Tl^lT^ /'"VT^ HPT Tl~^ RE OF THE . itott THE LURE OF THE CAMERA. Illustrated. THE COUNTRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Illustrated. HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON AND NEW YORK THE LURE OF THE CAMERA THE STEPPING STONES THE LURE OF THE CAMERA BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT M Author of " George Eliot : Scenes and People of her Novels " and " The Country of Sir Walter Scott " ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY uw Cambriboc 1914 COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published September 1914. TO MY BOYS GAGE, CHARLES, AND HOWARD THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 395404 PREFACE THE difference between a ramble and a jour- ney is about the same as that between pleas- ure and business. When you go anywhere for a serious purpose, you make a journey ; but if you go for pleasure (and don't take the pleasure too seriously, as many do) you only ramble. The sketches in this volume, which takes its name from the first chapter, are based upon " rambles," which were for the most part merely incidental excursions, made possible by various "journeys" undertaken for more serious pur- poses. It has been the practice of the author for many years to carry a camera on his travels, so that, if chance should take him within easy dis- tance of some place of literary, historic, or scenic interest, he might not miss the opportunity to pursue his favorite avocation. If the reader is asked to make long flights, as from Scotland to Italy, then back, across the At- lantic, to New England, and thence overland to Wyoming and Arizona, he must remember that ramblers take no account of distance or direction. In this case they must take no account of time, for these rambles are but the chance happen- ings that have occurred at intervals in a period of more than a dozen years. vii PREFACE People who are in a hurry, and those who in traveling seek to " do " the largest number of places in the shortest number of days, are advised not to travel with an amateur photographer. Not only must he have leisure to find and study his subjects, but he is likely to wander away from the well-worn paths and use up his time in mak- ing inquiries, in a fashion quite exasperating to the tourist absorbed in his itinerary. The rambles here chronicled could not possi- bly be organized into an itinerary or moulded into a guidebook. The author simply invites those who have inclinations similar to his own, to wander with him, away from the customary paths of travel, and into the homes of certain dis- tinguished authors or the scenes of their writ- ings, and to visit with him various places of historic interest or natural beauty, without a thought of maps, distances, time-tables, or the toil and dust of travel. This is the real essence of rambling. The chapter on "The Country of Mrs. Hum- phry Ward " was published originally in The Outlook in 1909, and " A Day in Wordsworth's Country," in the same magazine in 1910. CONTENTS I. THE LUBE OF THE CAMERA .... 1 II. LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN . 15 English Courtesy The George Eliot Country Experiences in Rural England. Overcoming Obstacles A London " Bobby " Carlyle's Birthplace The Country of Scott and Burns III. A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY . 49 IV. FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN . 73 V. THE COUNTRY OP MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 93 I. MRS. WARD AND HER WORK ... 95 II. THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE . . .110 III. OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY. . .128 VI. A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES . . 147 VII. LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 175 i. CONCORD 179 II. SALEM 196 ra. PORTSMOUTH " . 207 IV. THE ISLES OF SHOALS .... 222 VIII. A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS . . 233 IX. GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE . .251 X. THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA . . 271 INDEX . 297 ILLUSTRATIONS THE STEPPING STONES Frontispiece On the River Rothay, near Ambleside, England, and below Fox How, the home of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, grandfather of Mrs. Humphry Ward. One of the scenes in "Robert Elsmere" was suggested by these stones. A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS 10 White Mountains, N.H. PROFILE LAKE 12 Showing the Old Man of the Mountains. In the Frariconia Notch, White Mountains, N.H. The profile suggested to Hawthorne the tale of "The Great Stone Face." THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL .... 22 Near Nuneaton, England. The original of Cheverel Manor, in George Eliot's "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story." A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON 30 Where George Eliot attended school in her eighth or ninth year. THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS 34 In EUastone, England, the original of the "Donnithorne Arms" of "Adam Bede." THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS .... 40 In Ayrshire, Scotland. The poet was born here January 25, 1759. The left of the building is the cottage of two rooms where the family lived. Adjoining, on the right, is the "byre," or cow-house. THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE 44 The monument was built in 1820. It is sixty feet high, and almost an exact duplicate of the monument in Edin- burgh. xi ILLUSTRATIONS THE BRIG o* DOON, AYRSHIRE 48 The bridge over which Tarn o' Shanter rode to escape the witches. GRASMERE LAKE 60 "For rest of body perfect was the spot." DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE 64 Wordsworth's home for eight years. The view is from the garden in the rear of the cottage. WORDSWORTH'S WELL 68 In the garden of Dove Cottage, where the poet placed "bright go wan and marsh marigold" brought from the border of the lake. HAWTHORNDEN 76 The home of the Drummond family, on the banks of the Esk, Scotland. THE SYCAMORE 80 The tree at Hawthornden under which William Drum- mond met Ben Jonson. RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE 86 In Roslin Glen overlooking the Esk. MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND Miss DOROTHY WARD . 96 At the villa in Cadenabbia, overlooking Lake Como, where Mrs. Ward wrote "Lady Rose's Daughter." "UNDER LOUGHRIGG" 100 The view from the study window of Thomas Arnold at Fox How. THE PASSMORE EDWARDS SETTLEMENT HOUSE . . 104 Tavistock Place, London. THE LIME WALK 110 In the garden of Trinity College, Oxford. Referred to in "Robert Elsmere." xii ILLUSTRATIONS COTTAGE OP "MARY BACKHOUSE" 114 At Sad Gill, Long Sleddale. The barns and storehouses, on either end, give the small cottage an attenuated appear- ance. THE RECTORY OP PEPER HAROW 118 In Surrey, England. The original of Murewell Rectory, the house of "Robert Elsmere." THE ROTHAY AND NAB SCAR 130 From Pelter Bridge, Ambleside, England. LAKE COMO . 138 From "the path that led to the woods overhanging the Villa Carlotta." STOCKS 144 The home of Mrs. Humphry Ward, near Tring, England. LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY 150 According to Ruskin the most beautiful of the Italian ] Lakes. ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE 154 The costly summer home of Count Vitaliano Borromeo in the Seventeenth Century. THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA 170 At Cadenabbia, Lake Como. "I CALL THIS MY J. M. W. TURNER" . . . .174 View from the dining-room window of the Villa Maria. THE OLD MANSE 180 In Concord, where Emerson wrote "Nature" and Hawthorne lived for three years. WALDEN WOODS 184 The cairn marks the site of Thoreau's hut and " Thoreau's Cove " is seen in the distance. xiii ILLUSTRATIONS HOUSE OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON .... 190 Concord, Massachusetts. THE WAYSIDE : 194 House in Concord, where Hawthorne lived in the latest years of his life. THE MALL STREET HOUSE 200 Salem, Mass. The room in which Hawthorne wrote "The Scarlet Letter" is in the third floor, front, on the left. THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES .... 204 The house in Turner Street, Salem, Mass., built in 1669, and owned by the Ingersoll family. THE BAILEY HOUSE 208 The house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of Thomas Bailey Aldrich's grandfather, known as "Captain Nutter" in "The Story of a Bad Boy." "AUNT ABIGAIL'S" ROOM 212 In the "Nutter" House. AN OLD WHARF 216 On the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth, where Aldrich often played in his boyhood. CELTA THAXTER'S COTTAGE 224 On Appledore, where the poet maintained her famous "Island Garden." APPLEDORE 232 Trap-dike, on Appledore, the largest of the "Isles of Shoals." JOHN BURROUGHS AT WOODCHUCK LODGE . . . 238 The summer home of Mr. Burroughs is near Roxbury, New York, in the Catskill Mountains. When not at work he enjoys "the peace of the hills." JOHN BURROUGHS AT WORK 244 The "study" is a barn, where the naturalist sits facing xrv ILLUSTRATIONS the open doors. He looks out upon a stone wall where the birds and small animals come to "talk with him." The "desk" is an old hen-coop, with straw in the bottom, to keep his feet warm. HYMEN TERRACE 254 At Mammoth Hot Springs in the Yellowstone National Park. PULPIT TERRACE 258 A part of Jupiter Terrace, the largest of the formations at Mammoth Hot Springs. OLD FAITHFUL 264 The famous geyser in the Upper Geyser Basin of the Yellow- stone National Park. It plays a stream about one hundred and fifty feet high every sixty-five minutes, with but slight variations. THE GROTTO GEYSER 266 A geyser in the Yellowstone National Park notable for its fantastic crater. THE CANON OF THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER . . . 268 The view from Inspiration Point. THE TRAIL, GRAND CANON 278 The view shows the upper part of Bright Angels' Trail, as it appears when the ground is covered with snow. THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA 290 The view from Bright' Angels'. The plateau over which the trail leads to the edge of the river is partly covered by a deep shadow. The great formation in the left foreground is known as the "Battleship." I THE LURE OF THE CAMERA THE LURE OF THE CAMERA TWO pictures, each about the size of a large postage-stamp, are among my treasured pos- sessions. In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, in a white dress, is vigorously kicking a foot- ball. The second depicts a human wheelbarrow, the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, whose two plump arms serve admirably the pur- pose of a wheel, his stout legs making an excel- lent pair of handles, while the motive power is supplied by an equally robust lad of eight, who grasps his younger brother firmly by the ankles. These two photographs, taken with a camera so small that in operation it was completely con- cealed between the palms of my hands, revealed to me for the first time the fascination of ama- teur photography. The discovery meant that whatever interested me, even if no more than the antics of my children, might be instantly re- corded. I had no idea of artistic composition, nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, and printing papers. Still less did I foresee that the tiny little black box contained the germ of 3 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA L-. indefinable impulse, which, expanding and growing more powerful year by year, was to lead me into fields which I had never dreamed of ex- ploring, into habits of observation never before a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of countless places of historic and literary interest as well as natural beauty and grandeur, which would never have been mine but for the lure of the camera. The spell began to make itself felt almost im- mediately. I determined to buy a camera of my own, for the two infinitesimal pictures were taken with a borrowed instrument, and was soon the possessor of a much larger black box capable of making pictures three and a quarter inches square. The film which came with it was quickly " shot off," and then came the impulse to go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend a day at a pretty little inland lake, a few hours' ride from our home. I hastened to the druggist's to buy another film, and without waiting to in- sert it in the camera, off we started. Arrived on the scene, our first duty was to " load " the new machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow the directions did not seem to fit. But we got it in place finally and began to enjoy the pleasures of photography. Our first view was a general survey of the lake, which is nearly twelve miles long, with many bays and indentations in the shore-line, making 4 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA a rather large subject for a picture only three and a quarter inches square. But such difficulties did not seem formidable. The directions clearly intimated that if we would only " press the but- ton " somebody would " do the rest," and we expected the intangible somebody to perform his part of the contract as faithfully as we were doing ours. Years afterward, chancing to pass by the British Museum, which stretches its huge bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of nearly four hundred feet, we saw a little girl taking its picture with a "Brownie" camera. " That reminds me of ' Dignity and Impu- dence,' " said my wife, referring to Landseer's well-known painting which we had seen at the National Gallery that afternoon. This is the mistake which all amateurs make at first that of expecting the little instrument to perform im- possible feats. But to resume my story. We spent a remark- ably pleasant day composing beautiful views. We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the steamers and the sail-boats and at everything else in sight except the huge ice-houses which disfigure what would otherwise be one of the prettiest lakes in America. We posed for each other in picturesque attitudes on the rocks and in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had a delightful outing and only regretted when, all too soon, the last film was exposed. But we felt 5 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA unusually happy to think that we had a wonder- ful record of the day's proceedings to show to our family and friends. That night I developed the roll, laboriously cutting off one exposure at a time, and putting it through the developer according to directions. Number one was blank ! Something wrong with the shutter, I thought, and tried the next. Num- ber two was also blank ! ! What can this mean ? Perhaps I have n't developed it long enough. So into the fluid went another one, and this one stayed a long time. To my dismay number three was as vacant as the others, and so were all the rest of the twelve. Early the next morning I was at the drug store demanding an explanation. The druggist confessed that the film-roll he had sold me was intended for another camera, but " It ought to have worked on yours," he said. Subsequent investigation proved that on my camera the film was to be inserted on the left, while on the other kind it went in on the right. This difference seemed insignificant until I dis- covered that in turning the roll to insert it on the opposite side from what was intended, I had brought the strip of black paper to the front of the film, thus preventing any exposure at all! Thus I learned the first principle of amateur photography: Know exactly what you are doing and take no chances with your appara- tus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted 6 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA to explain the use of the various " stops " on her camera, impatiently interrupted me with the remark, " Well, that 's the way it was set when I got it and I 'm not going to bother to change it. If the pictures are no good, I '11 send it back." It is such people who continually complain of " bad luck " with their films. It was two or three years after the complete failure of my first expedition before the camera again exerted its spell, except that meanwhile it was faithfully recording various performances of the family, especially in the vacation season. It was in the autumn of 1898. The victorious American fleet had returned from Santiago and all the famous battleships and cruisers were tri- umphantly floating their ensigns in the breezes of New York Harbor. " Here is a rare opportu- nity. Come ! " said the camera. Taking passage on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by the life- boats, outside the rail, where the view would be unobstructed. We passed in succession all the vessels, from the doughty Texas, commanded by the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Ore- gon, with the laurels of her long cruise around Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by one I photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, are some pictures worth while. I had been in the habit of doing my own developing with indif- ferent success, it must be confessed. These ex- posures, made under ideal conditions, were too 7 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA precious to be risked, so I took the roll to a prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, for developing and printing. Every one was spoiled ! Not a good print could be found in the lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had left yellow spots and finger-marks on every nega- tive ! Subsequent investigation revealed the fact that a negro janitor had been entrusted with the work. Here, then, was maxim number two for the amateur Do your own developing, and be sure to master the details of the opera- tion. The old adage, " If you want a thing well done, do it yourself," applies with peculiar force to photography. Another experience, which happened soon after, came near ending forever all further at- tempts in photography. This time I lost, not only the negatives, but the camera itself. Hav- ing accomplished very little, I resolved to try no more. But a year or two later a friend offered to sell me his 4x5 plate camera, with tripod, focusing-cloth and all, at a ridiculously low price, and enough of the old fever remained to make me an easy victim, shall I say? No! How can I ever thank him enough ? I put my head under the focusing-cloth and for the first time looked at the inverted image of a beautiful landscape, reflected in all its colors upon the ground glass. At that moment began my real experience in photography. The hand camera is 8 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA only a toy. A child can use it as well as an ex- pert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of a prison yard, and beyond them one cannot go. All is guesswork. Luck is the biggest factor of success. Artistic work is practically impossible. It is not until you begin to compose your pic- tures on the ground glass that art in photo- graphy becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing to see how many variations of the same scene may be obtained, how many different effects of light and shade, and how much depends upon the point of view. Then, too, one becomes more independent of the weather, for by a proper use of the " stop " and careful application of the principles of correct exposure, it is possible to overcome many adverse conditions. An acquaintance once expressed surprise that I was willing to spend day after day of my vaca- tion walking about with a heavy camera case, full of plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky tripod slung over my shoulder. I replied that it was no heavier than a bagful of golf -sticks, that the walk took me through an endless variety of beautiful scenery, and that the game itself was fascinating. Of course, my friend could not ap- preciate my point of view, for he had never paused on the shore of some sparkling lake to study the ripple of the waters, the varying shades of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the pebbly beach with smooth flat stones whitening 9 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA in the sun, but looking cooler and darker where seen through the transparent cover of the shallow water, the deep purple of the undulating hills in the distance, and above it all the canopy of filmy, foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the loveliest cerulean blue. He had never looked upon such scenes as these with the exhilarating thought that something of the marvelous beauty which nature daily spreads before us can be captured and taken home as a permanent reminder of what we have seen. To catch the charm of such a scene is no child's play. It requires the use of the best of lenses and other appliances, skill derivable only from long study and experience, and a natural appreciation of the artistic point of view. It requires even more, for the plate must be developed and the prints made, both operations calling for skill and a sense of the artistic. The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and in many forms of recreation is the overcoming of obstacles. The football team must defeat a heavy opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. If the opponents are " easy," there is no fun in the game. The hunter who incurs no hardship complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman would rather land one big black bass after a long struggle than catch a hundred perch which almost jump into your boat without an invitation. 10 A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS THE LURE OF THE CAMERA Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for the purpose of taking the animal's picture than they would get if they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes and in this class I include myself can find all the sport they want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out the attract- ive scenes, the rugged mountain-peak ; the woodland brook ; the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches ; the ruined castle ; the seaside cliffs ; the well-concealed cascade ; or the scene of some noteworthy historical event, but the art of photography itself presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these ; to select the right point of view ; to secure an artistic "balance" in all parts of the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting in the way ; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion ; to catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds ; to obtain the desired trans- parency in the shadows, these and a hundred other considerations give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the never-ending fascination of the game. I have noticed that the camera does not lure 11 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA one into the beaten tracks which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many people are around, espe- cially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always felt a sense of relief when able to escape the inter- minable jargon of the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not only with a sense of complete satis- faction, but with a new friendship to add to the pleasure of future memories. To visit the places made famous by their asso- ciations with literature and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and awe- inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast depths of the Grand Canon, or rest- ful in their sweet simplicity like the quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland ; to see the people in their homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages ; to find new beauty daily, whether at 12 PROFILE LAKE THE LURE OF THE CAMERA home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds ; to gain that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the picturesque and beautiful, these are the possibilities offered by amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera. II LITEKAKY EAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN II LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN I EMERSON said of the English people, " Every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable," and that "It is almost an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced." Holmes, on the contrary, re- cords that he and his daughter were " received with nothing but the most overflowing hospital- ity and the most considerate kindness." Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as " the only real thing in a wilderness of shams," and thought his patronage "divertingly insuf- ferable." On the other hand, he praised the gen- uineness of the better men of England, as " so manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than water." Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days what he called " the two opposite poles of English character." One of them was "taciturn, reserved, fastidious" and without " power of enjoyment " ; the other was " expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laugh- ing loud and long." All of this suggests that in attempting to write one's impressions of the 17 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA English or any other people, one must remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster de- clare with great emphasis "some people are not all alike ! " I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland, mani- fested a spirit of helpfulness that made our pho- tographic work delightful and led to the accom- plishment of results not otherwise obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obli- gation to assist. This was true even of the police- man at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to another, until, continuing to pass " higher up," I was at last photographing every- thing of interest, including the " Beef -Eater " who obligingly carried my case of plates. When- ever difficulties arose, these helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sym- pathy, a desire that I might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should not be disappointed. An incident which happened at the very out- set of our photographic experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure 18 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example of the genial and sympa- thetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot's writings, and on the day of our arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a particularly interesting por- trait of George Henry Lewes. She learned that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully preserved. Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biogra- pher of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of this department* was not in, but a polite assist- ant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting permission to copy the Lewes pic- ture. Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, me- chanically repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and wondering what luck I should have. The formula disap- peared instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman ad- vanced with outstretched hand and genial smile, calling me by name and saying, " I have some- 19 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA thing I want to show you, if you would care to see it." Considerably surprised, I saw him touch a button as he resumed, " It 's a picture of George Eliot, at least we think it is, but we are not sure, we bought it from the executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist." Here the attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to be a large paint- ing in water-colors of a woman's face, with re- markably strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say, " If any woman in the world can do a man's thinking, I 'm that person." A letter received subsequently, in an- swer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered portrait was a " study " for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true womanliness of George Eliot's char- acter, for he certainly softened the expression of those determined-looking eyes. After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as pos- sible, the scenes of George Eliot's novels and to photograph all the various places of interest. " Of course you '11 go to Nuneaton ? " he asked. " Yes," I replied, in a tone of assurance ; " I ex- pect to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel 20 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN Manor." " I suppose, then, you are acquainted with Mr. Newdegate," said he, inquiringly. I had to confess that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise. " Why, you can't get in if you don't know him. Arbury is a private estate." This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I could go any- where. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very beginning appeared to be an insur- mountable barrier. Of course, I could not ex- pect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs, and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people ? Mr. Colvin seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. "I happen to know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I '11 give you a letter of introduction. No, I '11 do better. I '11 write and tell him you 're coming." This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and added, " Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture " ; and the interview ended with his promise to have the official photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and the next morning 21 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall cordially inviting us to visit him. Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hang- ing side by side in the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I was, therefore, eager to find them. We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster's con- viviality. Readers of "Janet's Repentance" will recall that the great " man of deeds " addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of the " Red Lion," protesting against the " temp- tation to vice" involved in the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He brought the meeting to a close by calling for " Three cheers for True Religion " ; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the inn, he caused " the most capacious punch-bowl " to be brought out and continued the festivities until after midnight, " when several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter." The old tavern, one of the few which still re- tain the old-fashioned arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change horses, 22 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN boasts of having entertained guests no less dis- tinguished than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept since Shakespeare's time. In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the private grounds of which make a beautifully wooded park of three hundred acres. The man- sion is seen to the best advantage from the oppo- site side of a little pool, where the surrounding trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are waving gently in the summer air, and the pond- lilies spread their round green leaves to make a richer, deeper background for their blossoms of purest white. On a green knoll behind this charming foreground stands a gray stone man- sion of rectangular shape, its sharp corners soft- ened with ivy and by the foliage at either end. Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each with a double-storied oriel, and a multitude of pin- nacles surmounting the walls on every side, give a distinguished air to the building, as though it were a part of some great cathedral. This Gothic aspect was imparted to the mansion something over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdi- gate, who was the prototype of George Eliot's Sir Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist describes the place as if in the process of remodeling. 23 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA We were cordially welcomed by the present owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose hospitality doubly confirmed our first impressions of British cour- tesy. After some preliminary conversation we rose to begin a tour of inspection. Our host threw open a door and instantly we were face to face with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christo- pher and Lady Cheverel, which for so long had stood in my mind as the only known objects of interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the way, not of Sir Joshua Reynolds, but of George Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory, prob- ably a full score of years after her last visit to the place, and this is one of several slight mis- takes. These fine portraits, really representing Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the end of a large and sumptuously furnished room, with high vaulted ceiling in the richest Gothic style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in West- minster Abbey. The saloon, as the apartment is called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window, the very one through which Sir Christopher stepped into the room and found various members of his household " examining the progress of the un- finished ceiling." Looking out through these windows, our host noticed some gathering clouds and suggested a drive through the park before the shower. Soon his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty 24 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN little horse appropriately named " Lightheart," for no animal with so fond a master could possi- bly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few minutes at Astley Castle, the " Knebley Abbey " of George Eliot, an old but picturesque mansion, once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour and his ill-fated protegee, Lady Jane Grey. Then, after a brief pause at the parson's cottage, we proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building with a square tower such as one sees throughout England. A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure suggested George Eliot's bucolic parson, the Rev- erend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the farmers and talked of "short-horns " and "shar- rags"and "yowes" during the week, and on Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old ser- mons to the ever-increasing satisfaction of his parishioners. We photographed this ancient temple on the inside as well as outside, for it contains some curious frescoes representing the saints holding ribbons with mottoes from which one is expected to obtain excellent moral les- sons. Our next objective was the birthplace of George Eliot, a small cottage standing in one corner of the park. We were driving rapidly along one of the smooth roads leading to the place, when the pony made a sudden turn to the right. I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, 25 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA camera and tripod in hand. The cart went down a steep embankment, then up again, and the next instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the ground, while near by lay the tripod, broken into a hundred splinters. Scrambling to my feet, I saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on the seat, and nobody the worse for the accident except poor Lightheart, who was almost overcome with excitement. He had encountered some men on the road leading a bull, and quickly resolved not to face what, to one of his gentle breeding, seemed a deadly peril. Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked back to the house, and in due season sat down to luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought " looked less like a place to dine in than a piece of space inclosed simply for the sake of beautiful outline." A cathedral-like aspect is given to the room by the great Gothic windows which form the distinguishing architectural feature of the building. These open into an alcove, large enough in itself, but small when compared with the main part of the room. The ecclesiastical effect is heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of the canopies built over various niches in the walls, or rather it would be, were it not for the fact that the latter are filled with life-size statues in white marble, of a distinctly classical character. 26 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN Opposite the windows is a mantel of generous proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations of which would not be inappropriate for some fine altar-piece ; but Cupid and Psyche, standing in a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any churchly thoughts, though they seem to be having a heavenly time. After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, in the left wing of the building, examining a first folio Shakespeare, while our host busied himself with various notes of introduction and other memoranda for our benefit. As we sat in the oriel window of this room, the same in which Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp, we noticed what appeared to be magazines, fans, and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It is related that Sir Roger Newdigate " Sir Chris- topher Cheverel," it will be remembered used to remonstrate with his lady for leaving her be- longings scattered over his library. She good woman was not only obedient, but possessed a sense of humor as well, for she promptly re- moved the articles, but later took advantage of her lord's absence to leave their "counterfeit presentment" in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a century. The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that 27 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA in the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel " standing with one arm akimbo," exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember that "arm akimbo/' if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for more than twenty years ? It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played her name was Sally Shilton is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only that interesting instrument, but also the " queer old family portraits ... of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly developed head-dresses of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards." Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of help- fulness that we had met in his friend Mr. Col- vin, informed us that he had invited the Rever- end Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were in- vited, however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, 28 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN and later did so, receiving a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing vari- ous mementoes of her husband's distinguished relative, including a lace cap worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Count- ess Czerlaski of "The Sad Fortune of the Rev- erend Amos Barton." I can still hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, " And here is Aunt Glegg ! " There she was, sure enough, with the "fuzzy front of curls" which were always " economized " by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this point the canon suddenly asked, " Have you seen the stone table?" I had been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramat- ically told in "Middlemarch." I had expected to find it at Griff House, near Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot's girlhood, but the arbor at the end of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident. Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing, while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr. N , who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in the neighborhood. We 29 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA accordingly stopped our little coupe at the doc- tor's door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify nearly all the localities of "Amos Barton" and "Janet's Repentance." He also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made no objection. On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice. The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known George Eliot's father and mother, and had been interested to paint various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call, because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when, upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait 30 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear people seemed deter- mined to make our quest a success. We now turned our attention to " Adam Bede," traveling into Staffordshire and Derby- shire, where Robert Evans, the novelist's father and the prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera, and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a cen- tury ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some surprise at the pile of luggage. In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only way to reach Ella- stone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now be- ginning to rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though 31 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA we might be obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the good-natured agent, whose day's work was now done, and who was anxious to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a fire, at our dis- posal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for us. A long wait of an hour en- sued, during which we congratulated ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket- office, it would at least be dryer than the plat- form. At last the boy returned with the news that the inn was not open, but that a carriage would be sent for us ! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived ! It was a butcher's cart. When the bag- gage was thrown in, there was but one seat left the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went, twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces from one direction and the rain from another, 32 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN but happy in the hope and expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night's lodging than a country railway station. In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson, the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to "step in an' tek some- think." We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord's wife, who ushered us into the "best parlor," kindled a rousing fire in the grate (English fires are not usually "rousing"), and asked what we would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the eyes of the cook none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. " Oh, no, sir, the inn is not open," explained our good Samaritan, "but we 're always glad to make strangers comfort- able." These words indicate the spirit of the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady's eyes, her smile, and her ges- tures. I cannot set down the exact words for the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot's landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam : " They 're cur'ous talkers i' this country ; the gentry 's hard work to hunderstand 'em } I 33 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for ' hev n't you'? the gentry, you know, says, ' hev n't you ' well, the people about here says, ' hanna yey.' It 's what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir." It was curious to note, when we explored the village the next morning, that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was in the time of George Eliot's father. I had never expected to find the real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as represented except that Adam Bede's cottage has been enlarged and repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the vil- lage as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was the original of the old squire in "Adam Bede." This fine old estate was the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of a visit. We found the fine old "hoaks" 34 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN there, which Mr. Casson mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a pro- fusion of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener main- tained the hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the place from all the best points of view. It has not been my intention to follow in de- tail the events of our exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real pleasure when the people one meets mani- fest a genuine interest and a spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invari- ably. n There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder. There are surly but- lers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we 35 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA encountered one of the species in the Lake Dis- trict. I had called at the country residence of Captain , a wealthy gentleman and a mem- ber of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His High- and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of the Grouch, resulting in a stiffen- ing of the muscles of the back and shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was "not at 'ome." I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum. " Captain is ex-treme-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He 's obliged to be in Lunnun to- day, sir, but he towld me to sai to you, sir, that you 're to talk everythink in the 'ouse you want, sir." And then the Important One gave me full possession while I photographed the most inter- esting rooms, coming back occasionally to in- quire whether I wished him to move " hany har- ticles of furniture," afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the sacred precincts of his own particular domain. At another time, also in connection with Mrs. Ward's novels, I came dangerously near to an- other break. It was down in Surrey, whither we had gone to visit the scenery of " Robert Els- 36 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN mere." I knocked at the door of a little stone cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown into the presence of a very old gentleman, who looked suspiciously, first at my card, and then at me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. I explained that I was an American and had come to take a picture of his house. He looked puzzled, and after some further scrutiny of my face, my clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, " Well, you people in America must be crazy to come all the way over here to photograph this house. I have always said it 's the ugliest house in Eng- land, owned by the ugliest landlord that ever lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the parish." Fortunately he was not possessed of the Oriental delusion that a photograph causes some of the virtue of an individual (or of a house) to pass out into the picture, and upon further reflection concluded that if a harmless lunatic wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, it would n't matter much after all. Not infrequently it happened that the keepers in charge of certain places of public interest, while desiring to be courteous themselves, were bound by strict instructions from their superiors. In the year when we were exploring the length and breadth of England and Scotland in search of the scenes of Sir Walter Scott's writings, we came one day to a famous hall, generously thrown open to the public by the Duke of , who 37 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA owned it. Here we found a rule that the use of "stands" or tripods would not be permitted in the building. Snap-shots with hand-cameras were freely allowed, but these are always more or less dependent on chance, and for interior views, re- quiring a long time-exposure, are worthless. The duke, apparently, did not mind poor pictures, but was afraid of good ones. I felt that I really must have views of the famous rooms of that house, and we pleaded earnestly with the keeper. But orders were orders and he remained inflexible, but always courteous. He wanted to help, how- ever, and finally conducted me to a cottage near by where I was presented to his immediate su- perior, a good-looking and good-natured woman. She, too, was willing and even anxious to oblige, but the duke's orders were imperative. Finally a thought struck me. " You say stands are forbid- den would it be an infraction of the rules if I were to rest my camera on a table or chair ? " " Oh, no, indeed ! " she quickly replied ; then, calling to the keeper, said, " John, I want you to do everything you can for this gentleman." John seemed pleased. He first performed his duty to the duke by locking up the dangerous tripod where it could do no harm. Then taking charge of us, he conducted us through the well-worn rooms, meanwhile instructing his daughter to look after other visitors and keep them out of our way. I rested my camera on ancient chairs and tables so 38 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN precious that the visitors were not permitted to touch them, John kindly removing the protecting ropes. We were taken to parts of the house and garden not usually shown to visitors, so anxious was our guide to assist in our purpose. At last we came to a great ballroom, with richly carved wood- work, but absolutely bare of furniture. Here the forbidden " stand " was sorely needed. My com- panion promptly came to the rescue. " I '11 be the tripod," said she. The hint was a good one, so, resting the camera upon her shoulder, I soon had my picture composed and in focus. Then, placing the camera on a convenient window-ledge just above my head, and making allowance for the increased elevation, I gave the plate a long ex- posure and the result was as good an " interior " as I ever made. This is one of the best parts of the game the overcoming of obstacles. Without it, photog- raphy would be poor fun, something like the game of checkers I once played with a village rustic. He swept off all my men in half a dozen moves and then went away disgusted. I was too easy. A picture that is not worth taking a little trouble to get is usually not worth having. I have even been known to take pictures I really did not need, just because some unexpected diffi- culties arose. Another part of the pursuit, which I have always enjoyed, is the quiet amusement one can 39 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA often derive from unexpected situations. One day in London, when the streets were pretty well crowded with Coronation visitors, we decided to take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the pre- caution to secure a permit, so, without asking any questions, proceeded to spread out my tripod and compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate- holder, a " Bobby," by which name the London policeman is generally known, appeared, advanc- ing with an air that plainly said, " I '11 soon stop that game, my fine fellow !" I expressed my sur- prise and said I had a permit, at the same time drawing the slide an action which, not being a photographer, he did not consider significant. He looked scornfully at the permit, and said it was not good after 10 A.M. Here, again, the as- sistant photographer of our expedition came to the rescue. She exercised the woman's privilege of asking "Why?" and "Bobby" moved from in front of the camera to explain. " Click" went the shutter, in went the slide, out came the plate-holder, and into the case went the camera. "Bobby" politely apologized for interfering, and expressed his deep regret at being obliged to disappoint us. I solemnly assured him that it was all right, that he had only done his duty and that I did not blame him in the least ! But I neglected to inform him that the Victoria Monument was already mine. One of the pleasures of rambling with a camera 40 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN is that it takes you to so many out-of-the-way places, which you would not otherwise be likely to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her " Recollec- tions of a Tour in Scotland" complains that all the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad. Dor- othy ought to have known, for she and William walked most of the way to save their bones from dislocation by the jolting of their little cart, and their limited resources compelled them to seek the shelter and food of the poorest inns. The modern tourist, on the contrary, will find excel- lent roads and for the most part hotel accommo- dations where he can be fairly comfortable. It was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as occasionally happened, we could find nothing but an inn of the kind that flourished a century ago. On a very rainy morning in May we alighted from the train at the little village of Ecclef echan, known to the world only as the birthplace of Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom we inquired the location of a good hotel, answered in a Scotch dialect so broad that we could not compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, and as it afforded the only escape from the pour- ing rain, we stepped in and trusted to luck. The vehicle presently drew up before the door of a very ancient hotel, from which the landlady, whom we have ever since called "Mrs. Eccle- f echan," came out to meet us. She was a frail little woman, well along in years, with thin f ea- 41 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA tures, sharp eyes, and a bald head, the last of which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort of peaked black bonnet, tied with strings be- neath her chin, and suggesting the rather curious spectacle of a bishop's miter above a female face. Her dress was looped up by pinning the bottom of it around her waist, exposing a gray-and- white striped petticoat that came down halfway between the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a pair of coarse woolen stockings and some heavy shoes. A burlap apron completed the costume. Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, clerk, porter, cook, chambermaid, waitress, bar- maid, and bootblack of the establishment, was possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as comfortable as her limited facilities would permit. We were taken into the public-room, a space about twelve feet square, with a small open fire at one end, benches around the walls and a table occupying nearly all the remaining space. Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where the landlady baked her oatmeal cake and served the regulars who came for a " penny 'orth o' rum " and a bit of gossip. In front was an- other tiny room where were served fastidious guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. At noon we sat down to a luncheon, which might have been worse, and at five were summoned into the little room again. We thought it curious to serve hard boiled eggs with afternoon tea, and 42 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN thinking supper would soon be ready, declined them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans with big, healthy appetites, for the supper never came. The eggs were it. We spent the evening in the public-room sit- ting near the fire. One by one the villagers dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and spending an hour or two over a very small glass. The evenings had been spent in that way in that place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in the atmosphere of " long ago." A middle-aged Scotchman, whose name was pronounced, very broadly, "Fronk," seemed to feel the responsi- bility of entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly I thought, a song by Lady Nairne, " The Auld Hoose," and recited with fine appreciation the lines of Burns' s " Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn," To a Mouse," " To a Louse," and other poems. He related how Burns once helped a friend out of a dilemma. Three women had been buried side by side. The son of one of them wished to put an inscription on his mother's tomb- stone, but the sexton could not remember which grave was hers. Burns solved the problem by suggesting these lines : " Here, or there, or thereaboots, Lies the body of Janet Coutts, But here, or there, or whereaboots, Nane can tell Till Janet rises and tells hersel." 43 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA Our landlady assured us that Fronk "had the bluid o' Douglas in his veins," but he was now only a poor " ne'er-do-weel/' picking up " a bit shillin' " now and then. But he loved Bobbie Burns. After the evening's entertainment we were shown to a tiny bedroom. Over the horrors up- stairs I must draw the veil of charity, only re- marking that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I shall seek out a nice soft pile of old scrap-iron for a couch, rather than risk another night on one of those beds. Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, which is now one of the " restored " show places, and an interesting one. We also went to the graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we were conducted by an old woman, nearly ninety years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived in the village all her days. We asked if she had ever seen Carlyle. " Oh, yes," she replied, wearily, "I hae seen 'im. He was a coo-rious mon." Then brightening she added, with a smile that revealed her heart of hearts, "But we a' love Bobbie Burns." And so we found it throughout Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissi- pated wanderer shared with the intelligent and cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably called, affectionately, " Bobbie." It was not long after this that we had occasion 44 THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN to visit the land of Burns, for a trip through Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would scarcely be possible without many glimpses of the places made famous by the elder and less cultured but not less beloved poet. Scott's intimacy with Adam Ferguson, the son of the distinguished Dr. Adam Ferguson, was the means of his introduction to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it was at the house of the latter, that Scott, then a boy of fifteen, met Burns for the first and only time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet by promptly naming the author of a poem which Burns had quoted, when no one else in the room could give the information. It is a far cry from the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the tavern in the Canongate where the " Crochallan Fencibles" used to meet, but here the lines crossed again, for to this resort for convivial souls Burns came to enjoy the bacchanalian rev- els known as " High Jinks," in the same way as did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott's fictitious Paulus Pleydell. We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a number of places described by Scott in "Guy Mannering," " Redgauntlet," and other novels, and found ourselves in the very heart of the Burns country. In the center of High Street stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which the original Effie Deans, whose real name was 45 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA Isabel Walker, was tried for child murder. Here the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save her sister's life, afterward walking to London to secure her pardon. Almost around the corner is the house where Burns's Jean lived, and where " Bobbie" died. In the same town is the church- yard of St. Michaels where Burns lies buried in a handsome " muselum," as one of the natives informed us. Out on the road toward the old church of Kirkpatrick Irongray, where Scott erected a mon- ument to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie Deans, is a small remnant of the house once oc- cupied by that heroine. In the same general direction but a little farther to the north, on the banks of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns attempted to manage a farm, attend to the duties of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at the same time. Out of the last came "Tarn o' Shanter," but the other two " attempts " were failures. We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast of Carrick and what is left of the ancestral home of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero landed, with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graph- ically related by Scott in " The Lord of the Isles." Here again we were in Burns's own country. In the city of Ayr we saw the " Twa Brigs " and the very tavern which Tarn o' Shanter may be supposed to have frequented, 46 RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN " And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie." Of course we drove to B urns' s birthplace, about three miles to the south, a long, narrow cottage with a thatched roof, one end of which was dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was built by the poet's father, with his own hands, and when Robert was born there in the winter of 1759 probably looked a great deal less re- spectable than it does now. Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway Kirk for a view of the old church where Tarn o' Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the witches and started on his famous ride. The keeper felt personally aggrieved because I pre- ferred to utilize my limited time to make a picture of the church, rather than listen to his repetition of a tale which I already knew by heart. We traveled over Tarn's route and soon had a fine view of the old "Brig o' Boon," where Tarn at length escaped the witches at the expense of his poor nag's tail. I have made few pictures that pleased me more than that of the " auld brig," which I was able to get by placing my camera on the new bridge near by. Here the memory of Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memo- rial, in the form of a Grecian temple and very similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh, but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded by a garden of well-trimmed yews, shrubbery of 47 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA various kinds, and a wealth of brightly blooming flowers, and best of all, stands well above the "banks and braes o' bonnie Doon," where the poet himself would have been happy to stand and look upon his beloved river. Whatever may have been "Bobbie's" faults, and, poor fellow, they were many and grievous, there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle of love beneath which they have been concealed and forgotten. He touched the hearts of his countrymen as none other ever did, and out of the sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung beautiful flowers, laid out along well-ordered and graceful paths, a delight and solace to his fellow- men, like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the lovely garden at the base of his memorial over- looking the Doon. Ill A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY m A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY OUR arrival on Saturday evening at the vil- lage of Windermere was like the sudden and unexpected realization of a dream. On many a winter night, under the light of our library lamp at home, we had talked of that vague, distant " sometime " when we should visit the English Lakes. And now by what curious combination of circumstances we did not try to analyze here we were with the whole beautiful panorama, in all its evening splendors, spread out before us. Through our minds passed, as in a vision, the whole company of poets who are inseparably as- sociated with these scenes : Wordsworth, whose abiding influence upon the spirit of poetry will endure as long as the mountains and vales which taught him to love and reverence nature ; Southey, who, himself without the appreciation of na- ture, was the first to recognize Wordsworth's rare power of interpreting her true meaning; Coleridge, the most intimate friend of the greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be the most wonderful man he ever met, and who, in spite of those short-comings which caused his life to end in worldly failure, nevertheless 51 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA possessed a native eloquence and alluring per- sonality. Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent twenty of the happiest years of his life at Dove Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. His most intimate companion was the famous Professor Wilson of Edinburgh, known to all readers of " Blackwood's Magazine " as " Chris- topher North." Attracted partly by the beauty of the Lake Country, but more by his desire to cul- tivate the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius he greatly admired, Professor Wilson bought a pretty place in Cumberland, where he lived for several years. He enjoyed the companionship of the friendly group of poets, but, we are told, oc- casionally sought a different kind of pleasure in measuring his strength with some of the native wrestlers, one of the most famous of whom has testified that he found him "a very bad un to lick." At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found himself drawn to the Lakes by the same double attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox How on the River Rothay, where his youngest daughter still resides. He wrote in 1832 : " Our intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the brightest spots of all ; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten." It was not alone the beauty of the Westmore- 52 WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY land scenery that had attracted this group of famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. But Wordsworth was here, in the midst of those charming displays of Nature in her most cheer- ful as well as most soothing moods. Nature's best interpreter and Nature herself could be seen together. For a hundred years this same influ- ence has continued to exercise its spell upon trav- elers, and we are bound to recognize the fact that this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from our prearranged path, that we might enjoy the plea- sure of a Sunday in the country of Wordsworth. The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, suggesting that splendid day when Wordsworth, then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed of an irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry : " Magnificent The morning rose, in memorable pomp, Glorious as e'er I had beheld in front, The sea lay laughing at a distance ; near, The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ; And in the meadows and the lower grounds Was all the sweetness of a common dawn Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds, And laborers going forth to till the fields. Ah ! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim My heart was full ; I made no vows, but vows Were then made for me ; bond unknown to me Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, A dedicated spirit." 63 THE LURE OF THE CAMERA We resolved that the whole of this beautiful day should be devoted to catching something of that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and through him taught the love of Nature to count- less thousands. A few steps took us away from the town, the inn, and the other tourists, into a quiet woodland path leading toward the lake, at the end of which we stood " On long Winander's eastern shore." "Winander" is the old form of Windermere. The lake was the scene of many of Wordsworth's boyhood experiences. " When summer came, Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, To sweep along the plain of Windermere With rival oars ; and the selected bourne Was now an Island musical with birds That sang and ceased not ; now a Sister Isle Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown With lilies of the valley like a field ; And now a third small Island, where survived In solitude the ruins of a shrine Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race, So ended, disappointment could be none, Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy : We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength, And the vaiaglory of superior skill, Were tempered." 54 WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY Wordsworth's boyhood was probably very much like that of other boys. He tells us that he was " stiff, moody, and of a violent temper " so much so that he went up into his grandfather's attic one day, while under the resentment of some indignity, determined to destroy himself. But his heart failed. On another occasion he re- lates that while at his grandfather's house in Penrith, he and his eldest brother Richard were whipping tops in the large drawing-room. " The walls were hung round with family pictures, and I said to my brother, ( Dare you strike your whip through that old lady's petticoat?' He replied,