottish seaside pageantry, and the 
 sunlit ocean makes a silver setting for the 
 jewelled landscape, all the way to Berwick. 
 The profit of walking in the footsteps of 
 the past is that j'ou learn the value of the 
 privilege of life in the present. The men 
 and women of the past had their oppor 
 tunity, and each improved it after his kind. 
 These are the same plains in which Bruce 
 and Wallace fought for the honour and estab- 
 lished the supremacy of the Kingdom of Scot-
 
 THE LAND OF MARMION. 327 
 
 land. The same sun gilds these plains to- 
 day, the same sweet wind blows over them, 
 and the same sombre, majestic ocean breaks 
 in solemn murmurs on their shore. " Hodie 
 mihi, eras tibi " — as it was written on the 
 altar skulls in the ancient churches. Yester- 
 day belonged to them : to-day belongs to 
 us — and well will it be for us if we improve 
 it. In such an historic town as Berwick the 
 lesson is brought home to a thoughtful mind 
 with convincing force and significance. So 
 much has happened here — and every actor 
 in the great drama is long since dead and 
 gone ! Hither came King John, and slaugh- 
 tered the people as if they were sheep, 
 and burnt the city— himself applying the 
 torch to the house in w^hich he had slept. 
 Hither came Edward i., and mercilessly 
 butchered the inhabitants, men, women and 
 children, — violating even the sanctuary of 
 the churches. Here, in his victorious 
 days, Sir William Wallace reigned and pro- 
 spered ; and here, when Menteith's treachery 
 had wrought his ruin, a fragment of his 
 mutilated body was long displayed upon the 
 Bridge. Here, in the castle, of which only 
 a few fragments now remain (these being 
 adjacent to the North British Railway sta- 
 tion), King Edward caused to be confined
 
 328 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 in a wooden cage that intrepid Countess of 
 Buchan who had crowned Robert Bruce 
 at Scone. Hither came Edward iii., after 
 the battle of Halidon Hill — which lies 
 close by this place — had finally established 
 the English power in Scotland. All the 
 princes that fought in the wars of the Roses 
 have been in Berwick, and have wrangled 
 over the possession of it. Richard iii. 
 doomed it to isolation, and Henry vii. de- 
 clared it a neutral state. By Elizabeth it 
 was fortified, — in that wise sovereign's 
 resolute and vigorous resistance to the 
 schemes of the Romish Church for the 
 subjugation of her Kingdom. John Knox 
 preached here, in a church on Hide Hill, be- 
 fore he went to Edinburgh to shake the 
 throne with his tremendous eloquence. The 
 picturesque, unhappy James iv. went from 
 this place to Ford Castle and Lady Heron, 
 and thence to his death, at Flodden Field. 
 Here it was that Sir John Cope first paused 
 in his fugitive ride from the fatal field of 
 Preston, and here he was greeted as afibrding 
 the only instance in which the first news of a 
 defeat had been brought by the vanquished 
 General himself. And almost within sight 
 of Berwick spire are those perilous Fame 
 Islands, where, at the wreck of the steamer
 
 THE LAND OF MARMION. 329 
 
 "Forfarshire," in 1838, the heroism of a 
 woman wrote upon the historic page of her 
 country, in letters of imperishable glory, the 
 name of Grace Darling. There is a monument 
 to her memory in Barnborough churchyard. 
 Imagination, however, has done for this 
 region what history could never do. Each 
 foot of this ground was known to Sir Walter 
 Scott, and for every lover of that great 
 author each foot of it is hallowed. It is the 
 Border Land, — the land of chivalry and song 
 — the land that he lias endeared to all the 
 world — and you come to it mainly for his 
 sake. 
 
 " Day set on Norham's castled steep, 
 And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, 
 And Cheviot's mountains lone." 
 
 The village of Norham lies a few miles 
 westward of BerM'ick, upon the south bank 
 of the Tweed, and certainly the wanderer 
 seldom comes upon such a sequestered and 
 primitive settlement — wherein, neverthe- 
 less, the civilisation is ancient and immov- 
 ably established. Norham is a group of cot- 
 tages clustered around a single long street. 
 The buildings are low, and are mostly roofed 
 with dark slate or red tiles. Some of them 
 are thatched, and grass and flowers grow
 
 330 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 wild upon the thatch. At one end of the main 
 highway is a market-cross, near to which is a 
 little inn. Beyond this, and nearer to the 
 Tweed, which flows close beside the place, is 
 a church of great antiquity, set toward 
 the western end of a long and ample church- 
 yard, in which many graves are marked with 
 tall, thick, perpendicular slabs, many with 
 dark, oblong tombs tumbling to ruin, and 
 many \vith short, stunted monoliths. The 
 church tower is low, square, and of enor- 
 mous strength. Upon the south side of 
 the chancel are five windows, beautifully 
 arched, — the dog-toothed casements being 
 uncommonly complete specimens of this 
 ancient architectural device ; and on the out 
 side surface of this chancel wall, in the first 
 bay, there are not less than thirty -two cup- 
 marks. This church has been "restored" 
 — the south aisle in 1846, by I. Bononi ; the 
 north aisle in 1852, by E. Gray. The west- 
 ern end of the churchyard is thickly masked 
 in great trees, and looking directly east from 
 this point your gaze falls upon all that is left 
 of the stately and storied Castle of Xorham 
 — built by a Bishop of Durham in 1121, and 
 restored by another Prince of that See in 
 1174. It must once have been a place of 
 tremendous fortitude and of great extent.
 
 THE LAND OF MARMION. 33 1 
 
 Xow it is wide open to the sky, and nothing 
 of it remains but roofless walls and crumb- 
 ling arches, on which the grass is growing 
 and the pendent bluebells tremble in the 
 breeze. Looking through the embrasures of 
 the east wall you see the tops of large trees 
 that are rooted in the vast trench below, where 
 once were the dark waters of the moat. All 
 the courtyards are covered now with sod, 
 and quiet sheep nibble and lazy cattle couch 
 where once the royal banners floated and 
 plumed and belted knights stood round their 
 king. It M-as a day of uncommon beauty — 
 golden with sunshine and fresh with a per- 
 fumed air ; and nothing was wanting to the 
 perfection of solitude. Xear at hand a thin 
 stream of pale blue smoke curled upward 
 from a cottage chimney. At some distance 
 the sweet voices of playing children mingled 
 with the chirp of small birds and the occa- 
 sional cawing of the rook. The long grasses 
 that grow upon the ruin moved faintly, but 
 made no sound. A few doves were seen, 
 gliding in and out of crevices in the mould- 
 ering turret. And over all, and calmly and 
 coldly speaking the survival of nature when 
 the grandest works of man are dust, sounded 
 the rustle of many branches in the heedless 
 wind.
 
 332 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 
 
 The day was setting over Norham as I 
 drove away — the red sun slowly obscured in 
 a great bank of slate-coloured cloud, — but to 
 the last I bent my gaze upon it, and that 
 picture of ruined magnificence can never fade 
 out of my mind. The road eastward toward 
 Berwick is a green lane, running between 
 harvest-fields, which now were thickly piled 
 with golden sheaves, while over them swept 
 great flocks of sable rooks. There are but 
 few trees in that landscape — scattered groups 
 of the ash and the plane— to break the 
 prospect. For a long time the stately ruin 
 remained in view, — its huge bulk and ser- 
 rated outline, relieved against the red and 
 gold of sunset, taking on the perfect sem- 
 blance of a colossal cathedral, like that of 
 lona, with vast square tower, and chancel, 
 and nave : only, because of its jagged lines, 
 it seems in this prospect as if shaken by a 
 convulsion of nature and tottering to its 
 momentary fall. Never was illusion more 
 perfect. Yet as the vision faded I could re- 
 member only the illusion that will never fade 
 — the illusion that a magical poetic genius 
 has cast over those crumbling battlements ; 
 rebuilding the shattered towers, and pouring 
 through their ancient halls the glowing tide 
 of life and love, of power and pageant, of 
 beauty, light, and song.
 
 AT VESPEE TIME
 
 THE SHIP THAT SAILED. 
 
 WHITE sail upon the ocean verge, 
 Just crimsoned by the setting sun, 
 Thou hast thy port beyond the surge, 
 Thy happy homeward course to run. 
 And winged hope, with heart of fire, 
 To gain the bliss of thy desire. 
 
 I watch thee till the sombre sky 
 Has darkly veiled the lucent plain ; 
 
 My thoughts like homeless spirits, fly 
 Behind thee o'er the glimmering main : 
 
 Thy prow will kiss a golden strand, 
 
 But they can never come to land. 
 
 And if they could, the fanes are black 
 Where once I bent the reverent knee ; 
 
 No shrine would send an answer back, 
 No sacred altar blaze for me. 
 
 No holy bell, with silver toll. 
 
 Declare the ransom of my soul.
 
 336 THE SHIP THAT SAILED. 
 
 Tis equal darkness, here or there ; 
 
 For nothing that this world can give 
 Could now the ravaged past repair, 
 
 Or win the precious dead to live ! 
 Life's crumbling ashes quench its flame, 
 And every place is now the same. 
 
 Thou idol of my constant heart, 
 
 Thou child of perfect love and light. 
 
 That sudden from my side didst part, 
 And vanish in the sea of night. 
 
 Through whatsoever tempests blow 
 
 My weary soul with thine would go. 
 
 Say, if thy spirit yet have speech, 
 What port lies hid within the pall, 
 
 What shore death's gloomy billows reach, 
 Or if they reach no shore at all ! 
 
 One word — one little word — to tell 
 
 That thou art safe and all is well ! 
 
 The anchors of my earthly fate. 
 
 As they were cast so must they cling ; 
 
 And naught is now to do but wait 
 
 The sweet release that time will bring 
 
 When all these mortal moorings break, 
 
 For one last voyage I must make.
 
 ASHES. 337 
 
 Say that across the shuddering dark — 
 And whisper that the hour is near — 
 
 Thy hand will guide my shattered bark 
 Till mercy's radiant coasts appear, 
 
 Where I shall clasp thee to my breast, 
 
 And know once more the name of rest. 
 
 ASHES. 
 
 [Written in the Shakespeare Church at Strat- 
 ford-upon-Avon. ] 
 
 IVrO eyes can see man's destiny completed 
 -Li Save His, who made and knows 
 
 th' eternal plan : 
 As shapes of cloud in mountains are repeated. 
 So thoughts of God accomplished are in 
 man. 
 
 Here the divinest of all thoughts descended ; 
 
 Here the sweet heavens their sweetest boon 
 let fall ; 
 Upon this hallowed ground begun and ended 
 
 The life that knew, and felt, and uttered all. 
 
 There is not anything of human trial 
 That ever love deplored or sorrow knew, 
 
 No glad fulfilment and no sad denial. 
 
 Beyond the pictured truth that Shake- 
 speare drew. 
 
 Y
 
 338 THE PASSING BELL AT STRATFORD. 
 
 All things are said and done, and though 
 for ever 
 The streams dash onward and the great 
 winds blow, 
 There comes no new thing in the world, and 
 never 
 A voice like his, that seems to make it so. 
 
 Take then thy fate, or opulent or sordid, 
 Take it and bear it and esteem it blest ; 
 
 For of all crowns that ever were awarded 
 The crown of simple patience is the best. 
 
 THE PASSING BELL AT STRATFORD. 
 
 [It is a Tradition in Stratford-upon-Avon that 
 THE Bell of the Guild Chapel was tolled at 
 the Death and Funeral of Shakespeare.] 
 
 QWEET bell of Stratford, tolling slow, 
 
 In summer gloaming's golden glow, 
 
 1 hear and feel thy voice divine, 
 And all my soul responds to thine. 
 
 As now I hear thee, even so. 
 My Shakespeare heard thee long ago, 
 When lone by Avon's pensive stream 
 He wandered, in his haunted dream :
 
 heaven's houk. 339 
 
 Heard thee — and far his fancy sped 
 Through spectral caverns cf the dead, 
 And strove — and strove in vain— to pierce 
 The secret of the universe. 
 
 As now thou mournest didst thou mourn 
 On that sad day when he was borne 
 Through the green aisle of honied limes, 
 To rest beneath the chambered chimes. 
 
 He heard thee not, nor cared to hear ! 
 Another voice was in his ear. 
 And, freed from all the bonds of men, 
 He knew the awful secret then. 
 
 Sweet bell of Stratford, toll, and be 
 A sacred promise unto me 
 Of that great hour when I shall know 
 The path whereon his footsteps go. 
 
 HEAVEN'S HOUR. 
 
 [Wkittex on hearing Organ Music at Night in 
 Shakespeare's Church at Stratford.] 
 
 CAN I forget ? — no, never while my soul 
 Lives to remember — that imperial night 
 When through the spectral church I heard 
 
 them roll, 
 Those organ tones of glory, and my sight 
 Grew dim with tears, while ever new delight
 
 340 THE STATUE. 
 
 Throbbed in my heart, and through the 
 
 shadowy dread 
 The pale ghosts wandered, and a deathly 
 
 chill 
 Froze all my being — the mysterious thrill 
 That tells the awful presence of the dead ! 
 Yet not the dead, but, strayed from heavenly 
 
 bowers, 
 Pure souls that live with other life than ours: 
 For sure I am that ecstasy of sound 
 Lured One Sweet Spirit from his holy 
 
 ground, 
 Who dwells in God's perpetual land of 
 
 flowers. 
 
 THE STATUE. 
 
 [Spoken at the Dedication of a Monument to 
 THE Tragedian John M'Cullough, in Mount 
 
 MORIAH CEilETERY, PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER 
 
 28, 1S88.] 
 
 HOW different now, old friend, the meet- 
 ing ! 
 Thy form, thy face, thy look the same — 
 But where is now the kindly greeting, 
 
 The voice of cheer, the heart of flame ? 
 There, in thy grandeur, calm and splendid, — 
 God's peace on that imperial brow, —
 
 THE STATUE. 34I 
 
 Thou stand est, grief and trouble ended, 
 And yve are nothing to thee now. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet once again the air is cloven 
 
 With joyous tumult of acclaim ; 
 Once more the golden wreaths are woven, 
 
 Of love and honour, for thy name ; 
 And round thee here, with tender longing. 
 
 As oft they did in days of old, 
 The comrades of thy soul come thronging. 
 
 Who never knew thee stern or cold. 
 
 Why waits, in frozen silence sleeping, 
 
 The smile that made our hearts rejoice ? 
 Why, dead to laughing and to weeping, 
 
 Is hushed the music of thy voice ? 
 By what strange mood of reverie haunted 
 
 Art thou, the gentle, grown austere ? 
 And do we live in dreams enchanted, 
 
 To know thee gone, yet think thee here ? 
 
 Ah, fond pretence ! ah, sweet beguiling ! 
 
 Too well I know thy course is run. 
 There 's no more grief and no more smilinj 
 
 For thee henceforth beneath the sun.
 
 342 THE STATUE. 
 
 In manhood's noon thy summons found thee, 
 In glory's blaze, on fortune's height, 
 
 Trailed the black robe of doom around thee, 
 And veiled thy radiant face in night. 
 
 This but the shadow of a vision 
 
 Our mourning souls aloue can see. 
 That pierce through death to realms elysian, 
 
 More hallowed now because of thee. 
 Yet, oh, what heart, with recollection 
 
 Of thy colossal trance of pain. 
 Were now so selfish in affection 
 
 To wish thee back from heaven again I 
 
 There must be, in those boundless spaces 
 
 Where thy great spirit wanders free. 
 Abodes of bliss, enchanted places. 
 
 That only love's white angels see ! 
 And sure, if heavenly kindness showered 
 
 On every sufferer 'neath the sun 
 Shows any human spirit dowered 
 
 With love angelic, thou wert one ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 There s no grand impulse, no revealing, 
 In all the glorious world of art,
 
 THE STATUE. 343 
 
 There 's no sweet thought or noble feeling 
 That throbbed not in thy manly heart ! 
 
 There 's no strong flight of aspiration, 
 No* reverent dream of realms divine, 
 
 No pulse, no thrill, no proud elation 
 Of god-like power that was not thine ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So stand for ever, joyless, painless, 
 
 Supreme alike o'er smiles and tears, 
 Thou true man's image, strong and stainless, 
 
 Unchanged through all the changing 
 years — 
 While fame's blue crystal o'er thee bending 
 
 With honour's gems shall blaze and bum. 
 And rose and lily, round thee blending, 
 
 Adorn and bless thy hallowed urn ! 
 
 While summer days are long and lonely. 
 
 While autumn sunshine seems to weep. 
 While midnight hours are bleak, and only 
 
 The stars and clouds their vigils keep, 
 All gentle things that live shall moan thee 
 
 All fond regrets for ever wake ; 
 For earth is happier having known thee. 
 
 And heaven is sweeter for thy sake !
 
 344 IN MEMORY OF WILKIE COUSINS. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 [Died September 23, 1889.] 
 
 OFTEN and often, when the days were 
 dark 
 And, whether to remember or behold, 
 Life was a burden, and my heart, grown old 
 With sorrow, scarce was conscious, did I 
 mark 
 How from thy distant place across the sea, 
 Vibrant with hope and with emotion free, 
 Thy voice of cheer rose like the morning 
 lark— 
 And that was comfort if not joy to me ! 
 For in the weakness of our human grief 
 The mind that does not break and will 
 
 not bend 
 Teaches Endurance as the one true friend. 
 The steadfast anchor and the sure relief. 
 That was thy word, and what thy precept 
 
 taught 
 Thy life made regnant in one living 
 thought.
 
 IN MEMORY OF WILKIE COLLINS. 345 
 II. 
 
 Thy vision saw the halo of romance 
 
 Round every common thing that men 
 
 behold. 
 Thy lucid art could turn to precious gold, — 
 Like roseate motes that in the sunbeams 
 
 dance, — 
 Whatever object met thy kindling glance ; 
 
 And in that mirror life was never cold. 
 A gracious warmth suffused thy sparkling 
 page, 
 And woman's passionate heart by thee 
 
 was drawn, 
 With all the glorious colours of the dawn, 
 Against the background of this Pagan age — 
 Her need of love, her sacrifice, her trance 
 Of patient pain, her weary pilgrimage ! 
 Thou knewest all of grief that can be known. 
 And didst portray all sorrovrs but thine own. 
 
 III. 
 Where shall I turn, now that thy lips are 
 dumb 
 And night is on those eyes that loved me 
 
 well? 
 What other voice, across thy dying knell, 
 With like triumphant notes of power will 
 
 come ? 
 Alas ! my ravaged heart is still and numb
 
 346 RAYMOND. 
 
 With thinking of the blank that must 
 remain ! 
 
 Yet be it mine, amid these wastes of pain, 
 Where all must falter and where many sink. 
 To stay the foot of misery on the brink 
 
 Of dark despair, to bid blind sorrow see — 
 Teaching that human will breaks every chain 
 
 When once Endurance sets the spirit free ; 
 And, living thus thy perfect faith, to think 
 
 I am to others what thou wert to me ! 
 
 Steamship A^irania, 
 Mid-ocean, October 10, 1889. 
 
 EAYMOND. 
 
 An Epitaph. 
 
 HIS restless spirit, while on earth he 
 dwelt, 
 Wreathed with a smile whatever grief he 
 
 felt,— 
 And 'twas his lot, though crowned with 
 
 public praise. 
 Ample and warm, to walk in troubled ways. 
 
 1 John T. Raymond is buried at Evergreen Ceme- 
 tery, Brooklyn, N.Y., and his grave is marked with 
 a monument bearing these lines, preceded by the 
 following inscription :— " This monument, the gift of 
 many afifectipnate friends, is placed here in loving 
 memory of John T. Raymond, comedian. He was
 
 RAYMOND. 347 
 
 Glad was his voice, that all men laughed to 
 
 hear, 
 While few surmised the pang, the secret tear. 
 Yet did that thrill of pathos flush the grace 
 Of playful humour in his speaking face, 
 Inform his fancy and inspire his art 
 To cheer the senses and to touch the heart. 
 Jocund and droll, incessant, buoyant, quaint, 
 His vigour fired the forms his skill could 
 
 ppvint, 
 Till, over-anxious lest effects were tame. 
 He left his picture, to adorn its frame. 
 A mind more serious never did engage 
 Through simulated mirth the comic stage, 
 Xor strong ambition conquer and control 
 A sturdier will and more aspiring soul. 
 If haply, much constrained, his purpose 
 
 bowed 
 To woo the fancy of the fickle crowd. 
 Yet did his judgment spurn the poor renown 
 Of shallow jester and of trivial clown. 
 A true comedian this, by Fate designed 
 To picture manners and to cheer mankind. 
 
 bom in Buffalo, New York, April 5, 1836. He died 
 in EvansvUle, Indiana, April 10, 1SS7. 
 
 ' Hinc apicem rapax 
 Fortuna cum stridore acuto 
 Sustidit, hicposuisse gaudet.'"
 
 34S D. D. L. 
 
 So Raymond lived — and naught remains to 
 
 tell, 
 Save that too soon the final curtain fell. 
 Peace to his dust, where Love and Honour 
 
 weep, 
 In endless sorrow o'er their comrade's 
 
 sleep. 
 
 D. D. L. 
 
 [Died September 5, 1889.] 
 
 EARLY, but not too early for thy fame. 
 The seal of silence on thy lips is laid, 
 While we, aghast, disheartened, and dis- 
 mayed, 
 Crush back our tears and softly speak 
 
 thy name. 
 To us it has one meaning and the same — 
 A brave and gentle soul, a noble mind, 
 Pure, constant, generous, modest and refined, 
 
 With simple duty for its only aim. 
 Dear are the days that thou hast left behind. 
 By sweet words hallowed, and by kindly 
 
 deeds ; 
 And thus the heart of sorrow moans and 
 bleeds. 
 And ever bleeds, and will not be resigned — 
 Knowing its hopeless hope is all in vain, 
 To see thy face or hear thy voice again.
 
 SYMBOLS— HONOUR'S PEARL. 349 
 
 SYMBOLS. 
 
 1VT0T only to give light those urns 
 1.1 Of golden fire adorn the skies ! 
 Not for her vision only burns 
 
 The glory of a woman's eyes ! 
 But in those flames and that fine glance 
 Th' authentic flags of heaven advance. 
 
 In them we know our life divine, 
 
 For which th' unnumbered planets roll 
 
 Action and suff'ering are but sign ; 
 Within the shadow dwells the soul ; 
 
 And till we rend this earthly thrall 
 
 We do not truly live at all. 
 
 HONOUR'S PEARL. 
 
 [Read at a Feast given by the Editorial Staff 
 OF THE " New York Tribune" at Delmonico's, 
 New York, May 3, 1889, in compliment to the 
 Hon. Whitelaw Reid, on his appointment as 
 Minister of the United States to France.] 
 
 I. 
 
 BECAUSE in danger's darkest hour, 
 When heart and hope sank low, 
 She nerved our frail and faltering pov/er 
 To brave its mightiest foe ;
 
 350 honour's pearl. 
 
 Because our fathers smiled to see 
 
 Her golden lilies dance 
 O'er the proud field that made us free, 
 
 We plight our faith to France ! 
 
 Ah, grand and sweet the holy bond, 
 
 That who gives all is blest ! 
 And Love can give no pledge beyond 
 
 The life she loves the best. 
 That pledge these hallowed rites declare, 
 
 Of choice and not of chance — 
 And he shall cross the sea to bear 
 
 Our loyal hearts to France ! 
 
 Strong, tender, gentle, patient, wise. 
 
 Brave soul and constant mind, 
 True wit, that kindles as it flies 
 
 And leaves no grief behind, — 
 Be thine to wear the snowy plume 
 
 And poise the burnished lance — 
 Our rose of chivalry, to bloom 
 
 Among the knights of France ! 
 
 Be thine the glorious task to speed 
 The conquering age of gold —
 
 THE BROKEN HARP. ; 
 
 Till ravaged peace no more shall bleed, 
 
 Till History's muse behold 
 Borne in the vanward, fast and far, 
 
 Of the free world's advance, 
 Blent with Columbia's bannered star, 
 
 The triple stripes of France ! 
 
 THE BROKEN HARP. 
 
 [Written in the Vale of the Dargle.] 
 
 IF this now silent harp could wake, 
 How pure, how strong, how true 
 The tender strain its chords would make 
 
 Of love and grief for you ! 
 But, like my heart, though faithful long, 
 
 By you cast forth to pain, 
 This hushed and humbled voice of song 
 Must never stir again. 
 
 Yet haply when your fancy strays 
 
 O'er unregarded things. 
 And half in dream your gentle gaze 
 
 Falls on its shattered strings. 
 Some loving impulse may endear 
 
 Your memories of the past. 
 And if for me you shed one tear 
 
 I think 'twould wake at last :
 
 552 NOW. 
 
 Wake with a note so glad, so clear, 
 
 So lovely, so complete 
 That birds on wing would pause to hear 
 
 Its music wild and sweet ; 
 And you would know— alas ! too late — 
 
 How tender and how true 
 Is this fond heart, that hugs its fate — 
 
 To die for love and you. 
 
 NOW. 
 
 WHEN you shall walk in pensive mood 
 The happy paths we used to know, 
 And sweet and gentle thoughts intrude, 
 
 And tender dreams of Long Ago, 
 How will your wakened spirit bear 
 Its bitter pang, its bleak despair ? 
 
 When in your heart, as now in mine, 
 
 Shall throb the pulse of sleepless grief — 
 Since nothing earthly or divine 
 
 In that dark hour can bring relief- 
 How will you mourn o'er wasted bliss 
 And that wild moment long for this ! 
 
 The echo of a silent word, 
 
 An exhalation of the dew, 
 A lonely sigh at midnight heard 
 
 In depth of some funereal yew —
 
 UNWRITTEN POEMS. 353 
 
 These shall be more, in that black day, 
 Than your true lover past away. 
 
 Then do not scorn the present hour, 
 Nor crush the roses while they bloom ! 
 
 The best of time has only power 
 To hang a garland on a tomb ; 
 
 And all that lasts when years are sped 
 
 Is hopeless memory of the dead. 
 
 UNWRITTEN POEMS. 
 
 FAIRY spirits of the breeze — 
 Frailer nothing is than these. 
 Fancies born we know not where — 
 In the heart or in the air : 
 Wandering echoes blown unsought 
 From far crystal peaks of thought : 
 Shadows, fading at the dawn, 
 Ghosts of feeling dead and gone : 
 Alas ! Are all fair things that live 
 Still lovely and still fugitive ?
 
 (ftiinburgtl SSnibtrsttg i^ress : 
 
 T. AND A. CONSTABLE. PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY.
 
 THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER 
 
 IN 
 
 THE DAVID DOUGLAS SERIES 
 
 OF AMEEICAX AUTHORS. 
 
 In One Shilling Volumes.
 
 I Volume, 2^0 pp. Price is. 
 
 SHAKESPEAKE'S ENGLAND 
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 CONTEMTS. 
 
 Up to London. 
 
 Old Churches of Loudon. 
 
 Literary Shrines of London. 
 
 A Haunt of Edmund Kean. 
 
 Stoke-Pogis and Thomas 
 Gray. 
 
 At the Grave of Coleridge. 
 
 On Eamet Battle-field. 
 
 A Glimpse of Caiiterbmy. 
 
 The Shrines of Warwick- 
 shire. 
 
 A Borrower of the Night. 
 
 The Voyage. 
 
 The Beauty of England. 
 Great Historic Places. 
 Eambles in London. 
 A Visit to Windsor. 
 The Palace of Westminster. 
 Warwick and Kenilworth. 
 First View of Stratford-on- 
 
 Avon. 
 London Nooks and Comers. 
 Relics of Lord Byron. 
 Westminster Abbey. 
 The Home of Shakespeare. 
 
 "He offers something more than guidance to the 
 American traveller. He is a convincing and eloquent 
 interpreter of the august memories and venerable 
 sanctities of the old country."— ^afttrday Eevieiv. 
 
 " Enthusiastic and yet keenly critical notes and 
 comments on English life and scenery." — Scotsman. 
 
 " The book is delightful reading. ... It is a 
 delicious view of England which this poet takes. 
 It is indeed the noble, hospitable, merry, romance- 
 haunted England of our fathers— the England which 
 we know of in song and story." — Scriinefs Monthly.
 
 1 Volutue, IQ^ pp. Price \s. 
 
 WANDERERS 
 
 Being a Collection of the Poems of 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 "The verse of Mr. Winter is dedicated luaiuly to 
 love and wine, to flowers and birds and dreams, 
 to the hackneyed and never-to-be-exhausted reper- 
 torj' of the old singers. His instincts are strongly 
 conservative ; his confessed aim is to belong to ' that 
 old school of English Lyrical Poetry, of which 
 gentleness is the soul and simplicity the garruent.'" 
 —.iaturday Revievj. 
 
 "The Poems have a singular charm in their 
 graceful spontaneity."— Scots Observer. 
 
 "Free from cant and rant — clear cut as a cameo, 
 pellucid as a mountain-brof>k. It rnay be derided 
 as trite, borne, unimpassioned ; but in its own modest 
 sphere it is, to our thinking, extraordinarily success- 
 ful, and satisfies us far more than the pretentious 
 mouthing which receives the seal of over-hasly 
 approbation. "—Athenceum.
 
 I Volume, ZSZPP- P^ice \s. 
 
 GKAY DAYS AND GOLD 
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Classic Slirinea. 
 
 Haunted Gleus and Houses. 
 
 Old York. 
 
 The Haunts of Moore. 
 
 Beautiful Bath. 
 
 The Lakes and Fells of 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Shakespeare relics at Wor- 
 cester. 
 
 Byron and Hucknall Torkard. 
 
 Historic Nooks and Comers. 
 
 Shakespeare's To\vn. 
 
 Up and Down the Avon. 
 
 Kambles in Arden. 
 
 The Stratford Fountain. 
 Bosworth Field. 
 The Home of Dr. Johnson. 
 From London to Edin- 
 burgh. 
 Into the Highlands. 
 Highland Beauties. 
 The Heart of Scotland. 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 Elegiac Memorials 
 Scottish Pictures. 
 Imperial Euins. 
 The Land of MarmiOB, 
 At Vesper Time. 
 
 This book, which is intended as a companion to 
 Shakespeare's England, relates to the gray days of 
 an American wanderer in the British Islands, and 
 to the gold of thought and fancy that can be found 
 there. 
 
 Edinburgh : DAVID DOUGLAS, 10 Castle Street 
 New York : MACMILLAN & CO.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
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