THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 t-f
 
 THE FLOWER OF 
 
 ENGLAND'S FACE"
 
 ms- 
 
 .m>^
 
 ^'THE FLOWER OF 
 
 ENGLAND'S FACE" 
 
 Sketches of English Travel 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA C R. DORR 
 
 Author of " Friar Anselmo," " Afternoon 
 Songs," etc., etc. 
 
 m^ '^t^\ ;'^ ;.' ^:' 
 MACMILLAN AND COMPANY 
 
 AND LONDON 
 1895 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 Copyright, 1895, 
 By MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 Norbjooti ^rcss 
 
 J. S. Cushinp; & Co. - Berwick & Smitlx 
 Norwood Muss. U.S.A.
 
 TO 
 
 *' Fortasse haec oUm tibi juvabit meminisse
 
 y> 
 
 >- 
 
 OS 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 g^ CHAP. PAGE 
 
 ^ I, A WEEK IN WALES ... 1 
 
 II. BAXBURY CAKES AND THE ISLE 
 
 «M OF WIGHT 46 
 
 ?*• 
 
 If> in. A DAY OF CONTRASTS ... 70 
 CVJ 
 
 O IV. IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN . . 89 
 
 V. AT THE PEACOCK INN . . . 126 
 
 . VI. AT HAWORTH 143 
 
 VII. FROM THE BORDER TO INVER- 
 NESS 180 
 
 7> 
 
 cy 
 
 Li Vin. TO CAWDOR CASTLE AND CUL- 
 
 [^ LODEN MOOR .... 209 
 
 n IX. AN ENCHANTED DAY . . . 236 
 
 -4 
 < 
 
 452647'
 
 ^^THE FLOWEK OF ENGLAND'S 
 FACE.'' 
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 OHOULD it be the English Lakes, or 
 North Wales ? We were in Chester, 
 and it was the week of the Queen's 
 Jubilee. London was not to be thought 
 of. To-morrow would be the great day 
 itself, and even this staid old town, witli 
 its historic walls and towers, its queer 
 " Rows," of whicli no description can con- 
 vey an adequate idea, its picturesque streets 
 and ancient iiouses, was alive with pleasant 
 turmoil and excitement. 
 
 That night, at twenty minutes to ten, I 
 stood at my window in the Grosvenor, 
 looking up at the dark spires of the 
 cathedral. There was no moon and the 
 
 B I
 
 2 A WEEK IN WALES, 
 
 street lamps were not yet lighted, nor were 
 my candles. Yet I found by actual experi- 
 ment that I could read common newspaper 
 print with perfect ease. Such is the length 
 of the English twilight. 
 
 There was little sleep for Chester that 
 night. Eastgate Street, and doubtless all 
 the other streets, were alive with surging 
 crowds, shouting and cheering, and sing- 
 ing Jubilee songs. " God save the Queen ! 
 God save the Queen! " was the burden of 
 them all. Jubilee cakes and Jubilee can- 
 dies filled the shop-windows, to say noth- 
 ing of flags, medals, and souvenirs of all 
 sorts, from a pin-cushion to a diadem. The 
 Queen's plain, matronly face greeted one at 
 every turn, generally rising above the black 
 robes she most affects, lightened only by the 
 blue ribbon of the Garter. But occasionally 
 might be seen a more ambitious attempt at 
 portraying the splendours of royalty. Im- 
 agine her Majesty in a bright red gown, 
 crowned and bejewelled to the last degree !
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 3 
 
 Towards morning Chester went to bed, 
 and we fell asleep, only to be awakened at 
 dawn by the chiming of the cathedral bells, 
 almost in front of our windows. It was 
 worth waking for, — to lie there in a half- 
 dream, and hear the liquid music soar, and 
 swell, and die away, at last, in strains too 
 sweet for earth. In the afternoon there was 
 a Jubilee service for the children, for which 
 tickets were kindly sent us. Chester is one 
 of the smaller cathedrals ; yet on that occa- 
 sion, though only the south transejDt was 
 used, it was said that seven thousand chil- 
 dren and many grown people were seated 
 in its wide spaces. Perhaps it should be 
 stated that this transept is exceptionally 
 large — nearly as large as the nave itself 
 — and is known as the church of St. 
 Oswald. The children did most of the 
 singing, led by the trained choir and the 
 great organ ; and when the full chorus of 
 fresh young voices rolled out grandly in 
 the liymn, —
 
 4 A WKICK IN WALES. 
 
 " Like a miji^hty army 
 
 Moves the church of God ; 
 Brothers, we are treading 
 Where tlie saints have trod," 
 
 the effect was overpowering. It would 
 have been overwhelming anywhere, that 
 mighty river of song ; but there, in that 
 hoary cathedral, whose vaulted aisles had 
 echoed with the sound of prayer and psalm 
 for twelve hundred years, it was as resist- 
 less as the waves of the ocean. " Where 
 the saints have trod" ? Were they saints, 
 those old monks ? Not all of them. They 
 were men of like frailties with ourselves ; 
 and the good and bad mingled in monastery 
 walls, in what we call the dark ages, as in 
 city streets to-day. But there were grand 
 and saintly souls among them, who laboured 
 zealously, according to their light, for God 
 and man. We had paced their cloisters, 
 treading in the very imprints of their feet. 
 We had loitered in their green, secluded 
 closes. We had listened for the lingering
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 5 
 
 cadence of their laughter in the vaulted 
 Monk's Parlour, and in the chapter-house 
 we had touched reverently the books they 
 read and the missals from which they 
 prayed. We had looked down the long, 
 narrow vista of the scriptorium. Here, 
 hour after hour, had the cowled heads 
 bent over the parchment books the deft 
 liands were illuminating with such fine 
 tracery of leaf and flower. Perhaps the 
 very ivies that were casting such flickering 
 shadows on its gray arches were the direct 
 descendants of those that dallied with 
 " the winds that blew a thousand years 
 ago." Who could deny it? We had 
 wandered through the murky crypt where 
 their ashes lie ; and one of us had found, 
 with the aid of the verger, the initials of an 
 old fourteenth-century abbot, S. R., en- 
 twined in the foliage of one of the carved 
 capitals in the nave, — said abbot being, 
 according to tradition, a far-off kinsman 
 of her own. Afterwards, she was shown
 
 O A WEEK rx WALES. 
 
 reverently, in one of the cloisters, a black- 
 ened, mutilated slab that had once covered 
 his grave or coffin, on which the S. R. ap- 
 peared again, cleanly cut, as if fresh from 
 the graver's hand. 
 
 Charles Kingsley was for some years a 
 canon of Chester, and the friendly vergers 
 had many stories to tell of him and his 
 doings. It was for his sake, in part, that 
 we planned to go in a row-boat to Eaton 
 Hall, thinking that perhaps we, as well as 
 the boatmen, might still hear his Mary 
 
 " call the cattle home 
 Across the sauds o' Dee." 
 
 All the rest of the folk who wished to 
 shun London till the hurly-burly of the 
 Jubilee was over seemed to be going to 
 the Lakes. So Saint Katharine and I 
 decided on Xorth Wales, thus avoiding the 
 whole crowd of tourists. Conway being 
 our first objective point, we took the 
 Chester and Holyhead section of the Lon-
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. ^ 
 
 don and Northwestern Railway, wliich runs 
 along the shores of the river Dee and the 
 Irish Sea, of which, in fact, the river is 
 itself an arm. The glimpses of scenery to he 
 caught from the Hying train are exquisitely 
 picturesque ; and we two lone women 
 could not quite control our expressions 
 of pleasure, even though a dignified Welsh 
 gentleman sat at the other end of the com- 
 partment, absorbed in a newspaper. Now 
 occurred one of the small delights of travel 
 that it is so pleasant to recall afterwards ; 
 and once again we were compelled to con- 
 gratulate ourselves on having chosen the 
 sociable and friendly rep of the second class 
 car, rather than the more exclusive plush of 
 the first. Our fellow passenger laid down 
 The Times. 
 
 " I see you are interested in our \Yelsh 
 scenery, ladies," he said. "Pray exchange 
 seats with me. The views from this side 
 are much the finer, and it is all an old 
 story to me."
 
 8 A wi:f,k in wales. 
 
 An intollij^ent man is really a much more 
 interesting travelling companion than the 
 very best guide-book ; especially when he 
 is good enough to show you a thousand 
 points of interest, — little things that the 
 guide-book gi'andly ignores, or that you 
 would be sure not to recognize in the 
 hurry of the moment. If it had not been 
 for our new friend, we should hardly have 
 noticed the chimneys of Hawarden, or 
 strained our eyes in the attempt to see the 
 house itself, hidden in its nest of greenery. 
 But we did see the unpretentious parish 
 church where Mr. Gladstone often reads the 
 service, to the edification of himself and 
 others. If it had not been for our friend, 
 too, we should have had occasion to go 
 lamenting all the rest of our days that we 
 had passed without knowing it the ruins of 
 Flint Castle, where Richard held the mem- 
 orable interview with Bolingbroke, and 
 sighed to be "great as his gi'ief, or lesser 
 thau his name." It stands, what there is
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 9 
 
 left of it, on a rugged hill, through which 
 we swept in a tunnel, so that "the rude 
 ribs of that ancient castle " were directly 
 over our heads, and its "tattered battle- 
 ments" loomed above us as we emerged 
 into the sunlight again. The ruins of 
 feudal castles that meet one at every turn 
 in Wales are patent reminders that the 
 whole land was long a bone of contention 
 between two rival nations, and that here, 
 time after time and generation after gen- 
 eration, the English kings summoned their 
 men-at-arms in a vain attempt to subdue 
 the valorous Welsh, secure in their moun- 
 tain fastnesses. But the stronger won at 
 last. Beautiful indeed was Gwrrych Castle 
 that afternoon, in its setting of emerald 
 woods, — a stately pile of cream-coloured 
 stone, with many towers and turrets, and 
 a mountain for a background. It is a 
 human habitation, not a ruin, and belongs 
 to the Marquis of Mostyn. Very near it is 
 Abergele, once the home of Mrs. Hemans.
 
 lO A WKKK IN WALES. 
 
 Modern " culture" docs not thorouglily ap- 
 prove her of whom her greater sister in 
 song, Mrs. Browning, said, " she never 
 wronged that mystic breath, which breatlied 
 in all her being." But those of us who 
 arc old enough to remember the days when 
 it was allowable to read and admire her, 
 cannot fail to have noticed the strong hold 
 Welsh history and Welsh legends had upon 
 her imagination. 
 
 At Old Colwyn, " our Welsh friend," as 
 we like to call him, having no other name 
 to know him by, pointed out to us his own 
 home on the hillside,, divided with us a 
 great bunch of white carnations he was 
 carrying to his wife, shook hands with us 
 cordially, and departed, smiling and lifting 
 his hat as he vanished round the corner. 
 How easy it is to do kindly things, if one 
 only wants to ! 
 
 Soon we rolled into what we more than 
 once heard called the "stupid" town of 
 Conway. The omnipresent porter took
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. II 
 
 our luggage, and we walked a short dis- 
 tance to the Castle Hotel. 
 
 Conway is headquarters for the Eoyal 
 Cambrian Society of Art. "We wondered 
 if that fact, or its having a landlady of 
 artistic proclivities, accounted for the pict- 
 ures, mostly oil-paintings, which covered 
 the walls of our inn. The coffee-room 
 and halls were lined with them, and the 
 chambers held the overflow. In our host- 
 ess's private parlour, Kensington embroid- 
 ery, old china, painted door-panels, painted 
 milking-stools, etc., had a strangely familiar 
 air, showing that Wales, like America, is in 
 the march of progress. | If we could only 
 have found a decorated rolling-pin,| we 
 should have been happy. But in a con- 
 spicuous place hung two or three sketches 
 of American scenery by Thomas Moran, 
 sent to our hostess, as she was proud to 
 say, by the artist himself, who had been 
 for weeks a guest of the house. One 
 morning, when we went down to break- 
 
 /^
 
 12 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 fast, we found in the coffee-room an old 
 gentleman and his wife: she, a tall, angular 
 person, with her hair combed low ou her 
 cheeks, and then carried up over her ears, 
 a huge cap with purple ribbons, and a gown 
 that looked like a fifty-year-old fashion- 
 plate; he, a curious figure that might have 
 stepped bodily out of one of Dickens's 
 illustrated pages. He was prowling about 
 the room with an eyeglass, grumbling be- 
 cause his breakfast was not served, and 
 venting his spleen upon those unfortunate 
 pictures. "Abominable! Atrocious!" he 
 kept exclaiming with a snort. "And I 
 suppose, my dear, there are people who 
 call this art!'''' But why need he have 
 given the things so much attention? It is 
 well to know when to shut one's eyes. 
 There were lovely flowers on the table, 
 for which he had neither glance nor word. 
 The thing we had come to Conway to 
 see was the castle. But on the principle 
 of leaving the best till the last, we saw
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 1 3 
 
 everything else first, keeping it and gloat- 
 ing over it as a child gloats over his 
 sugar-plums, though it was always in our 
 thoughts as in our sight, — the one domi- 
 nant feature in the landscape, ruling it 
 as a mountain rules the valley. 
 
 " Be sure to go up the river to Trefriw," 
 our friend of the carnations had said, as 
 a parting injunction. The next morning 
 was hot, and the cool breeze from the 
 river was delicious. "What time could be 
 better than the present ? So to the dock 
 we went, and for an hour awaited the 
 arrival of the small steamer ; the Conway 
 being a tidal river, and completely ruled 
 by the caprices of the lady moon. 
 
 But we were off at last, like a parcel 
 of children playing at sea-going, in a toy 
 boat on a toy river. Nothing more en- 
 joyable can well be conceived. All was 
 so sweet, so still, so serene, that it was 
 like moving in a happy dream. The softly 
 rounded hills, cultivated, and clothed to
 
 14 A WKKK IN WALKS. 
 
 their suiniiiits with all iina,u;iiial)lc shades 
 of green and olive; the lovely stone cot- 
 tages, picturesque on the outside at least, 
 springing up in all sorts of out-of-the-way- 
 places, — now clinging to some sharply de- 
 lined point far up the hillsides, now nes- 
 tling deep in sheltered valleys, but all alike 
 mantled with ivy and bright with roses; 
 the fern-clad banks of the stream ; the 
 arched bridges; the ancestral farmhouses, 
 gray with age; and here and there the 
 stately splendour of hall or castle, made 
 a series of pictures never to be forgotten. 
 Our captain was very accommodating, and 
 helped to carry out the illusion that it 
 was all play. If he saw a would-be pas- 
 senger strolling leisurely over the fields 
 towards the river, he (juietly turned his 
 prow to the shore, and waited till the 
 new-comer leaped on board. If a woman 
 wanted to land where there was no dock, 
 that she might shorten the distance home- 
 wards by going " 'cross lots," she had only
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 1 5 
 
 to suggest it, and she was put ashore forth- 
 with, — sometimes, as it seemed, at the 
 imminent risk of an overturn. At Tre- 
 friw, which certainly liad very little to 
 show for itself except its ferns and its 
 long ranks of pink and purple foxgloves, 
 there was time for luncheon, if anybody 
 wanted it. Beyond this point the river 
 is not navigable, and we were soon on 
 our return voyage, "going out with the 
 tide." The little Conway was famous for 
 its pearl fisheries even before the Roman 
 Conquest, and Wales boasts that a Conway 
 pearl is one of the ornaments of the English 
 crown to-day. 
 
 Near the head of High Street stands the 
 Plas Mawr, or Great Mansion, built more 
 than three centuries ago by one llobert 
 Wynne. Its chief claim to distinction lies 
 in the fact that its owner had the honour 
 of entertaining Queen Elizabeth for some 
 days. The old house is just as it was then, 
 save for the ravages of tunc, which are
 
 l6 A WEKK IN WALES. 
 
 many. But the great courts, the floors, 
 the wood-work of panelled oak now black 
 as ebony, the window-sashes, the small 
 diamond-shaped panes of greenish glass, 
 the fireplaces, aixl the stairways, remain 
 unaltered, for the most part. The Plas 
 Mawr was freshly decorated and adorned 
 for the reception of the queen, and the 
 letters E. R., Elizabeth Regina, appear over 
 and over again, both in wood-carvings and 
 on the ceilings, in connection with the 
 royal crest. The ceilings have been bar- 
 barously whitewashed, but they must have 
 been very beautiful when they shone in 
 green and gold, with rich emblazonry of 
 heraldic colours. In the great banqueting- 
 hall — people seem never to have eaten, but 
 always to have banqueted, in those days — 
 are the identical tables and chairs of mas- 
 sive oak used by the royal party. We 
 entered the private drawing-room of the 
 queen, and her bed-chamber; and tried to 
 imagine her, in the prime of her haughty
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 1 7 
 
 womanhood, sitting in a low cliair before 
 the broad fireplace, dreaming, perhaps, of 
 the very lovers whom she spnrned. But 
 nothing brought back the romance of the 
 past so vividly as when our escort, the 
 secretary of the above-named art society, 
 said, throwing open another door, " The 
 Earl of Leicester was in attendance upon 
 her majesty. This was his chamber." If so, 
 at this small, deep, diamond-paned lattice 
 he must often have stood, as he buckled 
 on his sword or arranged his slashed doub- 
 let. Were his thoughts of fair Amy Rob- 
 sart, pining at Cumnor Place, or of the 
 proud woman next door? 
 
 That evening, as it was growing dark, 
 we heard the sound of strange, unearthly 
 music, and forthwith rushed to the window. 
 A woman of middle age, swathed in wid- 
 ow's weeds from top to toe, and leading 
 a little child dressed also in black, was 
 moving slowly along the middle of the 
 street, singing a wild, weird air, set to 
 c
 
 1 8 A WKEK IN WALES. 
 
 Welsh words. Her voice was almost pain- 
 fully pathetic, but her walk was quite be- 
 yond description. She would take three 
 or four slow steps with a sort of rhythmic 
 swing, and then stand stock still, rolling 
 her eyes as in a fine frenzy, while she 
 ix)ured forth those uncanny strains with 
 a power and pathos that made one's heart 
 beat. Then came the swing again. The 
 little child faithfully copied her every 
 movement. ' ' Is she crazy, Saint Katha- 
 rine?" I asked. "Or is she a broken- 
 down singer, on a hunt for pennies?" 
 For her voice, cracked now and harsh in 
 some of its tones, had been fine once. 
 But no one paid the slightest attention 
 to her; none of the passers-by recognized 
 her presence even by a turn of the head. 
 At length, slowly, still singing, she and 
 the child passed out of sight, fading away 
 in the gloaming. 
 
 The parish church at Conway, wlilch 
 is built on the site of the monastery of
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. I9 
 
 Aberconway, has a fine old font and a 
 beautiful rood-screen. The latter is said 
 to have belonged to the abbey, but tradi- 
 tions differ. In the chancel are monu- 
 ments to the Wynne family ; and in the 
 floor, which is lower than that of the nave, 
 is a rude stone, with the inscription " Y. 
 Z. 1066,"— the very date of the Norman 
 Conquest. Another bears this curious 
 record : — 
 
 "Here lyeth ye body of Mch's Hookes 
 of Conway Gent, who was ye 4Jst child 
 of his father Wm. Hookes, Esq, by 
 Alice his wife, and ye father of 27 chil- 
 dren who dyed ye 20th day of March 
 1637." 
 
 Query : Did the twenty-seven children 
 all come to an untimely end on "ye 20th 
 day of March"? 
 
 At length, one perfect day, we went to 
 the castle. The old man who has the place 
 in charge took the small fee, unlocked a 
 door, and left us to our own devices. The
 
 20 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 whole glorious ruin was to all intents and 
 purposes our own. During that long 
 golden afternoon not a soul came near us, 
 not a voice disturbed us. Could one de- 
 scribe a cloud, or a wave, or a sunset, so 
 that a blind man could see it with his 
 mind's eye ? Could one give a deaf man 
 an idea of a bird song, or the peal of an 
 organ ? As well try to do this as to de- 
 scribe the solemn grandeur of those time- 
 worn, ivy-grown, moss-covered battlements, 
 left now to the sweet winds of heaven, the 
 flocks of rooks that fly in and out of turret 
 and tower, and the climbing roses that 
 brighten it with their beauty. From court 
 to court we wandered, from tower to tower, 
 from battlement to battlement. Here, all 
 unroofed and open to the stars, lies the 
 great banqueting-hall, more beautiful, more 
 imposing, now, it may be, in its ivy- 
 wreathed desolation, than when the gay 
 revellers of Edward's court made its vast 
 arches ring with song and laughter. Here
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 21 
 
 Still are the wide lireplaces, rich with 
 carvings, the very ghosts of past comfort 
 and delight. Here is the oratory, with its 
 traceried windows and lofty, groined arches, 
 where Eleanor the Faithful prayed. Here 
 is her bed-chamber, communicating with 
 that of the king, and still retaining traces 
 of its rich ornamentation. Leading from 
 it is an arched recess still called Queen 
 Eleanor's Oriel, the windows of which, 
 according to a contemporary poet, must 
 have been finely stained; — 
 
 ' ' In her oriel there she was, 
 Closed well with royal glass ; 
 Filled it was with imagery, 
 Every window by and by." 
 
 Here are stairways worn by feet that were 
 stilled long centuries ago ; and, in the deep 
 thickness of the walls, the passages, dark 
 and tortuous, through which those feet 
 strode on errands of business, or pleasure, 
 or intrigue. Here are stone benches that 
 seem still to keep the impress of the forms
 
 22 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 that througli tlie slow generations shaped 
 and hollowed them. We looked through 
 openings in the "crannied walls," from 
 which death and destruction had rained on 
 many a besieging party. 
 
 Far below us, as we stood on the lofty 
 battlements, lay the walled town, with its 
 massive semicircular towers, so powerful 
 once for defence or attack, so useless now 
 as they slept in that serenest air. Close 
 about the castle clustered the cottages 
 and gardens of the people, but they only 
 added to the impressiveness of the pict- 
 ure. Just at our feet was a pretty stone 
 house, its courtyard gay with flowers, the 
 castle wall forming one of its boundaries. 
 
 It is with the beauty and grandeur of the 
 hoary pile that we have to do ; not with its 
 history. Yet it may not be amiss to say 
 that it was built by Hugh Lupus, first Earl 
 of Chester, and a nephew of William the 
 Conqueror ; and was rebuilt and enlarged 
 by Edward I., in 1284.
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 23 
 
 Descending from the heights at last, after 
 many a lingering look at the winding river, 
 the quiet valley, green and golden in the 
 sun, the distant hills, and the bold head- 
 lands jutting seaward, we went down into 
 the inner court and out on the terrace, 
 under the windows of Queen Eleanor's 
 Tower. Surely she must often have sat 
 there with her knights and ladies, the fair, 
 sweet woman whose memory is fragrant 
 even yet, rejoicing as we did in the soft 
 sunlight and the beauty of earth and sea. 
 
 In a sheltered nook of the inner court, 
 an iron settee appeared a tempting resting 
 place. Taking off our bonnets we sat there 
 in silent thought till the long shadows fell, 
 and the rooks came flying homeward. Then 
 I rose and turned towards the battlements 
 again. 
 
 Saint Katharine slowly followed. 
 "Haven't you done climbing enough for 
 one day ? " she asked. " Where are you 
 going now ? "
 
 24 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 " To pluck a rose for E. C. S. on that 
 higliest battlement," I answered. " We 
 owe the delight of this day to him, and I 
 must send him a rose by way of thanks." 
 
 "But here is one right at your hand," 
 and my saint drew a pink spray from the 
 nearest wall. "Why go any higher?" 
 
 " Because I want the very pinkest one of 
 all, swaying against the blue sky up yonder. 
 I'll tell you a secret too. There's been a 
 sonnet buzzing in my brain all this blessed 
 afternoon ; and if I am ever safely delivered 
 of it, it shall go with the rose. But — son- 
 nets are uncertain, things. — Kate! What's 
 the matter now ? " 
 
 "My purse," she said faintly, feeling in 
 both pockets. "It's certainly gone. I've 
 lost it. No, it isn't under the bench where 
 we were sitting. I must have dropped it 
 up here somewhere." — And up she flew 
 in a successful search for filthy lucre, 
 while I, more blessed, found the sweet wild 
 rose that, all unknowing of its high des-
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 25 
 
 tiny, had blossomed for my poet beyond 
 the seas. 
 
 TO E. C. S. 
 
 WITH A ROSE FROM CONWAY CASTLE. 
 
 Ou hoary Conway's battlemented height, 
 O poet-heart, I phick for thee a rose! 
 Through arch and court the sweet wind 
 wandering goes ; 
 Round each high tower the rooks, in airy flight, 
 Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light; 
 Low at my feet the winding river flows ; 
 Valley and town, entranced in deep repose. 
 War doth no more appall, nor foes affright! 
 Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls, 
 Wliere mosses creep, and ivies far and free 
 Fling forth their pennants to the freshening 
 breeze, 
 Like God's own benison this sunshine falls. 
 Therefore, O friend, across the sundering 
 
 seas 
 Fair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to 
 thee! 
 
 At last we tore ourselves away, and the 
 next morning took the earliest train for 
 Caernarvon, pausing at Bangor for a view
 
 26 A WKEK IN WALES. 
 
 of the Mcnai Straits and of the two famous 
 tubular and suspension bridges. Both are 
 beautiful in their strength and symmetry, 
 but the woman must know more than I of 
 scientific engineering who undertakes to 
 give- any idea of them. Let us hasten on 
 to Caernarvon. 
 
 The town itself was not attractive to us : 
 solely, it may be, because it happened to be 
 hot and dusty. It was founded by the 
 Eomans, who gave it the name of Segon- 
 tium. The river that flows near the town 
 is called the Seiont, but whether the river 
 named the town,. or the town the river, is 
 an open question. Coed-helen, a wooded 
 height opposite, tradition says was so 
 called in honour of the Empress Helen, 
 the mother of Constantino. In addition 
 to its Roman history, Caernarvon was the 
 headquarters of the English government in 
 Wales after the conquest by Edward, — all 
 which goes to prove that it ought to be of 
 great interest to the antiquarian.
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 27 
 
 Leaving our luggage at the station, we 
 sallied forth to find the castle. Travelling, 
 like life, is a succession of choices. One 
 cannot see, or do, or have, or be, every- 
 thing. How to chose the best is the great 
 problem. We chose the castle here. Shall 
 I confess it was a disappointment, as often- 
 times more important choices are ? " More 
 picturesque than Conway," says the guide- 
 books, and "much finer." Externally it 
 is in a state of almost complete preserva- 
 tion, and it is undeniably a grand and 
 beautiful structure, with its well-kept 
 walls and imposing towers. But its com- 
 mon-place adaptation to the uses and 
 needs of to-day, the ground floor of the 
 Queen's Tower being a Freemason's hall 
 and an armoury, and the second a museum, 
 while the lower basement of the far-famed 
 Eagle Tower is a magazine and a drill- 
 room, made it to our minds far less im- 
 pressive than Conway, sitting silent in its 
 proud desolation.
 
 28 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 Yet Caernarvon, too, has its keen human 
 interests, the associations that give it the 
 glamour of mystery and romance. To its 
 mighty walls, as to a fortress, Edward 
 brought Eleanor in the spring of 1284, 
 — before Conway had been made ready 
 for her reception. The stronghold was 
 but just finished, and it is said to pre- 
 sent to-day, externally, the same appear- 
 ance it presented when the beautiful and 
 stately queen first entered the stupendous 
 gateway which is still known as Queen 
 Eleanor's Gate. Miss Strickland places 
 this gate in the Eagle Tower, which is 
 on the southwest corner, commanding the 
 Menai Straits, But this must be a mis- 
 take, unless the local traditions and the 
 very ground plans of the ancient castle 
 are greatly at fault. The Queen's Gate, 
 composed of two great towers and of 
 Gothic arches, is at the extreme east. It 
 is at a great elevation from the ground 
 outside, and was approached by a draw- 
 bridge only.
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 29 
 
 At the foot of Eagle Tower we stood 
 looking up at a small window, a mere slit 
 in the heavy masonry. Should we venture 
 the climb ? For in a chamber lighted only 
 by that window Eleanor gave birth to the 
 unfortunate Edward II., the first Prince 
 of Wales. There was but one answer to 
 the question. Up, up, up, a flight of wind- 
 ing stone stairs, dark and narrow, and 
 worn into great, uneven hollows that made 
 the footing most insecure, we ascended, 
 till we reached a little room, a veritable 
 eyrie, far up in the tower. Dreary and 
 gloomy enough it is now. It was dark, 
 cold, and forbidding, even in the bright- 
 ness of that summer day. But Eleanor 
 was the first woman in England who used 
 tapestry as garniture for walls, and the 
 marks of the tenter-hooks are still visible 
 in the small den. Eor it is only that, — 
 more unliomelike than a prison cell. Let 
 us hope that when its rough stones were
 
 30 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 perhaps warm furs and soft cushions 
 covered the floor, it was a warm and cosey 
 nest for the wife whom Edward was proud to 
 say he loved "above all earthly creatures," 
 la ('here reine to whose memory he erected 
 the thirteen crosses. The view from the top 
 of Eagle Tower may well be as magnificent 
 as the ancient chroniclers declare, but we 
 were content with our present altitude and 
 went no higher. "Facilis est descensus 
 Averni" ? Perhaps so. But the descent of 
 the stairs in Eagle Tower is a thousand times 
 worse than the going up. It is to be hoped 
 that when Queen Eleanor had occasion to 
 come down, there was some more royal 
 road to terra firma. 
 
 Three days after his birth, — from the 
 Queen's Gate, it is said, — Edward pre- 
 sented his son to the haughty Welsh barons 
 as their future ruler, the Prince of Wales. 
 "Give us," they had cried, "a native 
 prince, whose tongue is neither French 
 nor Saxon ; and if his character is void
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 3! 
 
 of reproach, we swear that we will accept 
 him," They were caught in a trap, yet 
 what could they do but submit? Surely 
 the child was a native prince, he spoke 
 neither French nor English, and his charac- 
 ter was unimpeacha,ble ! 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when we left 
 the castle, and strolled slowly back towards 
 the station. "Saint Katharine," I said, 
 "I'm hungry. Can't we manage to get 
 our luncheon in some place that shall have 
 a Caernarvonish flavour ? The Hotel Royal 
 will be just like every other royal hotel. 
 Let us do something new ! ' ' 
 
 Eor answer she darted into a book-store 
 we were just passing. I followed, to find 
 her making suit, after her own gentle fash- 
 ion, to a calm-faced, gray-haired man, who 
 was smiling benignly at her from behind 
 the counter. "Certainly," he was saying. 
 "Go to Mrs. Pownal's. That is the place 
 you want ' ' ; and he pointed out the way. 
 
 Mrs. Pownal's proved to be, on the first
 
 32 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 floor at least, a little shop, a sort of bakery, 
 whose small counters were laden with buns, 
 seed-cakes, tarts, and muffins ready to toast, 
 all giving out so sweet and spicy an odour 
 that they would have met the warm appro- 
 val of Tom Brown and his Rugby friends. 
 There should have been a school close by. 
 "There must be," said Saint Katharine. 
 "Think of so many tarts, and never a 
 schoolboy to eat them ! " For in all our 
 wanderings in England we found the dame's 
 shop-window, full of goodies, was sure to be 
 very near the gate of the school close. This 
 time, however, they did not seem to be in 
 conjunction. 
 
 "Luncheon? Up-stairs, if you please," 
 said a little white-capped maid ; and up we 
 went, through a narrow, winding way, into 
 a cool, shaded room, with green hangings, 
 a long, empty table, plenty of chairs, and a 
 sofa. Its sole occupant was a gentleman, 
 who sat before a grate in which a small
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 33 
 
 warmth outside. It was purely for orna- 
 ment. He saluted gi-avely, and went on 
 reading his newspaper. 
 
 " If you want anything foreign, you must 
 go to the Continent," said our friends, be- 
 fore we started. But the whole atmosphere 
 of that little place was foreign, even to the 
 flavour of the gooseberry tarts. You could 
 find nothing like it in America if you 
 hunted from Maine to California. Why 
 can't one put the soul of a place into 
 words? Mrs. Pownal's was as unique, in 
 its way, as Blossom's, in Chester, The 
 gentleman finished his newspaper, and de- 
 parted. A spotless cloth was spread for us 
 on one end of the long oaken table, and a 
 plentiful luncheon of cold meats, thin bread 
 and butter, some of those fragrant tarts, 
 and ginger ale, was served for the enor- 
 mous sum of ninepence each. That, surely, 
 was "foreign" enough for anybody. The 
 price, I mean. 
 
 Rested and refreshed, we took the five
 
 34 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 o'clock train for LlanlDcris, where vvc were 
 to pass the night. Thus far we had seen 
 only the fair, fertile, park-like valley of the 
 Conway, the green heights about Bangor, 
 and the straits of the Menai. Hardly had 
 we left the station at Caei:narvon when the 
 whole landscape changed as by magic. 
 Towering ranges of hills arose on either 
 side, rough, weather-beaten, and frowning. 
 Hedges gave place to stone walls. Over 
 the wild and rocky pastures sheep and cat- 
 tle were roving. Several times we crossed 
 the Seiont, famous for its fishing. Near 
 Bont Rythallt station we caught a fine view 
 of the Eryri Mountains, with the Llanberis 
 lakes stretching to their feet. Passing on, 
 to the left lay the great slate quarries ; to 
 the right, the rugged hills ; while directly 
 in front of us Snowdon pierced the clouds 
 with its mighty shaft, and the venerable 
 ruins of Dolbadarn Castle overlooked the 
 blue expanse of the lake. This was more 
 like the Wales of our dreams ; but before
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 35 
 
 we had had time to take in the magnificent 
 panorama we rolled into Llanberis, where a 
 comfortable, if high-priced, hotel received 
 us. Comfortable, if it had not been for the 
 glaring white walls of our chambers, with 
 the beds facing the great windows, un- 
 curtained save by white shades, that did 
 but intensify the glare. But we pinned 
 up our shawls, and made the best of it, 
 remembering Shakespeare's tourist, who 
 says, ' ' When I was at home I was in a ^ 
 better place, but travellers must be con- ' 
 tent." 
 
 We were tired enough to go to bed ; but 
 there was the pretty, picturesquely set town, 
 at which we were fain to take a peep. Its 
 slate quarries employ twenty-five thoiLsand 
 men. The owner gave them three days' 
 holiday at the time of the Jubilee, and 
 offered to pay the fare of all who wanted 
 to go up to London. Only forty out of the 
 whole small army accepted the offer. I 
 asked why. The answer was that to the
 
 36 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 "Welsh quarrymen London seems as far off 
 as the moon, and ahnost as inaccessible. 
 No such remote and hazardous journeyings 
 for them. The wise man stays at home of 
 a holiday, and smokes liis pipe at the door 
 of his cabin ; or lie takes a stride over the 
 hills ; or, if musically inclined, he goes to 
 ah Eisteddfod. 
 
 We had been shown a photograph of a 
 charming little inn, all gables, and bay-win- 
 dows, and shaded porches, vine-covered 
 to the chimneys, rose-wreathed, and em- 
 bosomed in stately trees. It was in Bettws- 
 y-coed, if you please, — pronounced, as 
 nearly as I can come to it by phonetic 
 spelling, Bettus-y-coyd, — and it looked like 
 a very haven of rest. There we determined 
 to put up for repairs ; and after having 
 come to that conclusion (for we were not 
 travelling by rule and measure) , everything 
 imaginable, from sewing on buttons and 
 mending gloves, to the writing of inter- 
 minable letters "home," was put off till
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. yj 
 
 we should get to Bettws-y-coed, the fair 
 ' ' Station-in-the- Wood . " It became a stand- 
 ard joke, a by-word. Everything would 
 come to pass when we got to Bettws-y-coed. 
 Thither we went the next morning, — a six- 
 teen-mile drive through the famous pass of 
 Llanberis, — in a queer vehicle called a 
 "break," not unlike a Scotch wagonette, 
 but capable of holding at least a dozen 
 people. A fine coach starts from another 
 hotel, but as to this fact our landlady was, 
 unfortunately, in the depths of ignorance. 
 But whether by break, or by coach, the 
 drive was something to store away in one's 
 memory. All the way, even when we could 
 not see it, we felt the near presence of the 
 Welsh mountain, and knew it was tower- 
 ing above the long valley, with its attend- 
 ant peaks, Lliwedd and Crib Coch, on 
 either side. jNIuch of the way the rugged 
 hills shut us in, lifting their strong, bare, 
 rocky shoulders close beside us, to right 
 and to left, and leaving just space enough 
 
 45264^^
 
 38 A WEKK IN WALES. 
 
 for the roadway. Tliis was as smooth and 
 level as a floor, though we gradually as- 
 cended to the height of 1250 feet. Border- 
 ing the road, in lieu of the English hedges, 
 were broad stone walls, so solidly put to- 
 gether that they looked as if they might 
 last forever. Occasionally we caught sight, 
 beyond, of Alps on Alps sharply defined 
 against the clear blue sky, while the low 
 valleys lay deep in purple shadow, or 
 golden with the indescribable glory of that 
 summer day. 
 
 At length we drew up before the door 
 of the little inn of Pen-y-gwryd, ' ' at 
 the meeting of the three great valleys, the 
 central heart of the mountains." As the 
 hostlers watered the horses, we looked 
 about us with interested eyes, for this is 
 the scene of a powerful chapter in Kings- 
 ley's Two Years Ago ; and it was from 
 this hospitable door that Elsley Vavasour 
 rushed, like the madman that he was, for 
 his fearful midnight flight up the Glyder
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 39 
 
 Vawr. " P-e-n-y " — spelled Saint Katha- 
 rine, looking with dismay at the array of 
 consonants. "How are we ever to pro- 
 nounce it ? And how are we to remember 
 it unless we can give it a name ? " 
 
 " ire call it 'Penny-go-rood,'" laughed 
 the soft voice of a young English lady. 
 "Be content with that. Of course it is not 
 right, but you will hardly get any nearer to 
 it." Therefore as Penny-go-rood the bright 
 little spot, with its look of hearty good 
 cheer, was labelled and stored away, — a 
 picture to keep through all the coming years. 
 
 Here two Welshwomen, of perhaps the 
 lower middle class, though it was not quite 
 easy to place them, strode out of the inn, 
 each with a black hand-bag, and scrambled 
 into the two vacant seats in the break. 
 They were incredibly ugly, — sisters, if not 
 twins, — as alike as two peas ; both tall, 
 gaunt, hard-featured, without one trace of 
 womanly grace or softness. Both wore 
 plain, straight-skirted gowns of shiny black
 
 40 A WEEK IX WALES. 
 
 alpaca, which were well enough ; but on 
 their masses of coarse hair were perched 
 jaunty little white straw sailor-hats, with 
 hands and streamers of blue ribbon, form- 
 ing two most incongi-uous halos for their 
 harsh, middle-aged faces. 
 
 At Capel Curig we stopped for luncheon. 
 "When we reached Bettws-y-coed, the driver 
 reined up at the door of a hotel which was 
 not the one for which we were booked. 
 Not for love nor money would he go an 
 inch further. "The end of me journey, 
 mum," he reiterated over and over, the 
 sole response to all our entreaties and ex- 
 postulations. Out came the landlady, a 
 tall, slight, graceful young woman, who 
 cordially begged us to alight. The pretty 
 inn looked inviting, and she was entranc- 
 ing, with her soft dark eyes and cooing 
 voice, tender as a dove's. But we ex- 
 plained as well as we could that we had 
 engaged rooms at the house of her rival, 
 and that there our letters were to meet us,
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 4I 
 
 etc. Finally she magnanimously ordered 
 her own "Boots" to drive us to the other 
 hotel, waving us an adieu with the grace 
 and suavity of a duchess. 
 
 The photograph had not done it justice. 
 The low stone cottage, wide, roomy, and 
 rambling, with its garniture of ivies and 
 roses, now in the perfection of their bloom, 
 in its own fair, shaded, yet flowery grounds, 
 was prettier than any picture. The village 
 itself is, indeed, "beautiful for situation," 
 with the "mountains round about it, as 
 they were round about Jerusalem." The 
 house was full, and there was much coming 
 and going, — coach rides and " tramps " to 
 the hills, to the waterfalls, to castle this 
 and castle that, and, more than all, to 
 Snowdon. But the mending being done 
 and the letters vn-itten, we were content 
 to sit and rest, dreaming the hours away 
 in pleasant idleness, two happy lotus-eaters 
 that we were. Why should we try to see 
 everything ?
 
 42 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 When you are in Kome, do as the Ro- 
 mans do : which, being interpreted, means, 
 when you are in AVales, go to the Welsh 
 church. When Sunday came, as the long 
 peaceful day drew near its close, we went 
 down the shady road and over the bridge, 
 in search of the parish church. There is 
 also an English church, much finer and 
 more exclusive, we were told. But we 
 abided by our first choice. The building 
 itself is modern, but the grounds look so 
 old that it is probable it occupies the site 
 of an older structure. A pavement of 
 broad slate flagging runs round it, bordered 
 with shrubs and flowers. Some very old 
 graves were in the enclosure. There were 
 several doors, and it was a question at 
 which we were expected to enter. Two 
 chubby-faced boys came round the corner 
 in great haste. " Choir boys," I said, and 
 was fain to ask for guidance; but they 
 vanished like two flashes of lightning. At 
 length, by ones and by twos, the worship-
 
 A WEEK IX WALES. 43 
 
 pers began to assemble, and we followed 
 the crowd. It is a curious place, to Ameri- 
 can eyes, that low Welsh church, — long, 
 narrow, with stone walls, immense stone 
 columns, brick-paved floor in the nave and 
 choir, and tiled floor in the chancel. Im- 
 perishable it looked, even though it is the 
 product of our ephemeral to-day, — as if it 
 might outlast the pyramids ; and it is as 
 severely plain as any flagstaff. The con- 
 gregation, made up as it was of the common 
 people, the working classes, interested us 
 greatly. There was hardly a person in the 
 seats who would have been called, in com- 
 mon parlance, a lady or a gentleman. The 
 clothes worn were rough and plain, but 
 generally clean and comfortable. Many 
 of the men were in their shirt-sleeves. Be- 
 hind us sat an old woman in black, the 
 oddest of apparitions, who stared at us as 
 if we belonged to another world. So small, 
 so withered, so weather-beaten, was she, in 
 a costume that belonged to past ages, that
 
 44 A WEEK IN WALES. 
 
 we certainly felt as if she did not belong to 
 ours. A surpliced choir of men and boys 
 — alas ! that I should have to say it, but 
 those surplices badly needed soap and 
 water — discoursed sweet music, singing 
 to Hamburg and other familiar old tunes 
 their wild Welsh hymns. The air of the 
 place was reverent. The voices in the re- 
 sponses were low and earnest. The young 
 men and maidens were quiet and attentive; 
 their elders were devout. As for the ser- 
 mon, I understood but three words of it, 
 "Apostle Paul" and "Galatia"; but it 
 was, after all, as interesting as any I ever 
 listened to. Earnestness is contagious, and 
 the pale, earnest speaker held our absorbed 
 attention from first to last. But it was easy 
 to follow the service, which was that of the 
 Church of England ; and prayer is prayer, 
 whether the tongue is Welsh or English. 
 
 At the close of the service a baby was 
 presented for baptism, a tiny creature, with 
 a long white robe and short sleeves tied
 
 A WEEK IN WALES. 45 
 
 with "blue ribbons. The young mother was 
 in deep black, as was the godmother. One 
 of the surpliced choir acted as godfather, 
 and we fancied the child's real father was 
 dead. 
 
 With Bettws-y-coed our week in Wales 
 ended. We wanted to go to Llangollen, 
 sacred to the memory of the Ladies of 
 Llangollen, and up the vale of Llanrwst, 
 and to see the wild gorges of Carnedd, 
 Dafydd, and Carnedd Llewelyn. But life 
 is short, and journey ings are long. So we 
 retraced our steps to Chester, thus gladden- 
 ing our eyes with another sight of beautiful, 
 many-towered Conway, and then slowly 
 made our wandering way southward.
 
 II. 
 
 BANBURY CAKES 
 AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 
 
 TT was nearly sunset when we entered the 
 restaurant connected with the station, 
 and seated ourselves at a little round table 
 to await the coming of the small steamer 
 that was to "ferry us over the feriy." 
 For we were at Stoke's Bay, bound for 
 the Isle of Wight. 
 
 A cool breeze swept in from the sea 
 refreshingly. The great white room, silent 
 and deserted at this hour, was delightfully 
 clean and fresh, with its spotless, shining 
 windows and dustless floor. The long 
 counter, behind which waited two whole- 
 some-looking women, was laden with 
 goodies so invitingly displayed that we at 
 once discovered we were famished. 
 
 " It will be late when we reach Ventnor," 
 46
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 47 
 
 said Saint Katharine. " What if we were 
 to dine here ?" 
 
 We could not dine, strictly speaking ; but 
 there was plenty of delicious milk, with 
 tarts of all sorts and sizes, and no end of 
 buns. 
 
 "But I don't want buns," remarked one 
 of us, removing her gloves. "I am tired 
 of them. What do you suppose those 
 brown things are, under that bell-glass?" 
 
 What, indeed, but Banbury cakes ? 
 "Banbury cakes, baked fresh at Banbury 
 this very day, mem, I do assure you," 
 said one of the attendants, smilingly. 
 
 Here was an opportunity not to be 
 slighted. It might be the one chance of 
 a lifetime. Had we not read of Banbury 
 cakes more years ago than we cared to 
 acknowledge ? Had we not tasted their 
 spicy, sugared sweetness, and inhaled their 
 enticing odours, as we sat at Barmecide 
 feasts wath many a child-heroine in the 
 far-away days of short jackets and ruffled
 
 48 BANBUUY CAKES. 
 
 aprons ? And now here they were before 
 our astonished eyes, — " baked fresh at 
 Banbury this very day !" Banbury cakes 
 ■we must have if they cost a fortune ; — 
 and very . good they proved to be, even 
 when brought into close contrast with a 
 child's fancy of "lucent syrups, tinct with 
 cinnamon." Just as we finished the last 
 crumb, we heard the whistle of the ap- 
 proaching steamer. 
 
 Sky and sea were both aflame as we 
 embarked for the short half-hour's sail 
 across the narrow channel that divides the 
 island from the mainland, and on either 
 low green shore cottage windows shone 
 and sparkled in the " last red light of 
 day." But even before we reached Ryde 
 the gray of twilight encompassed us ; and, 
 taking the cars, we rode to Yentnor, which 
 was our objective point, in fast-gathering 
 darkness. 
 
 " If you go to the Isle of "Wight, as of 
 course you will," said a friend who knows
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 49 
 
 her England as she does her alphabet, 
 "make Ventnor your headquarters; and 
 if you want rest, quiet, and comfort, stop 
 at the 'Crab and Lobster.' " 
 
 We found all three in that quaintest of 
 inns, which has been in the same family 
 for generations, and is now at once the 
 pride and dependence of four young 
 women — sisters — who manage its affairs 
 and make it a home indeed for happy 
 wayfarers. The house itself has the ad- 
 vantage of belonging both to the old and 
 the new regime. It has modern conven- 
 iences combined with ancient picturesque- 
 ness. The " old house," as it is called, is 
 more ornamental than useful now in its 
 decrepitude, and is used only in emergen- 
 cies. But it makes a marvellously pretty 
 picture with its low, broad roof, up and 
 over which the roses clamber, flaunting 
 their crimson banners from the very chim- 
 ney tops, and its small latticed windows 
 with their snowy draperies. The whole
 
 50 BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 place was exquisite that night as we drove 
 in behind the heavy wall of trees that 
 shuts it from the near street in a sweet 
 seclusion of its own. It was the height 
 of the rose season, and every separate, 
 dancing spray was aglow with colour and 
 laden with perfume. Red and pink, white 
 and yellow, the great buds and blossoms 
 shone in the soft, bright light that streamed 
 from every window, and from the hospi- 
 table doorway in which stood two of our 
 hostesses waiting to bid us welcome. It 
 was a veritable homecoming to two weary 
 wanderers. 
 
 Here we rested in a charmed repose for 
 three whole days. Why should we go to 
 Cowes or to Carisbrook? Would the 
 world come to an end if we did not see 
 Osborne House? The curse of travelling, 
 its hete noire^ is the attempt to do and to 
 see everything. It is really possible to 
 omit some of the advertised excursions, 
 and to leave unseen many things that are
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 5 I 
 
 well worth seeing, and yet be none the 
 worse for it in mind or body. 
 
 But you must see everything, because 
 life is short and ways are long, and you 
 may never come again ? This is quite pos- 
 sible. Yet a jar, whatever be its capacity, 
 can hold only just so much. It is better 
 to carry home with you a few strong, 
 clear, well-defined pictures, to be remem- 
 bered and delighted in to your dying day, 
 rather than a jumble of impressions — a 
 medley of half-seen and wholly undigested 
 glimpses. 
 
 So we read letters and we w^rote them ; 
 we brought out our work-bags and mended 
 our gloves and stockings ; we lingered and 
 loitered over our daintily served meals 
 in the pleasant coffee-room where a little 
 round table was always spread for us in 
 front of one of the broad windows, en- 
 joying the spotless linen, the shining silver, 
 and the good bread, and feasting our eyes 
 on the velvet-throated gloxinias that never
 
 52 BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 failed to nod and smile at us from a 
 great porcelain jar in the middle of the 
 board. We pored over enticing books of 
 travel, covering ground we had trodden, 
 or were to tread ; and we climbed the 
 high hill against which the ' ' Crab and Lob- 
 ster" leans, ascending its terraced heights 
 by easy, winding, flower-bordered paths, 
 till we reached the summer-house and 
 flagstaff at the top, from which the eye 
 takes in the fair island and the wide 
 sweep of the blue, far-reaching sea. 
 
 But, whatever was left out of our pro- 
 gramme, it surely must not be Bon Church ; 
 and thither we went one sunny afternoon, 
 through charming scenery and delightfully 
 winding ways. 
 
 No service has been held in the little old 
 church for more than forty years. The 
 rusty gate was fastened, and at first it 
 seemed as if entrance was impossible. We 
 rattled the latch, but no one came. At 
 last, however, as we leaned wistfully over
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 53 
 
 the low paling, we saw an old man in the 
 distance sitting on a tombstone, reading. 
 AVe shouted and beckoned, and when at 
 last we succeeded in attracting his at- 
 tention. Old Mortality slowly rose and 
 calmly surveyed us till the silver persua- 
 sion of a proffered shilling induced him 
 to let us in. There is no eloquence to 
 be compared with it, unless it be that 
 of a golden guinea. 
 
 A queer, quaint atom of a place it is — 
 this old Bon Church, built by the Saxons 
 in the sixth century, and rebuilt by the 
 Normans in the eleventh. If not the very- 
 smallest church in the kingdom, it must 
 be one of the smallest. A simple parallelo- 
 gram without transepts, it is so nan-ow 
 that when Saint Katharine and I joined 
 hands we could reach across the entire 
 width of the building, cur fingers coming 
 within an Inch or two of the walls on either 
 side. The house is quite dismantled, and 
 very little of the odour of sanctity lingers
 
 54 BAXBURY CAKES. 
 
 about the time-worn walls to-day, the 
 west end being utilized as a storehouse for 
 numberless hoes, spades, rakes, and the 
 like. Doubtless these profane implements 
 are used in the care of the churchyard, 
 which is well kept and most picturesque, at 
 once gay with flowers and sombre with yew 
 and ivy. Here, among a host of the name- 
 less dead, sleeps John Sterling, the friend of 
 Maurice and Monckton Milnes, of Coleridge 
 and Carlyle. Here lies the author of " The 
 Shadow of the Cross," over whose low 
 grave a long iron cross is so placed that a 
 perfect shadow is thrown upon it whenever 
 the sun shines. 
 
 Leaving the sleepers to their long repose, 
 we bade good-by to our ancient, white- 
 haired cicerone, and returned to our car- 
 riage. As I turned for a last look at the 
 peaceful, sunlit spot, I caught another 
 glimpse of him; he had gone back to his 
 tombstone and his book. 
 
 Extremes meet. Scarcely had we lost
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 55 
 
 sight of him before we passed a thatched 
 cottage, in front of which stood, in solitary- 
 dignity, the very smallest of wee boys. On 
 his little curly head was a straw hat, with 
 so wide a brim that its wearer looked for 
 all the world like a well-grown mush- 
 room. As we passed him, without smil- 
 ing or brightening, or so much as moving 
 a muscle of his face, he bowed down, down, 
 till the brim of that immense hat swept the 
 ground ; then straightening up his small 
 figure, he stared stolidly after us, still with- 
 out the least suspicion of a smile. But we 
 laughed if he did not, wondering what 
 impulse had swayed the small brain and 
 led to that profound salutation. 
 
 Ventnor is famous for the softness of its 
 air, and here are the Hospitals for Con- 
 sumptives — a fine group or range of build- 
 ings, in charge of the Sisters of Saint Mar- 
 garet, and under the especial patronage of 
 the Queen. We had not the heart to visit 
 them, as curious sightseers.
 
 56 BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 Who ever went to England without long- 
 ing to hear the song of the skylark, Shel- 
 ley's "sprite, or bird " ? Not we, at least ; 
 yet we had not caught one clear, pure note, 
 born of the "rapture so divine." We had 
 been told that the Isle of Wight would 
 surely grant us our desire. But whether 
 we drove or walked, whether we asked the 
 question of lady or ploughboy, the answer 
 was always the same in effect. Oh, yes ! 
 there were plenty of skylarks. They fre- 
 quented yonder meadow, or they soared 
 from yonder hill. They sang this morning, 
 or yesterday, or last week. If we were in a 
 certain spot to-morrow, at a certain hour, 
 we would be sure to hear them. But we 
 never did. It was a good deal like John 
 Burroughs's tantalizing search for a night- 
 ingale. Saint Katharine flattered herself 
 that she heard the call of the cuckoo ; but 
 I was never certain even of that. 
 
 One cannot linger in Lotus-land forever, 
 and the hour came when we were obliged
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 57 
 
 to leave Yentnor. It was the morning of 
 the Fourth of July, and surely an entirely 
 new way of celebrating that great and glori- 
 ous day had fallen to our lot. We were to 
 go by coach to Freshwater Bay, about half- 
 way round the island, and a distance of 
 twenty-one miles. Xot a firecracker greets 
 our ears, not a torpedo explodes beneath 
 our feet, not a cannon deafens us with its 
 reverberations. But the delight, the exhila- 
 ration of that ride is something never to be 
 forgotten. 
 
 Imagine us on the highest of the five 
 seats on the top of the coach — so high, 
 indeed, that we can overlook walls and 
 hedges, and get an unobstructed view 
 on either side. The inside of the coach, it 
 may be remarked, is given over to the sole 
 occupancy of hampers, baskets, and port- 
 manteaus. How did we get up there ? 
 Let me confess that I looked and trembled, 
 and said to my secret soul that I could 
 never do it. But, lo ! out comes the
 
 58 BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 guard with a broad, strong flight of steps 
 armed with iron hooks at the top. These 
 are fastened to tlie coach, and up we walk, 
 as easily as up a flight of stairs. Below us, 
 in front, are two tiers of passengers, and 
 as many more at our backs. The four 
 horses shine like satin, and are gay with 
 brass ornaments. Our driver, in high, 
 pearl-coloured hat and elegantly fitting 
 gloves, gathers up the reins ; the guard, 
 resplendent in scarlet coat and black, gold- 
 laced hat, leaps up behind, and gives a long 
 resounding peal of his brass horn ; the por- 
 ters salute ; the landlady, making a picture 
 of herself in her crisp muslin gown under 
 the rose-wreathed porch, bows and smiles 
 her farewell — and off we go in the clear 
 morning air, under skies of deepest azure 
 and by the shores of a tranquil sea. Occa- 
 sionally we lose sight of the sea entirely, 
 and W' ind about in what seems a most pur- 
 poseless fashion, through bowery lanes ; 
 past picturesque cottages, each one of which
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 59 
 
 is a rose garden to the top of its chimney ; 
 through flower-sweet nooks ; through deep, 
 dark, green recesses, cool and shadowy ; 
 beside ivy-grown walls given over to beau- 
 tiful decay, and up lovely, companionable 
 hills, verdure-crowned to the very summit. 
 
 "All we have heard of the beauty of 
 this island falls short of the reality," cries 
 Saint Katharine. " Can you imagine any- 
 thing more perfect than this day and this 
 drive?" 
 
 Flowers — flowers everywhere ! Did they 
 know how we loved them, the dainty dar- 
 lings ? They beamed upon us from every 
 hedgerow, they gave us glad good-morrows 
 from every meadow and roadside. As we 
 were going up a long hill, three little girls 
 emerged from behind a thicket, each with 
 her apron full of wild things — common, 
 hardy blossoms, gay and bright, and feath- 
 ery fern-fronds, tied up with blades of grass. 
 Without a word the little lassies tossed their 
 posies up to us — a fragrant shower.
 
 6o BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 No doubt the pretty tableau -was repeated 
 day after day ; and no doubt, also, that the 
 children fully expected the shower of six- 
 pences they received in return. But who 
 cared? It did not spoil the picture. 
 
 A few miles further on our courtly Jehu 
 relaxed the reins and let the horses take 
 their own pace as we approached a stone 
 cottage, thatched and garlanded. On the 
 steps of the low porch stood the shyest of 
 wee lassies in a pink frock and white pina- 
 fore, holding in her two chubby arms a 
 shallow, tray-like basket of fresh, dewy 
 roses, set in their own green leaves. The 
 little creature could not have been more 
 than five or six years old, and hardly dared 
 to raise her eyes as she lifted her basket, 
 shyly swaying from side to side. 
 
 There be roses and roses. Every lady 
 on the coach exclaimed with delight over 
 these particular ones. 
 
 "Hand up the basket, little Polly," said 
 the driver ; and forthwith the gallant, red-
 
 BANBURY CAKES. 6l 
 
 coated guard leaped down to receive it. 
 Evidently "little Polly" was a favourite 
 with the powers that be. When she darted 
 into the house with her empty basket, every 
 man and woman of us wore roses in button- 
 hole or belt, and was ready to do battle for 
 York or Lancaster. 
 
 Whether they had flowers to sell or no, 
 the advent of the coach was, to all appear- 
 ance, a great event for the children, who 
 made it a point of honour to wave their 
 hats, bow, clap, and cheer as we passed by. 
 And children abound in the Isle of Wight, 
 as well as roses. On a wall near one small 
 house I counted no less than eleven young- 
 sters in battered straw hats, perched all in 
 a row like the ten little Indians. Every 
 hat came off, and every shrill piping voice 
 shouted " Hooray ! hooray ! hooray! " 
 
 If I remember rightly, we did not talk 
 much during that ride. Our eyes were too 
 busy. If for a moment there was nothing 
 else to see, there was always the ivy run-
 
 62 BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 ning rampant everywhere in riotous pro- 
 fusion, growing and bourgeoning out of 
 pure delight, for the very joy of being. 
 
 "Saint Katharine," I whispered, "what 
 do you think of trying to grow little spin- 
 dling ivies in six-inch pots, and then nursing 
 them through long Vermont winters ? Yet, 
 after all, half a loaf is better than no bread ; 
 and I know we shall go home, like other 
 tourists, laden with ' slips.' " 
 
 Which we did ; and they are alive and 
 flourishing to this day. 
 
 Two horsemen appeared over the brow of 
 a hill. He of the pearl-coloured hat peered 
 forward for a moment, and then drew reins 
 excitedly, bringing his steeds almost to a 
 standstill as, half rising, he addressed his 
 passengers with impressive solemnity. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "yon- 
 der is the Member from Lincoln ! It will 
 be something to have seen his honour. He 
 owns fourteen thousand acres about here — 
 the best part of the island, in fact."
 
 BAXBURY CAKES. 63 
 
 Needless to say the ladies and gentlemen, 
 being thus adjured, were all agog to behold 
 his honour the "Member from Lincoln." 
 On he came, all unconsciously, a quiet old 
 man, in a slouched hat that nearly hid his 
 face, mounted on a brown horse as quiet 
 and unpretentious as himself. He looked 
 like a well-to-do New England farmer in 
 his Sunday clothes. But oh ! the magnifi- 
 cence, the splendour, of the groom, in high 
 hat and brass buttons, who galloped at a lit- 
 tle distance behind him, on a shining, coal- 
 black charger whose dainty feet spurned the 
 ground as he wheeled and curveted ! Lan- 
 guage fails in the attempt to do him justice. 
 Suffice it to say that he did credit to the 
 fourteen thousand acres and to his master's 
 position. 
 
 Twice during the twenty-one-mile drive 
 we stopped to change horses, during which 
 performance home-brewed beer and glasses 
 of milk were brought out for the refreshment 
 of the passengers. Sooth to say, the milk
 
 64 BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 was more popular than the beer, even with 
 the men ; notwithstanding the fact that a 
 woman behind us, after disposing with great 
 gusto of an immense mug of the foaming, 
 odorous fluid, exclaimed as she wiped her 
 lips, "That's the very best beer I've tasted 
 since I drank me own brew ! " 
 
 We reached Freshwater about one o'clock; 
 whence, after luncheon, the same coach 
 took us four miles further on, to Alum Bay 
 and the Needles — curious rock formations 
 with some bright colours, reminding us a 
 little, and in a very far-off way, of the 
 Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior. "We 
 scrambled up and down the rather uncom- 
 fortable descent, and tried to think we were 
 well paid for our exertions ; but it must be 
 confessed the attempt was rather a failure. 
 Then we returned to Freshwater, where we 
 were to pass the night. 
 
 "When you are at Freshwater," it had 
 been said to us time and again, "you will 
 be only a mile or two from Farringf ord — 
 Lord Tennyson's place."
 
 BAXBURY CAKES. 65 
 
 " Yes," we answered, " and, what's more, 
 we are going to see him." 
 
 Then would come shrugs, hesitation, and 
 glances of dismay. 
 
 "But, my dear madam," after a dubious 
 pause, "I — I — would hardly advise it. 
 We seldom — that is — well. Lord Tenny- 
 son, don't you know, is not always — ex- 
 actly — eh — " etc., etc. 
 
 We laughed and said nothing. It was 
 not worth while to explain to strangers that 
 in a sacred recess of my portfolio there was 
 a precious letter, given me unsought — a 
 letter that I felt sure would prove an open 
 sesame even to the doors of that enchanted 
 castle at Freshwater. 
 
 So, after resting and freshening up a 
 little, we put on our best gloves and called 
 for a carriage. As this seemed an occasion 
 pretty well tied up with red tape, and there 
 really was danger that we might not get 
 near enough to the door to present our 
 credentials, I had taken the precaution to
 
 66 BANBUIIY CAKES. 
 
 write a little note in advance saying that 
 not even, etc., etc., would give me courage, 
 etc., etc., if I were not armed with the en- 
 closed letter from our common friend X. 
 Y. Z., etc. 
 
 ♦' The carriage waits, mem." 
 
 Down we went. " To Lord Tennyson's," 
 I said as we took our seats. 
 
 But James, or whatever his name was, 
 looked at me as if he feared I was demented. 
 Nevertheless he touched his hat gravely. 
 " I'm sorry to say it, me lady, but there's no 
 getting in there without a letter." 
 
 "Very well," I said. "I have one. 
 Drive on." 
 
 We rolled along between closely trimmed 
 hedges and past fields of deepest emerald. 
 At length the trees to our left grew denser 
 — a close, high wall of green. 
 
 "Lord Tennyson's park, mem," said 
 tlie driver, making a wide sweep with his 
 whip. I confess my heart beat a little more 
 quickly than its wont. Were we really
 
 BANBURY CAKES» 6/ 
 
 about to beard the lion in his den? But 
 that passed, as a wave of memory swept 
 over me, and words I had known and loved 
 from childhood went surging through heart 
 and brain. If a slight tremor remained, 
 what then? There are crowned kings in 
 whose presence it is no shame to tremble. 
 
 The house, hidden by its cordon of 
 stately trees, was not in sight. Ere long 
 we drew up before the lodge — a pretty 
 stone cottage, with the usual environment 
 of ivies and roses. 
 
 Alas! alas! Lord Tennyson and all the 
 family, including house-servants and house- 
 keeper, had gone, three days before, to the 
 estate in Surrey ! 
 
 And that is as near as we came to seeing 
 the Laureate. 
 
 " But might we be allowed to drive 
 through the park, without alighting ? " 
 
 The gatekeeper was civil, and even kindly. 
 He was "very sorry," but his orders were 
 positive. He was not to open the gate to
 
 68 BANBURY CAKES. 
 
 any one wlio did not bring to liim a special 
 permit from Lord Tennyson himself. 
 
 There was nothing to be said, of course. 
 Yet our thoughts flew over the sea to a cer- 
 tain historic gate in Cambridge that ever 
 swung wide at the touch of the humblest 
 hand. We thought, too, of a library in 
 Beacon Street, where a kindly Autocrat 
 gives genial greetings to young and old ; 
 and of a home in Concord where high think- 
 ing went hand in hand with gentlest 
 courtesy. 
 
 Yet still, is not a man's house his castle? 
 Even if he be so unfortunate as to be a 
 great poet whom the whole world honours, 
 he is still a man and a brother, and he has 
 a right to shut his gates upon that world if 
 he chooses. Let us be thankful for the 
 song, even if the lark soars so far and high 
 amid the blue that the eye cannot follow its 
 flight. 
 
 While we sat waiting at the lodge, a little 
 boy and girl came trudging down through
 
 BANBURY CAKES. O9 
 
 the green silence of the park to the stately- 
 gate, and tried to crawl through its bars. 
 He was a sturdy, comical little figure wear- 
 ing a black silk hat half as tall as himself, 
 with a bunch of cock-feathers on one side. 
 She was a wee sprite in a white sunbonnet. 
 The gate was quite too much for him and 
 his hat. So he gallantly pushed his little 
 sister through the bars, then gave her the 
 hat to hold, and scrambled through himself, 
 never so much as stopping to brush the 
 sacred dust from his audacious little knees 
 ere they dashed down the road like two 
 small whirlwinds. 
 
 Saint Katharine gave a long sigh as we 
 turned back to Freshwater Bay. 
 
 " Just to think," she cried, "that those 
 two babies have been playing in that park 
 all this blessed afternoon,- no doubt, and 
 that you and I could not so much as drive 
 through it! I wonder if they appreciate 
 their opportunities ! "
 
 I 
 
 III. 
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 T has been somewhere said that a tour in 
 a foreign land is like reading an interest- 
 ing book by glimpses and chapter headings 
 — a word here and there, and perhaps a 
 vivid picture, now and then, by way of 
 illustration. 
 
 This may be. But England is not a for- 
 eign land. It is home, with just enough of 
 a foreign element to add piquancy and 
 flavour to the feast it offers. To one who 
 was brought up on "Walter Scott, nursed on 
 English History, and turned loose in child- 
 hood to roam at will through the wide, en- 
 chanted fields of English literature, all is 
 indescribably dear and familiar. To such 
 a one, I doubt if there can be any experi- 
 ence on earth more utterly satisfactory than 
 70
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. Jl 
 
 a first visit to England — Shakespeare's 
 "precious stone set in the silver sea," — un- 
 less, indeed, a second and a third prove to 
 be still more delightful. One is like a child 
 lulled to rest upon its mother's bosom, 
 listening in a half-dream as she repeats to 
 him the dear old stories and romances that 
 have already become part of its being, — but 
 whose familiarity only adds to their charm. 
 After a prolonged stay on the continent, 
 the homeiness of England is perhaps what 
 makes the strongest impression on the re- 
 turning wanderer. To land at Dover, and 
 take the late afternoon train through Kent 
 and Surrey, when the lovely, exquisite green 
 of the hills and valleys is all shot through 
 with the gold of a glowing sunset, and, 
 later on, the young moon gleams softly 
 through a veil of silver mist, is an experi- 
 ence not soon to be forgotten. As for us, 
 we were glad to see even the advertisements 
 of Coleman's mustard, Pear's soap, and 
 Stephen's ink.
 
 72 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 The thirteenth of July, 1891, proved to 
 be a day of sharp contrasts ; for though geo- 
 graphically near each other, no two places 
 can be farther apart in spirit than Stoke 
 Pogis, where Thomas Gray wrote the fa- 
 mous " Elegy in a Country Churchyard," 
 and Windsor Castle, the ancestral home of 
 English sovereigns ever since William of 
 Normandy laid its strong foundations. 
 
 Early in the morning, which means about 
 ten o'clock in London — one being looked 
 at askance who orders breakfast before 
 nine — we drove to Paddington Station, 
 en route for Slough, a busy little town 
 which we reached in half an hour. But 
 before we take the train, let a word be 
 said about the peculiar beauty of London 
 on just such a morning. The streets above 
 Trafalgar Square were as j^et comparatively 
 quiet, and the roar of traffic had scarcely 
 begun. One could not see far ahead ; but 
 as we drove on and on, the grand panorama 
 slowly unfolded before us, the great city
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 'JT, 
 
 with its countless towers and pinnacles 
 and mighty domes emerging from clouds 
 of soft gray mist. Paris needs sunshine, 
 sparkle, glitter, iridescent colour, to bring 
 out its charm. But London — "the heart 
 of the world," — wears her gray robes with 
 such royal grace and dignity that one asks 
 for no more. This, however, is only a di- 
 gression for which there is no need to apol- 
 ogize. To digress, to turn aside from the 
 straight road marked out by guide-books 
 and chronicles, and find out little bypaths 
 of one's own, is one of the greatest delights 
 of travel. In telling the story of charmed 
 days in dreamland, may not one take the 
 same liberty ? 
 
 At Slough we took a carriage for the two- 
 mile drive to Stoke Pogis. For the first half- 
 mile the way was tame and uninteresting. 
 Then we turned into a long, straight avenue 
 bordered by beautiful fir-trees, tall and 
 stately, with low, wide-spreading branches 
 that swept the ground. Not far from the
 
 74 A DAY OF CONTllASTS. 
 
 church was a small stone lodge literally 
 buried in flowers. Children were playing 
 at the door, and a sweet-faced woman with 
 a baby in her arms seemed the very per- 
 sonification of happy motherhood. The 
 gate was unlocked, she said, and we could 
 go in without further ceremony. 
 
 We found ourselves in a small enclosure 
 or park, across which, at no very great dis- 
 tance, was the low stone wall dividing it 
 from the churchyard proper. This we 
 entered through an old lych-gate, a quaint, 
 arched structure with seats, or benches, on 
 either side. The lychrgate is seldom found 
 now. It belongs to the past. On these 
 narrow benches, long ago, the coffin rested, 
 while the bearers awaited the coming of 
 the priest. 
 
 Having passed through it we were in a 
 broad, perfectly straight path, on each side 
 of which grew tall standard, or tree, roses, 
 red, white, pink, and yellow in regular 
 order, reaching to the door of the church.
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 75 
 
 These rose-trees, all exactly of a height, 
 with their round tops trimmed into exact 
 symmetry, had lost all their natural wild- 
 ing grace, and seemed to me the only blem- 
 ish in a spot of surpassing loveliness. Their 
 artificial splendour, for they were in full 
 bloom, seemed out of keeping with the 
 quiet, sylvan beauty of the scene. 
 
 On the extreme left, the yard was shel- 
 tered by a thick wall of trees that seemed 
 to touch the sky. In the middle of what 
 might be called a wide-spreading lawn, also 
 at the left, rose a singular group of trees, 
 their heads leaning together as if they 
 might be gossiping about their rustic 
 neighbors ; and on the extreme right, close 
 in an angle of the wall, an immense horse- 
 chestnut stretched its branches far and 
 wide. 
 
 Beyond this lies the churchyard proper, 
 where ' ' the rude forefathers of the hamlet 
 sleep," as peacefully now as when more 
 than a century and a half ago Thomas Gray
 
 76 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 sat beneath the shade of "yonder ivy- 
 mantled tower" and heard "the curfew 
 toll the knell of .parting day." It is small 
 for this over-peopled island, and not half- 
 filled even yet. The air of Stoke Pogis 
 must promote longevity. 
 
 The church itself is a marvel of loveli- 
 ness, with its gi'ay, ivy-clad w^alls, its 
 many gables, its tall, graceful spire, and 
 its general air of peaceful, honoured old 
 age. Gray lies close to the western wall 
 of the church, in the same tomb with the 
 mother who was his idol, and in whose 
 memory he wrote this touching inscrip- 
 tion : — 
 
 " Here sleep the remains of 
 Dorothy Gray, 
 Widow, the careful, teuder mother of many 
 children, one of whom alone had the misfor- 
 tune to survive her. 
 
 She died March 11, 1753, 
 Age 67." 
 
 I was copying this inscription, using the 
 fiat top of the tomb for a table, when
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 'J^ 
 
 the old sexton came pottering along with 
 a basket on his arm, picking the withered 
 roses, and trying to appear sublimely un- 
 conscious of our presence. We asked if 
 he would let us into the church. Well, 
 the vicar had the key ; the vicarage was 
 quite a step away ; and he himself was 
 an old man ; — but if the leddies didn't 
 mind going up into the belfry by the 
 outside stairs, and down into the church 
 that-a-way, they could have the privilege. 
 Round the southwest corner we sped for 
 a look at those stairs. They were not 
 long, but they were very steep, and very 
 narrow. However, there was a strong iron 
 rail to cling to ; and the outside of the 
 church was so exceedingly quaint and 
 picturesque that we could not afford to 
 let trifles like that prevent us from seeing 
 what the inside might be. So up we 
 went, into the very queerest of dusty old 
 places, hung with withered wreaths, crosses, 
 harps, and all manner of funereal emblems.
 
 78 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 They crumbled at the slightest touch, and 
 were ghastly to the last degree as they 
 hung there in the dim, uncertain light. 
 Then we went down into the seven hun- 
 dred year old church, to which we had 
 come solely for Gray's sake, and found, 
 as usual, that it was a palimpsest. Always 
 one inscription on the parchment overlies 
 another. The family of William Penn — 
 our William Penn — were once the great 
 folk of Stoke Pogis, and the nave of this 
 quaintest and queerest of old churches is 
 still hung with their escutcheons and 
 armorial bearings. Evidently the tradi- 
 tions of the Penns did not all tend towards 
 Quakerism, if Quakerism means plain- 
 living and self-abasement. They did not 
 enter the church by the common door, — 
 but had their own private entrance lead- 
 ing through a large vestibule directly to 
 their pew — a good-sized, carpeted room, 
 with, I should say, at least twenty chairs 
 in it. There they sat in state, those ancient
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 79 
 
 dames and gentlemen, and said their 
 prayers quite apart from any unpleasant 
 contact with their humbler neighbours. On 
 the wall is an inscription in memory of a 
 " Son of Wm. Penn, the founder of Penn- 
 sylvania." 
 
 In one corner a square pew is pointed 
 out, where Gray used to sit by his mother's 
 side, thinking a boy's thoughts. 
 
 We picked some wild morning glories 
 from the church wall, as mementos, to 
 the dismay of our old sexton. " Why, 
 they are only wild things, — weeds," he 
 said, glancing scornfully at the pink and 
 white trumpets. " I'll give you some 
 roses." We took the roses, — but we kept 
 the morning glories that had ' ' blushed 
 unseen," save for us, in Stoke Pogis 
 churchyard. Then with many a long, 
 lingering look behind us, we passed through 
 a wooden turnstile and crossed a meadow- 
 like park all starred with the little yellow 
 trefoil or bird's-foot, to the Gray monu-
 
 8o A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 ment, of which the less is said the better. 
 There our carriage waited, and we soon 
 took the train for Windsor, only about 
 six minutes' ride. 
 
 ■~^ It is a real relief, sometimes, to feel that 
 having done a thing once you need not do 
 it again. I We were glad not to be tempted 
 that morning ; to know in advance that, the 
 Queen being at Windsor, the castle was not 
 open to the public. The outside of Wind- 
 sor Castle is a delight, something to re- 
 member, and dream of, and enjoy to the 
 uttermost. The inside of the majestic pile 
 is — to the tourist — a delusion and a snare. 
 Perhaps this conviction of ours is due to 
 the fact that it is one of the only three 
 places in Britain through which we were 
 hurried at the sword's point, as it were, 
 without time to think, to ponder, to recall 
 its past. There is no pleasure in treading 
 haunted ground, unless you can call up the 
 ghosts. As a rule, wherever we two went, 
 we had that pleasure. It was only at
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 8l 
 
 Windsor, at Warwick, and at York, that 
 fate was against us, and we were compelled 
 to follow in the wake of a gaping, gabblhig 
 crowd, and to see all things as with eyes 
 that saw not. This time we were well con- 
 tent to see only the majestic towers, the 
 gray, embattled walls, the green slopes and 
 terraced gardens, with the winding Thames 
 at our feet, and fair Eton in the distance. 
 These we did want to see again, and St. 
 George's chapel, which is always open. On 
 the way to Windsor, a gentleman in our 
 compartment said, " Ladies, perhaps you 
 will like to know that the Duke of Con- 
 naught is in the carriage just behind us." 
 Then he went on to say that the German 
 Emperor and Empress were coming in by 
 the afternoon train. 
 
 Here was our chance ! " All things come 
 round to him who waits," I whispered to 
 Saint Katharine. For all London had gone 
 daft over the visit of their German Majes- 
 ties. Such pushing and scrambling, such 
 
 G
 
 82 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 rashing and crowding, such eager attempts 
 at seeing and being seen as had been going 
 on around us for many days, was quite 
 beyond our democratic comprehension, as 
 it was outside of our whole experience. 
 " Have you had a glimpse of their Maj- 
 esties?" "Oh, you must see the Em- 
 peror!" *' We are hurrying down to the 
 Strand to see the royal procession!" etc., 
 etc., had been dinned in our ears until 
 we were tired. 
 
 But there were two cardinal points in 
 our traveller's creed, one being "climb no 
 high towers" — having grown wiser since 
 we climbed Prince Edward's Tower at 
 Caernarvon, three years before, — and the 
 other, "keep out of crowds;" conse- 
 quently, and in obedience to this latter 
 clause, we had made no attempt to see 
 the German lions. And now, here we 
 were, by merest chance, in quiet "Windsor, 
 where there would be no crowd and no 
 confusion ; and Emperor William and his
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 83 
 
 wife were coming down to say good-bye 
 to dear grandmamma Victoria ! 
 
 When tlie train stopped, out of the 
 carriage behind us alighted the Duke of 
 Connaught, shrouded in a long, dark 
 travelling cloak. A blue cap with a broad 
 gold band was all that distinguished him 
 from his suite. He quickly slipped out 
 of sight, and we stepped aside to consider 
 the situation. A very busy and impor- 
 tant personage was the station-master that 
 day, — with a small army of carpenters 
 and florists under him ; but we hunted 
 him up and asked if there was any 
 chance for us to see the pageant of the 
 afternoon. He shook his head. " You 
 will have to obtain permission of his 
 honour the Mayor," he said softly. 
 
 But either our red Baedekers, or the 
 subtile something that always betrays an 
 American, stood us in good stead ; for when 
 without a murmur we turned meekly away, 
 saying that was by far too much trouble,
 
 54 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 he bade us wait a minute, and speedily dis- 
 appeared. Needless to say, we waited. 
 Presently he came back with two pink 
 tickets, admitting the bearers to the plat- 
 form to witness the arrival and departure 
 of their German Majesties. When we 
 offered him a fee he declined it, saying if 
 he took it, it would cost him his place. 
 
 We went to the White Hart for our 
 luncheon and then strolled up the hill to the 
 castle, where we lingered until nearly four 
 o'clock. Then we returned to the station, 
 where the decorators had done their work 
 bravely. From every arch, cornice, and 
 column drooped the English, German, and 
 Prussian colours in proud array. The royal 
 entrance was carpeted, and banked on either 
 side and across the platform with magnificent 
 palms and flowering plants. Only about 
 two hundred people were admitted behind 
 the barriers, and we took our place among 
 them, laughing and pluming ourselves on our 
 good luck. For, alas! poor human nature
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 85 
 
 does find a certain unholy satisfaction in 
 doing almost without effort what its 
 brothers have striven hard to accomplish. 
 This may be sad, but it is undeniably true. 
 Pretty soon a guard of honour from the 
 Second Battalion of the Scots Guards, re- 
 splendent in scarlet coats and enormous 
 black fur caps, drew up in line opposite the 
 station and were drilled and reviewed by 
 three or four grandly appointed officers, all 
 stars and crosses, and beribboned and bejew- 
 elled to the last degree. Next, mounted on 
 coal-black horses with white fur saddle cloths 
 and magnificent housings, came an escort of 
 the Second Life Guards, in brass breast- 
 plates that glittered like burnished gold in 
 the light of the afternoon sun, and wearing 
 silver-gilt helmets with long white plumes. 
 There was much prancing and caracoling 
 and galloping up and down, until at length 
 a mounted herald appeared, clad in cloth 
 of gold from tip to toe. His steed wheeled 
 and curveted, and seemed likely to throw
 
 86 A DAY OF COXTRASTS. 
 
 him ; but he kept his seat bravely as he held 
 aloft the royal ensign, and carried a shining 
 bugle on which he presently blew a sonorous 
 blast as the carriages from Windsor came 
 winding down the hill. 
 
 First came several empty ones, for the 
 Emperor and his suite ; then as many 
 more with ladies and gentlemen in waiting 
 on the Queen ; and then one in which sat 
 the Duke of Connaught, wearing the uni- 
 form of the Scots Guards, and the Prince 
 and Princess Henry of Battenberg — the 
 latter being Victoria's youngest daughter, 
 Beatrice. 
 
 They had but a short time to wait. The 
 royal special train came rushing in. Every 
 man's hat was off in a trice, but there was 
 no noise, no shouting. The Emperor and 
 Empress with their suites alighted, crossed 
 the platform where an aisle was kept open 
 for them, bowed to right and left repeatedly, 
 got into the carriage in waiting, and were 
 driven off. It is allowable, no doubt, for
 
 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 8/ 
 
 good Americans to have a little touch of 
 curiosity as to the royalty their fathers so 
 speedily cast off, even though, theoret- 
 ically, they are supposed to regard crowns 
 and sceptres as baubles of small account. 
 As they passed me, so close that I could have 
 touched them, the Emperor and Empress 
 were talking and laughing like any common 
 Darby and Joan, while they obviously took 
 in all about them with quick, observant 
 eyes. He wore the splendid uniform of one 
 of his regiments ; she, a pretty costume of 
 heliotrope cloth, with a little bonnet to 
 match. She is an interesting woman, 
 attractive, without being absolutely beauti- 
 ful. He has a fine, strong, thoughtful 
 face, — a face that attracts and impresses 
 one; and with his powerful figure and 
 martial bearing, he looked that day the 
 embodiment of manly health and vigor. 
 
 We took the next train for London, not 
 caring to wait for the return pageant. But 
 no doubt the elite of Windsor kept their
 
 88 A DAY OF CONTRASTS. 
 
 places on that platform until the last vestige 
 of the show was over. 
 
 "Saint Katharine," I said, as we were 
 going to bed that night, " it was a far cry 
 from the this-worldliness of Windsor, to 
 the other-worldliness of Stoke Pogis."
 
 IV. 
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 
 
 " The beings of the mind are not of clay; 
 Essentially immortal they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 And more beloved existence." 
 
 ri'^HUS spake the creator of Childe Har- 
 old. Shall I venture to confess that 
 when we awoke in Rugby one fine morn- 
 ing, with the long, bright summer day 
 before us to be spent in wandering whither- 
 soever our fancies led, we did not think of 
 the town as an important railway junction, 
 nor as the ' Rocheberrie ' of Domesday 
 Book, nor as the ' Rokebie ' of Queen Eliza- 
 beth ? I fear we scarcely thought even of 
 Dr. Thomas Arnold, save as the beloved 
 guide and friend of Tom Brown, and East, 
 and Arthur, and " Old Brooke." We saw
 
 90 IN TIIK FOREST OF AHDEX. 
 
 him with their eyes and loved him with 
 their love. 
 
 So it was with a great flood of tenderness 
 surging over us that, after a loitering break- 
 fast, we made our way up High Street, at 
 the head of which we found the famous 
 school standing in its own gi-een close, the 
 embodiment of serene repose. How dear 
 and familiar it all looked — the emerald 
 turf, the drooping elms, the school-gates 
 ■with the oriel windows above, the long line 
 of gray buildings with the chapel at one 
 end and the schoolhouse at the other ! No 
 flag was flying from the great round tower, 
 for it was in the long vacation, and the 
 whole place was as silent as "some ban- 
 quet hall deserted." 
 
 As we stood looking about us, a young 
 man approached touching his cap. 
 
 Yes. The ladies could go over the place. 
 The houses were being cleaned and put to 
 rights against term time. But perhaps they 
 wouldn't mind that.
 
 IX THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 9I 
 
 Indeed we would not, though it would 
 have been pleasant to have heard the rmg 
 of boyish voices, and to have seen the 
 quadrangle alive with eager-eyed laddies. 
 
 Into the Schoolhouse Hall with its great 
 fireplaces and the two long tables running 
 from end to end, with a third table in the 
 corner apparently for carving and serving ; 
 into the little studies opening from shadowy 
 passages — rooms hardly larger than closets, 
 yet comfortable enough according to a boy's 
 idea of comfort, and filled with all manner 
 of boyish appliances ; into the rooms of 
 the different ranks and grades of scholastic 
 learning — and at last into the " Sixth Form 
 Eoom" — the glory of Rugby. Here were 
 the old desks used by many a lad who after- 
 ward graved his name upon the heart of the 
 world far more deeply than he had carved 
 it here on bench and desk-cover. In one 
 room — perhaps it was this of the sixth 
 form — emblazoned on the walls were the 
 names of those who had carried off prizes,
 
 92 IX THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 
 
 or honours, going back, if my memory- 
 serves me, to 1834. Here in this roll of 
 honour were the names of Arthur Stanley, 
 and Matthew Arnold, and Arthur Hugh 
 Clough, and many others that I do not now 
 recall, but that were like familiar music. 
 
 "Is the Captain of the Eleven as great 
 a man as ever?" I asked of the janitor 
 as we stood under a great tree on the edge 
 of the beautiful green cricket field. 
 
 "Ah, yes, indeed he is," he said. " The 
 Captain is almost a bigger man than the 
 Head Master himself." 
 
 "And does Sally Harrowell still roast 
 potatoes for the boys?" Saint Katharine 
 inquired demurely, as she stooped to pick 
 up an acorn by way of a souvenir. "And 
 do they buy as many cakes and tarts as 
 they did in the daj^s of Tom Brown?" 
 
 The young janitor — he seemed hardly 
 more than a boy himself — looked bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 "*Tom Brown ? ' — I don't remember the
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 93 
 
 name, my lady. Was the young gentle- 
 man a friend of your own ? He must have 
 been here before my time ; and I don't 
 think I know the woman you speak of. 
 But there's a shop just round the corner 
 where a- many sixpences go." 
 
 We had left the chapel to the last. Our 
 guide led us to the door, but did not go in. 
 There have been many changes and im- 
 provements since Dr. Arnold's day. The 
 lovely chapel, with its beautiful east win- 
 dow, has been enlarged, but the old part is 
 still there ; and it took but a slight effort 
 of the imagination to see just what Tom 
 Brown saw on that last visit of his to 
 that hallowed spot — when he took the 
 keys from the old verger and in the fast 
 gathering twilight sought the burial place of 
 his friend and master. Dr. Arnold lies just 
 in front of the chancel rails, and near the 
 pulpit from which he spoke such words of 
 inspiring hope and cheer to the young, eager 
 souls that looked up to him as to a God.
 
 94 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 As we came out of the cool darkness and 
 silence of the chapel into the warmth and 
 brightness of the summer day, glad with 
 bird-song and sweet with flower-scents, we 
 found the janitor waiting in the porch. 
 He touched his cap. 
 
 "Yonder are Dr. Arnold's stairs," he 
 said ; " I thought you might like to know " 
 — and I looked with both my eyes, think- 
 ing of sundry boys in America who would 
 remember just how Tom and East scurried 
 up those stairs, forlorn, bedraggled, and wet, 
 the night after their first Big-side Hare- 
 and-Hounds. 
 
 "And over there in the playground is 
 a tree Dr. Arnold planted," he went on. 
 " Not in that place, though. You wouldn't 
 think that tree was moved not so very long 
 ago, would you now ? " 
 
 It was a great tower of a tree, with wide- 
 spreading branches, that cast deep shadows 
 on the turf. 
 
 "When this place was repaired the tree
 
 IX THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 95 
 
 was in the way," lie continued. "No one 
 would hear to its being cut down. So they 
 moved it, big as it is, and it never seemed 
 to know it. But it cost a power o' money. 
 Some folk put it as high as a thousand 
 pound," — and, as he escorted us to the 
 gate, his pride in the unlimited resources 
 of the Rugby exchequer was something 
 beautiful to see. 
 
 We were only eleven miles from Coventry. 
 Was there anything there we wanted to see? 
 Nothing but the ' ' three tall spires ' ' and 
 the streets — the streets through which 
 Godiva, that " woman of a thousand 
 summers back," rode forth clothed on with 
 chastity, to release her people from the 
 grim earl's tax. Let no one suppose there 
 is nothing else worth seeing, however. In 
 any one of these haunted old towns one 
 might linger for days and weeks, and not 
 exhaust the romances written on their 
 stony pages. I only mean that our personal 
 interest centred in its one great legend.
 
 96 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 One charm of all these old towns lies in 
 the fact that no matter how many cross- 
 roads and byways may spring up, the 
 direction of the principal streets remains 
 the same, year after year, century after 
 century. We could see the whole thing — 
 the hot summer noon, the silent and de- 
 serted streets, the white palfrey with its 
 trappings of purple and gold, and the fair 
 lady clothed only in the rippled ringlets of 
 her hair. We could hear the quick beat 
 of the palfrey's hoofs, the stir and rustle as 
 he shot swiftly by, and the low prayer of 
 thanksgiving and blessing from the lips of 
 other women from whom this one brave 
 woman was lifting a weary load. ' ' Peeping 
 Tom" peered at us as we passed, for alas! 
 he is peeping yet. 
 
 We had come to Coventry by rail. There 
 could be but one answer to the question 
 how we should leave it. Go in prosaic, 
 matter of fact cars from Coventry to Strat- 
 ford-on-Avon? The idea was preposterous.
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 97 
 
 Ever since we entered TVarwicksliire the 
 sense of awe and mystery, of an invisible 
 presence, an intangible, quickening spirit 
 dominating every thought and impulse, had 
 been growing and deepening. Lichfield and 
 Rugby and Coventry were but the doorways 
 to the enchanted land we were about to enter, 
 "We had lingered and loitered, interesting 
 ourselves in minor things, even as the swift 
 swimmer, howsoever eager for the exhilara- 
 tion of the plunge, the dash, the uproar of 
 the spray, may yet linger for a moment, 
 charmed by the beauty of the glittering 
 sand and the curved sea-shells on the shore. 
 How felt the knights whose quest was for 
 the Holy Grail? Like them we were fain 
 to put our shoes from off ouwfeet, and veil 
 our faces in the presence of the mystery. 
 
 We would drive through AVarwickshire — 
 the forest of Arden — the heart of England. 
 
 " You remember the oft-told story. Saint 
 Katharine?" I said. "It is to this effect, 
 though I don't quite remember the details.
 
 98 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 But two men made a wager as to the most 
 beautiful drive in all England, each assert- 
 ing that the one he would name was incom- 
 parable. Each was to write his choice and 
 the umpire was to decide between them. 
 And lo! one wrote 'From Coventry to 
 Stratford ' — and the other ' From Stratford 
 to Coventry.' Whatever else we miss, we 
 can't afford to miss that drive." 
 
 What can be said about it? There is so 
 much that cannot be put into words — the 
 atmosphere, the glamour, the glory of it 
 all. To begin with, it was a perfect day — 
 as sweet and cool and bright as George 
 Herbert's Sunday ; and our hearts were in 
 tune with the day. Fatigue dropped away 
 from us ; care was a forgotten word ; even 
 duty was a dream, hidden in some far-away 
 nook of our New England consciences. To 
 live was to be happy, to enjoy to the full 
 the delight of mere existence. There were 
 no marvels in the way of scenery ; there 
 was nothing to startle ; just, for the first
 
 IN THE FOREST OP' ARDEX. 99 
 
 five miles, an almost straight road, bordered 
 on either side by two rows of stately syca- 
 mores. But the sky was a pale blue, flecked 
 with soft white clouds, the turf that was 
 like emerald velvet even to the verge of the 
 road-bed was starred with wild-flowers, the 
 blue of the forget-me-not and speedwell, 
 the pink of the tiny bird's eye, the yellow of 
 buttercups, and a little unknown flower with 
 a heart of gold. There were scarlet poppies 
 in the fields. The hedgerows were a tangle 
 of bloom and verdure, interlaced with ivy, 
 and gemmed with the white trumpets of the 
 wild morning-glory, wide open, even in mid 
 afternoon, save where the sun was strongest. 
 Occasionally we caught a distant glimpse 
 of some fair mansion with a flag floating 
 from its turret, and we passed cottages 
 low, brown, and moss-gTown, whose latticed 
 casements were shining in the sun. 
 
 And at length there rose before us, like a 
 vision from another world, the glorious 
 ruins of Kenilworth — vast, spectral masses
 
 100 IX THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 of mouldering stone, overgrown with ivy. 
 God pity the man or woman who can stand 
 beneath those crumbling arches, look up- 
 ward to the sky from the unroofed Banquet- 
 ing Hall, gaze forth from the ivy-curtained 
 mullioned windows, or up at the mighty 
 towers around which rooks fly, and ravens 
 croak, without a throbbing heart and a 
 thrill that is at once a keen joy and a 
 sharp pain ! For here one meets, face to 
 face, the past embodied, incarnate, and yet 
 not so far removed from us but that we can 
 see and feel every passion that ever moved 
 it. They who builded the pyramids belong 
 to an age so remote that we can scarce com- 
 prehend it. Even their mummies do not 
 stir in us any profound emotion. They are 
 curiosities, to be studied and marvelled at 
 in museums and wonder-galleries, not men 
 and women of like passions with ourselves. 
 But here we can listen for the trumpets of 
 brave Simon de Montfort, we can clasp the 
 gauntleted hand of old John of Gaunt, we
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. lOI 
 
 can look into tlie foul dungeon of Edward 
 the Second, we can hear the death-cry of 
 Pierre Gaveston, who was slain hard by, 
 we can follow the whole long procession 
 of those who lived and loved, triumphed, 
 suffered, and sinned, beneath the lofty 
 battlements of Kenilworth. Elizabeth is 
 here in all the pride of her imperious 
 womanhood, in all the splendour of her royal 
 state. Leicester passes in his pride of place, 
 a lordly presence, proud, haughty, magnifi- 
 cent in dress and bearing, cruel in his am- 
 bition, murderous in intention if not in 
 deed. Amy Robsart weeps in yonder 
 tower, and glides like a spirit down those 
 winding turret stairs that in the shadowy 
 pleasaunce she may claim the pity of her 
 queen. It is not what is, but what has been, 
 that invests these ruins with such opulent 
 splendour that imagination falters and the 
 tongue is dumb. No magnificence of to-day 
 can compete with the solemn grandeur of 
 these wide, deserted spaces, these vast,
 
 102 IN THE FOREST OF ATfDEN. 
 
 silent, spectral halls, unroofed and open to 
 all the winds of heaven. 
 
 We drove silently on to Warwick. There 
 was no need of words. 
 
 Did I say Leicester was proud, cruel, 
 ambitious, murderous? The next day I 
 repented, and revoked at least one-tenth 
 of the anathemas I had hurled at him. No 
 man is wholly bad, even though he may be 
 false at once to his wife and his queen ; 
 certainly not if he cared enough for his 
 poorer brethren to found an institution 
 like Leicester's Hospital. 
 
 One who walks up the High Street of 
 Warwick — half the towns in England 
 seem to have a High Street, some of 
 which are unaccountably low — is presently 
 confronted by a mass of stone at which he 
 looks curiously. Is it the work of nature 
 or of man? One sees, after a little, that 
 it is the work of both. Through the nat- 
 ural rock, which has been hewn and shapen 
 into something like proportion, a great
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. IO3 
 
 vaulted passage has been cut ; a huge gate- 
 way, through which the tide of human 
 affairs lias ebbed and flowed for ages. On 
 the top of the mass of rock, directly over 
 the archway, is a gray church with a square 
 tower, so old, so weather-beaten, that it 
 seems to be an outgrowth of the rock it- 
 self. By its side, and connected with it 
 at an equal height, is a group of build- 
 ings equally old, equally weather-beaten. 
 This is Leicester — or Leycester — Hospital, 
 founded in the sixteenth century by Lord 
 Dudley — the Leicester of Queen Ehzabetli. 
 It is not a hospital at all, in the modern 
 sense of the word, but a home for twelve 
 old men — twelve "Brethren." These 
 brothers are all old soldiers, whose income 
 from other sources does not exceed five 
 pounds a year. 
 
 We passed through the archway and up 
 a gently inclined plane, turned and went 
 under a row of trees and found ourselves 
 on a level with the church and its belong-
 
 104 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 
 
 ings. Just then a bell tolled softly. The 
 brethren were assembling for morning ser- 
 vice and we followed them reverently. It 
 is very plain, that tiny chapel on the rock. 
 The chancel is hardly larger than a good 
 sized pocket-handkerchief. There is a pic- 
 ture — I forget what, for it had little to 
 recommend it — over the small altar, and 
 in the eastern window there is an old bit of 
 stained glass supposed to represent the Earl 
 of Leicester. But the place was scrupu- 
 lously clean, the sun streamed in glori- 
 ously, throwing haloes round the bowed 
 heads of the twelve old men, each of whom 
 was furnished with a costly prayer-book of 
 "fine large type," good for aged eyes. 
 There was no music, but the broken old 
 voices made the responses in a monotonous 
 chant that was strangely impressive. 
 
 When we came out one of the brethren 
 took us in charge, politely telling us he was 
 glad it happened to be "his day" — from 
 which we inferred that they took turns in
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. I05 
 
 showing the place to strangers, and pocket- 
 ing the fee. Very picturesque was the 
 bent old figure that nevertheless stepped 
 off jauntily in its cloak, or gown, of fine 
 blue cloth, with a silver badge — the Bear 
 and Ragged Staff of their founder — on the 
 left shoulder. This is the uniform, so to 
 speak, for which the brethren have ex- 
 changed the red coat of the soldier. The 
 badges are the very identical ones that 
 were given by the Earl of Leicester to the 
 original twelve, with the exception of one 
 that was stolen and replaced in the reign 
 of Queen Anne. Unlucky is he to whom 
 that one happens to fall ! — for very proud 
 are they of these ancient heirlooms. Our 
 guide assured us that the one he wore was 
 350 years old, which could hardly have 
 been literally true, as the foundation was 
 established in 1571. 
 
 "Eighty pound a year we get, my 
 lady," he said as he led us into the 
 quaintly beautiful quadrangle, with its
 
 I06 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 cloistered walk and baliistraded staircase, 
 "Eighty pound — which is not a bad 
 thing,'' and he chuckled softly. " And we 
 have our own apartments, and a bit of 
 ground for a garden, and a new gown like 
 this " — touching it proudly — "every year. 
 And the ale is very good, very good," he 
 added, and then called our attention to the 
 inscriptions on the wall opposite — " Hon- 
 our the King," "Fear God," "Be kindly 
 affectioned one to another," and many 
 similar texts, all in Old English characters. 
 And among all the carved devices, the 
 rich and strange architectural ornaments, 
 appearing on every hand, in stone work, 
 and carven oak, and fantastic timber work, 
 the Bear and the Ragged Staff were con- 
 tinually repeated. Verily the Earl, whether 
 he was good or bad, did not choose to be 
 forgotten by his beneficiaries. 
 
 Opposite the entrance arch is the house of 
 the Master, forming, if I remember rightly, 
 one side of the quadrangle. A kindly man
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. I07 
 
 he must be, judging from the look of homely 
 comfort that, with all its quaint stateliness, 
 pervades the entire place. 
 
 From the garden we went to the kitchen 
 — a spacious, lofty room with a mantelpiece 
 of carved oak as black as ebony. So high 
 is it that it seems lost in the dark spaces 
 overhead. The great fireplace is fenced 
 in, or partitioned off, by a row of high- 
 backed settles, massive, and dark with age, 
 arranged in a semicircle, with spaces be- 
 tween them through which the ruddy fire 
 glowed. Behind these, on wall and shelf, 
 was such an array of shining copper ves- 
 sels of all shapes and sizes as it was good 
 to see. Dinner was being made ready, and 
 the air was full of the aroma of good cheer. 
 The brethren bring their food here for 
 cooking, but each has his own table in 
 his own small parlour. After all is cleared 
 away the hearth is swept and garnished, 
 and the kitchen becomes a social hall, where 
 the old men sit with their pipes and ale, a
 
 I08 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 
 
 company of harmless gossips. No humble 
 hall is theirs. If they do but lift their 
 eyes they behold on every side the Bear 
 and Eagged Staff, escutcheons, crests, and 
 all manner of heraldic emblazonry. In one 
 corner is a stately elbow-chair wherein sat 
 James the First when feasted by the Earl 
 of Warwick. Over the mantelpiece are 
 crossed halberds ancient as the house itself ; 
 and on the wall is a square of needlework, 
 a bit of faded silken embroidery, framed 
 in Kenilworth oak. You have to look twice 
 before you see that it represents the omni- 
 present bear and staff. Hardly worth notic- 
 ing in its dim decay, you think ; but you 
 turn back and look at it again and again 
 when you learn that it was wrought by the 
 white hand of Amy Robsart, — perhaps as 
 a love-token for her recreant lord. 
 
 "We tear ourselves reluctantly away, and 
 go on to the castle, which is not far off. 
 Warwick is the twin-sister of Kenilworth. 
 Their noble foundations were laid in the
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. IO9 
 
 same year. Yet the one is a stupendous 
 ruin, while the other is a nineteenth cen- 
 tury home. Such is the irony of fate. But, 
 somehow, the magnificent living castle, 
 with all its splendid environment, with its 
 huge, battlemented turrets, its great round 
 towers, its long sequence of historic rooms, 
 its stately halls and corridors, rich with 
 buhl and ormolu, with marqueterie and 
 bronzes, with pictures and sculpture, and 
 ancient armour once worn by giants of an 
 elder day — all this failed to move us as did 
 the crumbling arches of her dead sister. 
 Yet the picture memory gained that day 
 was a fair one, to be kept forever. He who 
 has seen Warwick, whether from the bridge, 
 the court, or the gardens, can never forget 
 its gray, dream-like, sombre magnificence. 
 
 Leicester, with many another of his 
 race, lies in Beauchamp Chapel, in the 
 great church of St. Mary's, with folded 
 hands and face upturned as if in prayer. 
 He looks as saintly as any martyred priest.
 
 no IN THE FOREST OF AIIDEN. 
 
 By his side is a quiet dame in hood and 
 ruff, his last wife Cicely. Let us forgive 
 him his sins for the sake of the one good 
 deed that lives after him — a clear star 
 shining through the mist of ages. 
 
 The next day we drove on to Stratford. 
 It was like a drive in dreamland. A veil of 
 silver mist encompassed us, softening every 
 outline, and throwing over all it touched a 
 bewildering grace and beauty. The sun 
 broke forth occasionally, but only to ' ' lower 
 its golden buckets down into the vapoury 
 amethyst." And soon it began to pour. We 
 passed Charlecote, where we had intended 
 to stoiD, in a sharp shower, and peered out 
 from beneath our dripping umbrellas at its 
 octagon towers, its gables and turrets and 
 enormous chimney-stacks, half hiddeii by 
 the overmantling ivy. We saw no deer in 
 the storied park ; but they may have been 
 there nevertheless, for, like the countryman 
 who could not see the city for the houses, so 
 we could not see the park for the trees.
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. Ill 
 
 The storm spent the strength of its short- 
 lived fury, and the sun shone forth again 
 with redoubled splendour before we reached 
 the goal of our pilgrimage, and the dream 
 of years was fulfilled. At last we were 
 in Stratf ord-on-Avon ! 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Nay, Master, dare we speak? O mighty 
 shade, 
 Sitting enthroned where awful splendours 
 
 are, 
 Beyond the light of sun, or moon, or star, 
 How shall we breathe thy high name un- 
 dismayed ? 
 Poet, in royal majesty arrayed. 
 Walking with mute gods through the realms 
 
 afar — 
 Seer, whose wide vision time nor death can 
 bar, 
 We would but kiss thy feet, abashed, afraid! 
 But yet we love thee, and great love is bold. 
 Love, O our master, with his heart of liame 
 And eye of fire, dares even to look on thee, 
 For whom the ages lift their gates of gold ; 
 And his glad tongue shall syllable thy name 
 Till time is lost in God's unsounded seal
 
 112 IN THE FOREST OF AJIDEN. 
 
 After awliile we went out into the quaint, 
 old streets, intentionally avoiding that for 
 which we came. We wandered about, now 
 in this direction and now in that, here and 
 there, as the fancy of the moment led; 
 straying into this little shop where a ruddy- 
 cheeked old woman in fluted cap and snowy 
 apron sold plums and pears ; pausing for a 
 moment at the window of another more 
 pretentious, with its photographs and sou- 
 venirs of Stratford ; lingering, lured by a 
 nod and smile, at some cottage door where 
 sat a wrinkled dame with her knitting, the 
 brown interior behind her aglow with the 
 sunset light ; returning the grave salutation 
 of a worthy in a belted frock of white 
 linen that fell below the knees, and with 
 large full sleeves, confined at the wrist by 
 a broad cuff. He was old, but he was 
 jaunty, and wore a tall, high-crowned black 
 hat as if it had been a royal crown. He 
 may have been a butcher, for aught I 
 know ; or his singular costume may have
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. II3 
 
 been that of some local brotherhood. But 
 it was picturesque ; and he might have 
 stepped out bodily from some ancient 
 picture-frame. 
 
 "He must be centuries old," I whis- 
 pered. "Do you suppose he ever saw 
 Shakespeare ? " For it was one of the 
 peculiarities of Stratford, as far as we 
 two pilgrims were concerned, that we 
 could not divest ourselves of the feeling 
 that the whole place was enchanted, and 
 its men and women phantoms. 
 
 We crossed the Avon, and at length 
 found ourselves, unawares, where every 
 landmark was as familiar as if in some 
 previous incarnation we had seen and 
 known it all. At our left was New Place ; 
 at our right was the Guild Chapel and 
 Grammar School ; and not far off, above 
 its clustering trees, soared the gray spires 
 of Holy Trinity. 
 
 Night was falling. The streets were silent 
 and deserted. The birds were asleep, but
 
 N 
 
 114 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 a few lonely bats wheeled and circled round 
 the grim, square tower of the Chapel of the 
 Holy Guild. The air was hushed and still, 
 with a soft, warm dampness that was full 
 of sweet odours. And silently, as if we 
 had been spirits, we were drawn onward 
 until we stood at the entrance to the 
 churchyard. 
 
 It was dark in those leafy recesses, but 
 before the door of the church a great 
 lamp flared, lighting the long vista of lime 
 trees, the gray tombstones on either side, 
 and the sombre pile above. Neither of us 
 spoke, but slowly, reverently, and with 
 fast-beating hearts, we passed up the wide 
 pathway and stood hand in hand in the 
 shadows of the portal. 
 
 For how long I know not. Then as 
 silently as we came we retraced our steps. 
 It is worth something, in such a place, to 
 have by one's side a friend who under- 
 stands one's mood, and knows the blessed 
 ministry of songs without words. ^
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. II5 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and when 
 the bells of Trinity pealed forth we obeyed 
 the summons. Everything seemed strange 
 and phantasmal, in spite of the feeling of 
 having been there a thousand times before. 
 To stand quietly before one's mirror in 
 the mouldy old Shakespeare Inn, arranging 
 one's worldly, fin-de-siecle veil and bonnet 
 strings, and yet to hear thrilling through 
 the sweet, still morning air the peal of the 
 very bells that had called to him whose 
 memory makes every stone in Stratford a 
 sacred shrine, saying to his soul as to 
 ours, " Come hither, come hither ! " — was 
 not this an experience worth living for ? 
 Thanks to auspicious fate, this visit was 
 before the new chimes of Trinity had sup- 
 planted the old. 
 
 All Stratford was going to church that 
 morning. Earth was as bright and gay as 
 if death and pain had never entered it. 
 Birds sang, the river rippled on its way, 
 the soft air just stirred the tree tops, the
 
 Il6 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 very gravestones were transfigured in 
 the glad sunshine. As we passed New 
 Place we knew we were following the very- 
 path he must have trodden three c^turies 
 ago on the self-same errand. He ? Yes. 
 What matter whether one uses a proper 
 name or a ]3ronoun. It is all one here. 
 Everybody knows. 
 
 We were given seats in the choir. There 
 was the usual service, devoutly rendered, 
 and a sermon. I confess my thoughts were 
 far afield, and I do not remember a word 
 of it. But one little touch of human kind- 
 ness will be always associated in my mind 
 with the officiating clergyman that day. It 
 so happened that there were no hymn books 
 in our pews ; and noticing this he beckoned 
 to one of the choir boys and gave him a 
 whispered direction. Presently the lad 
 brought us two hymnals and hurried back 
 to his place in time to join in the second 
 verse. 
 
 It was Communion Sunday, and we
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. II7 
 
 stayed to the holy sacrament. It chanced 
 that as I approached the chancel rail I 
 was, without any volition of my own, borne 
 along towards the north end. When I 
 knelt it was with the monument of Shake- 
 speare above my bowed head and his 
 sacred dust below it. 
 
 It is a comfort that some few things in this 
 world are settled beyond all peradventure. 
 The seven cities of Greece may quarrel as 
 to the birthplace of Homer, but there are 
 at least some facts in our Shakespeare's 
 life that we know for a certainty. New 
 Place, the home of his mature manhood, 
 where he lived, and dreamed, and wrote, 
 from the casements of which he must often 
 have gazed upon the dark tower across the 
 way, — New Place, where were the trees 
 that he planted, and the gardens in which 
 he delighted, and from which without doubt 
 he was borne to his burial in yonder church, 
 — this is not a myth, but tangible reality. 
 
 Vandalism has done its work, and but
 
 ii8 IN tup: forest of ardex. 
 
 few of its stones remain. But we know 
 when and of whom Shakespeare bought it, 
 and that for the last nineteen years of his 
 life it was the place he loved best, his 
 refuge and stronghold. One gets veiy near 
 to the heart of the man in that New Place 
 garden, — almost as near as when one 
 stands by the grave of his brother Edmund 
 in that grim old lady chapel of St. Sav- 
 iour's. 
 
 But if this be true of New Place, what 
 shall be said of tbe approach to Stratford 
 Church ? Here, too, there can be no mis- 
 take. If we are proud of our doubts, we 
 may say it is not certain in which of the 
 three houses owned by his father he was 
 born. Who cares ? It is enough that he 
 loas born. We may say that many of 
 the relics in Henley Street are of doubt- 
 ful authenticity. We may question many 
 things in our superior wisdom, and cavil to 
 OUT heart's content, if we find pleasure in 
 cavilling. But here, on this straight path-
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. IIQ 
 
 way from street to portal, the pilgrim may 
 feel absolutely sure he is treading in the 
 footsteps of the Master. Here he must 
 have walked, carrying his children for bap- 
 tism ; or leading little Hamnet by the hand ; 
 or leaning upon his fair Judith's strong, 
 young arm, while he pointed out to her the 
 birds and flowers he knew so well ; or es- 
 corting Dame Anne to the church door ; or 
 giving cordial greetings to the friends and 
 neighbours who, beyond all cavil, were proud 
 of him and reverenced him then, even as 
 their descendants reverence him now. Up 
 this path, too, he was assuredly carried to 
 his burial. The bell to which we listened 
 this morning tolled his knell, and these 
 skies, these fields, this river, heard the 
 requiem. i?' 
 
 Of course we went everywhere — to 
 Henley Street, where the two Miss Chata- 
 ways (for this was, if I mistake not, in the 
 last year of their long reign), gave us slips 
 of ivy from the wall ; to Shottery, where
 
 120 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 Mrs. Baker dowered us with rosemary 
 from the old garden, with pansies, and 
 many another common yet priceless flower. 
 
 " ' That's for remembrance,' you know," 
 she said, as she twisted the green gray spray 
 into the posy she was arranging. 
 
 We sought the Grammar School and the 
 hoary Chapel of the Holy Cross, where in 
 all human probability the lad Shakespeare 
 — son of one of the important men of the 
 town, freeholder in his own right, owner of 
 at least three houses, and a member of the 
 corporation — went to school as befitted his 
 station, and there learned at least some 
 Greek and Latin. 
 
 But all the time it was as if we were 
 living and moving in a dream. Tlie present 
 of Stratford was nothing. The past was 
 all. The heart of the mystery, the secret of 
 these Warwickshire fields and streams, why 
 could we not grasp it ? Why could we not 
 fathom it ? What is that magical, wonder- 
 ful, elusive something that we call genius ?
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 121 
 
 Why, of all the boys who played in the 
 streets of Stratford town, or wandered by 
 Avon's flowery banks, was this one William 
 Shakespeare singled out to be not only the 
 greatest man of his own time, but perhaps 
 of all time ? AVho shall say ? 
 
 This was my first visit to Stratford- on- 
 Avon. Three or four years later I was at 
 the Shakespeare Inn again. Just as before, 
 the whole atmosphere of the place was be- 
 wildering, overpowering. I could not sleep, 
 and, rising at midnight, I went out into the 
 moonlit streets, in search of calmness and 
 repose in the still, fresh air. Passing down 
 High Street and its continuation to New 
 Place, I leaned over the railing and gazed 
 long at the foundations of the house under 
 their wire screen, rebuilding it in fancy, 
 and restoring it to its former beauty. But 
 the grass, the roses, the trees — they were 
 as fair, as fresh, as perfect as those that 
 bloomed three hundred years ago. Then I 
 turned and passed on, till I found myself
 
 122 IN THK FOREST OF ARDEX. 
 
 again facing the old gray cliurch with its 
 tall spire among the stars, and the Avon at 
 its feet. There was no lamp before the door 
 this time ; but the moon lit up the way, and 
 the lime trees, swaying in a light wind, cast 
 flickering shadows on the pavement. On 
 either hand the gravestones stood as on 
 my first visit, mute reminders of man's 
 mortality. 
 
 I tried the door, but it was fast. Then I 
 passed round to the south, and there I 
 found entrance. 
 
 The moon must have gone behind a dense 
 cloud, for not one ray of light came in 
 through the tall windows. The place was 
 pitchy dark. I could not see my hand be- 
 fore my face. But I knew I must be about 
 on a range with the chancel, and crept 
 al©ng, feeling my way until I was able to 
 grasp the rail. I can feel the cold touch of 
 the polished brass unto this day. Keeping 
 my hand upon it, I moved on till I reached 
 the steps, passed them, grasped the rail
 
 IN THE FOREST OF ARDEX. 1 23 
 
 again, and at last knelt where I had knelt 
 at the sacrament, above Shakespeare's 
 grave. 
 
 I was not frightened, I was not even 
 greatly overawed, until I rose from my 
 knees and found that even with my hand 
 upon the rail I had lost my bearings — lost 
 the points of compass. Then I said to my- 
 self, "The nave is behind you, of course. 
 Get into a pew somehow, and sit down and 
 wait for daylight." This I at last accom- 
 plished. I went about half-way down the 
 nave, slipped into a pew, and rested my head 
 upon the back of the one in front of me. 
 Then the strangeness of it all, the weird- 
 ness, the awesome sense of invisible pres- 
 ences, overcame me. I could have cried 
 out for fear, but the very fear restrained 
 me. I dared not lift my eyes to see if the 
 thick darkness was broken. 
 
 Suddenly a thought came to my aid. 
 *'It is true this place is full of dead folk. 
 But they have been dead so long that it is
 
 124 I^ THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 as if they were nothing. They are nothing 
 by this time. Why should you fear them ? " 
 And then I waited patiently till I could 
 dimly discern the effigies of the Cloptons 
 lying on their marble bed in the faint, gray 
 light. 
 
 Then I rose, and had just gi'oped my way 
 to the door by which I had entered when it 
 was opened by a withered, wrinkled old 
 crone dressed in black from top to toe. 
 
 She carried in one hand a bucket of 
 water, and in the other a dust-brush and 
 some cloths. 
 
 She looked at me wonderingly, without 
 speaking, and I made haste to explain my 
 predicament. 
 
 " How did you get in ?" she asked, 
 severely. 
 
 " The door was not locked," I answered. 
 " I opened it and walked in. I meant no 
 harm." 
 
 " But how came you here ? How did 
 you know the way ?"
 
 IX THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 1 25 
 
 " I had been here before," I said meekly. 
 " I have worshipped at this altar. I knew 
 the way hither." 
 
 " It is not possible," she said with even 
 increased severity. "You are not old 
 enough to have been in this place before. " 
 
 Just then the great bell in the tower 
 above our heads clashed and clanged — and 
 I awoke to find myself three thousand 
 miles from quiet Stratford, with the ringing 
 of factory bells and the shriek of steam 
 whistles in my ear. My last visit to the 
 church of Holy Trinity was even more a 
 dream than the first. 
 
 But who was the old woman whose pre- 
 cincts I had invaded ? To the day of my 
 death I shall feel that her brushes and 
 brooms made the place sweet and tidy three 
 hundred years ago !
 
 V. 
 
 AT THE PEACOCK INN. 
 
 V[0 matter where we were, but this is 
 what happened. " Haven't we done 
 solid work enough for the present?" said 
 Saint Katharine one night as we unpacked 
 our portmanteaux, and began at once to 
 make our rooms look cozy, comfortable, 
 and homelike. " What if we were to turn 
 off into the byways and hedges to-morrow? 
 Let's go into the country, settle our brains, 
 and hear the birds sing. Did you ever hear 
 of the Peacock Inn ? " 
 
 " Never," I answered ; " where is it ? " 
 
 " In Rowsley." 
 
 " And where may Rowsley be ?" 
 
 "In Derbyshire. And while we are 
 there, we may as well see Chatsworth and 
 Haddon Hall. That is, if we get tired of 
 the birds. What do you say ? " 
 126
 
 AT THE PEACOCK INN. 1 27 
 
 I said "Yes,*' confessing that I had had 
 enough of mouldy crypts and dead men's 
 bones for the present. 
 
 And thus it happened that ^ye turned 
 aside into beautiful Derbyshire with its 
 rolling hills, its wooded heights, its fertile 
 valleys. 
 
 Rowsley is one of the most charming 
 little villages in all England ; and the Pea- 
 cock Inn is quaint, old, and ivy -grown, with 
 roses blooming at the very chimney-tops, 
 and a shield over the door bearing the date 
 1652. It has small-paned, latticed win- 
 dows, set in deep recesses, with sills mas- 
 sive enough for a fortress. Surrounding it 
 are large old-fashioned gardens that are 
 enough to drive a flower-lover wild with 
 envy — grounds bosky with shrubbery, 
 where a singing brook goes wandering 
 about under little foot-bridges ; and where 
 seats in all manner of unexpected places 
 tempt one to careless, dreamful idleness. 
 
 Rowsley itself is a lotus-land, where it
 
 125 AT THE PEACOCK INN. 
 
 seems always afternoon. Strolling leisurely 
 about the lovely little village, where every- 
 body looked well kept and comfortable, we 
 could but wonder how the people lived. 
 No one seemed to work save after a most 
 desultory fashion. Up a little lane, away 
 from everything but a wagon-maker's shop, 
 where three stalwart men were devoting all 
 their energies to the mending of one small 
 cart-wheel, we found the village post-office, 
 buried in a rose-garden and looking like a 
 picture. Up another lane was a grocer's 
 shop ; and opposite the inn was a place 
 where one could buy stationery and photo- 
 graphs. In the window of about every 
 third house was a sign in big letters — 
 " Tea and hot water," over which we 
 puzzled our weak brain's not a little, — dis- 
 covering at last that the cabalistic words 
 were a well-understood hint to picnickers. 
 
 We saw no signs of any other business. 
 But the place was as clean as my lady's 
 chamber. " Where do they put their rub-
 
 AT THE TE ACOCK INX. 1 29 
 
 bish?" I asked of my secret soul; feeling 
 morally sure that though there was none 
 in sight, Rowsley must have rubbish and 
 must dispose of it. And at length I found 
 out ! That word "dispose " is well chosen. 
 It was not thrown in unsightly heaps by 
 the wayside, nor dumped on the banks of 
 the beautiful river. But behind high stone 
 walls, over which the tallest man cannot 
 look without an effort, we discovered, at 
 last, dumping grounds, three of them, in 
 different quarters of that one small village. 
 There, quite out of sight, and an offence 
 to no one, the slow healing and assimilating 
 process goes on by which Nature cleanses 
 and beautifies all with which she has to do, 
 hiding even old tin cans and broken dishes 
 in a tangle of bloom and verdure. 
 
 But it is not for rest or birdsong, only, 
 that one visits the Peacock Inn. Rowsley 
 is the gate, so to speak, to Chatsworth, the 
 stately palace of the Duke of Devonshire. 
 
 On the way thither one bright summer 
 
 K
 
 130 AT THE PEACOCK INX. 
 
 morning, we stopped at Edensor church- 
 yard, — a quiet, lovely spot where five or 
 six of the Earls of Cavendish lie under 
 the green turf in unpretentious graves. 
 Edensor is called a " model village ; " and 
 nothing could be more perfect in its way. 
 There the Derbyshire tenants of the Duke 
 live, each in a roomy, well-built stone cot- 
 tage set in a garden of its own, where all 
 manner of flowers and vegetables run riot. 
 The streets are carefully laid out, and the 
 drainage and sewerage seem perfect ; as 
 for the houses themselves, they are really 
 like a series of small villas, differing one 
 from another. Castellated, Norman, Swiss, 
 and Elizabethan. 
 
 Chatsworth is magnificent; a great pile 
 of buff-colored stone against a background 
 of wooded heights. It confronts the noon- 
 day with a magnitude and grandeur truly 
 regal, with its gardens and stately conser- 
 vatories ; its terraces, lawns, and far-extend- 
 ing woods ; its fountains leaping to the sky ;
 
 AT THE PEACOCK INN. I3I 
 
 its herds of deer tossing their aiitkred heads 
 under grand old trees, and its picturesque 
 stone bridges spanning the clear waters of 
 the Derwent. We went through the house, 
 of course, -^ which is like other show places : 
 a bewildering labyrinth of halls, courts, 
 drawing-rooms and galleries, of pictures 
 and statues and bric-a-brac, which we 
 scarcely looked at, and made no effort to 
 remember. Show places, however magnif- 
 icent, had small attraction for either of 
 us ; and we were glad to make short work 
 of this one. The family were not in resi- 
 dence, and I asked one of the servants if 
 the Duke came often to Chatsworth. "Oh 
 yes, mem," he answered, " he comes always 
 in the back part of the year — about Christ- 
 mas time ! " 
 
 And, sure enough, he came the next 
 December, as usual, — the seventh Duke 
 of Devonshire, — an old man of eighty- 
 three, — to sleep with his fathers and his 
 sons in Edensor churchyard. His later
 
 132 AT THE PEACOCK INN. 
 
 years had been full of sorrow and be- 
 reavement. One who knew him well says : 
 " rathetic indeed in later years was the 
 figure of the Duke as he sat at the head 
 of the long table in the great dining-room 
 at Chatsworth. His grave, strong face, the 
 crown of white hair which fell carelessly 
 over the high, broad forehead, the eyes 
 alive and alert with a fire that seemed still 
 young, the dignity, the beautiful, quiet dis- 
 tinction of manner, the stamp of intellect 
 on the features, the bearing which had all 
 the courtesy of an earlier century and was 
 not the less stately for the bent head and 
 the slight stoop — all these traits gave to 
 him the air of one of the portraits by Titian 
 or Van Dyck that hung hard by. His sim- 
 plicity was that of the grand seigneur, and 
 so was his genuineness; never in his life 
 had he felt called upon to seem something 
 he was not." 
 
 There are landlords and landlords. This 
 man's management of his vast estates com-
 
 AT THE PEACOCK INN. 1 33 
 
 manded the unwilling admiration of his 
 political opponents, and extorted approval 
 even from the Land League. 
 
 After leaving the Hall we wandered off 
 by ourselves through the stately green soli- 
 tudes in search of the real object of our 
 visit, a stone tower surrounded by a moat 
 still filled with sluggish water. It is called 
 Queen Mary's Bower. Chatsworth (an 
 earlier building, however) was one of the 
 prison-homes of Mary, Queen of Scots, dur- 
 ing her eighteen years' captivity. There, 
 as the polite phrase is, she was "placed in 
 the charge" of the famous Bess of Hard- 
 wick, Countess of Shrewsbury. AVhen al- 
 lowed to wander out of doors, this tower 
 was her favourite resort. Over the broad 
 stone stairs that still lead like a bridge 
 upward across the moat, her slow% despond- 
 ing feet must have passed many a time, that 
 she might reach a little square enclosure on 
 the other side of the tower. 
 
 It is hardly more than ten feet square,
 
 134 AT THE TEACOCK IXN. 
 
 a mere pocket-handkercliief, as it were. 
 But here with her own hands she planted 
 and tended a little garden. The rich green 
 turf of England has crept over it now, 
 obliterating every trace of shrub and flower. 
 We could not find within its narrow walls 
 even one daisy to press. But the silent 
 sjjot moved us strangely. It was our last 
 thought as we left Chatsworth. 
 
 Should we attempt the walk to Haddon 
 Hall, or should we not ? The directions 
 given us were most enticing — a bewilder- 
 ing tangle of green lanes, old stone gate- 
 ways, cottages, footpaths, beech planta- 
 tions, wooded heights, sloping pastures, lit- 
 tle pools, quaint turnstiles, and broad green 
 drives. It was a great temptation ; but we 
 did not yield, strong-minded women that 
 we were. On the contrary we went home 
 to luncheon, leaving Haddon for another 
 day. 
 
 Haddon Hall is an ideal specimen of an 
 old baronial mansion, still in a fair state of
 
 AT THE PEACOCK INN. I35 
 
 preservation, although it has not been used 
 as a family residence for two hundred 
 years. 
 
 The approach to the Ilall, which is on 
 high ground, rising steeply from the banks 
 of the river Wye, is incomparably beautiful. 
 Haddon is as redolent of medieval state as 
 Chatsworth is of modern splendour ; and it 
 is all alive with poetry and romance. The 
 custodian lives in a pretty lodge at the foot 
 of the hill, in the garden of which yew-trees 
 are clipped into the rude semblance of 
 peacocks and boarsheads, the crests of the 
 Manners and Vernons. His three young 
 daughters were knitting on the steps lead- 
 ing to the great entrance hall, and gave us 
 smiling welcome. 
 
 We were the only tourists abroad that 
 morning. Haddon Hall is just a little off 
 the common route of tourist travel. In 
 other words, it is not one of the stock places 
 whose very name is a shibboleth that every 
 American traveller f ;els bound to pronounce
 
 136 AT THE PEACOCK INX. 
 
 or die in the attempt. For this reason, or 
 because of the good luck that seldom failed 
 us, we had the beautiful old place all to 
 ourselves that summer day. Surely the 
 very stars in their courses must have worked 
 for us — for in four months of happy loiter- 
 ing in the highways and byways of England, 
 we found ourselves but three times at the 
 heels of a gaping crowd. Ah, the differ- 
 ence ! 
 
 The lassies gladly led us from room to 
 room, letting us linger and loiter at our 
 will. To fully understand the charm of the 
 place, one needs to know that the estate of 
 Haddon was given by William the Con- 
 queror, not long after the battle of Hastings, 
 to his illegitimate son, William Peveril, a 
 descendant of whom is said to be Walter 
 Scott's "Peveril of the Peak." The Peak 
 is Haddon; or perhaps it is wiser to say 
 Haddon claims to be the Peak. Those were 
 troublous times, and the place passed in the 
 reign of Henry II. into the possession of
 
 AT THE PEACOCK INN. 1 37 
 
 the Avenels, and thence by marriage to 
 Kichard Vernon. 
 
 History repeats itself continually, and so 
 does the "old, old stoiy." Derbyshire had 
 its Montagues and Capulets, its Romeo and 
 Juliet. The Vernons who owned Haddon 
 Hall, and the Manners, the family of the 
 Duke of Rutland, were at sword's points. 
 Almost as a matter of course Sir John 
 Manners fell deeply in love with the fair 
 Dorothy Vernon, the daughter of Sir George 
 Vernon, called the King of the Peak, and 
 the last of his name that lived at Haddon. 
 The natural consequences ensued. Tradi- 
 tion says that Sir John disguised himself as 
 a forester, and haunted the Haddon woods, 
 thus obtaining brief glimpses of his lady 
 love, and now and then a stolen interview 
 with her. Tradition farther saith that on 
 the night of her sister's wedding she stole 
 away from the gay company in her gala 
 dress, fled down a flight of stone steps, still 
 known as "Dorothy's stairs," glided, a
 
 138 AT TIIK TE ACOCK INN. 
 
 fair, white, trembling vision, through the 
 long length of the shadowy terrace, and 
 crossed a quaint foot-bridge where her lover 
 awaited her. Away they rode into Leices- 
 tershire, where they were married the next 
 morning. 
 
 But this escapade ended the feud. The 
 two papas forgave the adventurous young 
 couple, and on the death of Sir George, the 
 estate of Haddon Hall passed into the 
 possession of Sir John Manners and his 
 beautiful Dorothy. The Manners and 
 Vernon arms are quartered together on a 
 shield over the door now, with the legend, 
 "God save the Vernons," — a worthy 
 tribute from a former foe. 
 
 If one could only put impressions into 
 words, and convey to other senses the per- 
 fume of the flower ! Lingeringly, loiter- 
 ingly, we roamed through the great mansion. 
 One of the young girls with her knitting- 
 work was ever within call, ready to answer 
 questions, if questions were asked, or to be
 
 AT THE PEACOCK IXX. I39 
 
 silent when silence was golden. Every- 
 where there was a hushed repose, a tan- 
 talizing reticence — as if the very walls 
 could have spoken, hut would not. One 
 listened involuntarily for footsteps and 
 whispers. 
 
 We went from the chaplain's room — so- 
 called — which seemed anything hut sacer- 
 dotal, with a pair of ancient jack hoots and 
 a leathern doublet in lieu of priestly vest- 
 ments — to the curious old chapel, rough, 
 massive, almost rude, in spite of some fine 
 Norman w^ork and a stained-glass window 
 of the fifteenth century ; from the huge 
 kitchen, with its enormous blackened fire- 
 place, to the panelled dining-room. Here 
 is an oriel window overlooking the garden, 
 where many a fair dame, no doubt, sat with 
 her maidens round her in the springtime of 
 the year. Then on we passed through the 
 great banqueting hall, an apartment worthy 
 of its imposing name, with its raised dais, 
 its minstrel's gallery, and its long oaken
 
 140 AT Tin-: PKVCOCK INX. 
 
 tables that once groaned beneath the weight 
 of boar's head and wassail bowl, into the 
 drawing-room hung with old tapestries, 
 marvellous to behold, and rich with carvings 
 and panellings, black as ebony. Here, 
 too, is a great fireplace, with curious, half- 
 alive, self -asserting andirons, reminding one 
 irresistibly of those lachimo took note of in 
 the bed-chamber of Imogen. Hard by was 
 another bed-chamber, that of the Earl ; and 
 here, as if to emphasize the truth that it is 
 but a step from the cradle to the grave, we 
 were shown the hooded nest in which Sir 
 George Manners was rocked when a baby, 
 and the canopied bed in which he died. 
 Tapestries, dim and faded in colour, but 
 wonderfully preserved, adorn the walls, and 
 reaching from the mantelpiece to the ceil- 
 ing were stone carvings, grotesques of every 
 imaginable shape — that looked as if they 
 might have been born of the pyramids. 
 
 Of course we saw the bed where Queen 
 Elizabeth once slept " in maiden medita-
 
 AT THE PEACOCK INN. I4I 
 
 tion fancy free." The stately vestal must 
 have been something of a gad-about. She 
 seems to have slept in full one-half of the 
 state chambers in England, — as Charles I. 
 did in the other half. We paced the long 
 ball-room — so long that the receding vista 
 dwindles almost to a point, and magnificent 
 with carved oak and floriated ceiling — 
 and at length descended to the garden by 
 the very stairs down which Dorothy fled, 
 and found ourselves on the terrace with 
 its balustrade of arched and battlemented 
 stone, and its enormous, wide-spreading 
 yew-trees. 
 
 But days, even summer days, are short, 
 and travellers' ways are long. We could 
 not stay at the Peacock Inn forever. On 
 our last Sunday we attended service in the 
 village church, about two minutes' walk 
 from our abiding-place. In a small chantry, 
 shut off from the nave by crimson curtains, 
 is a recumbent figure in white marble, — 
 that of the young wife of the jDresent Duke
 
 142 AT THE PEACOCK IXX. 
 
 of Rutland. A little child lies by its side, 
 and a lily has just fallen from the nerve- 
 less hand. 
 
 In the afternoon it rained, and the guests 
 of the house petitioned for a fire in the 
 coffee-room. Presently it was blazing away 
 on the old hearthstone ; and another lighted 
 up the quaint, brown-raftered hall, with 
 its carved oak furniture, black with age, 
 and its curious relics of bygone days. 
 Among these is a funereal tablet, telling of 
 the death of a certain Duchess of Rutland 
 in 1700. It has hung there ever since, and 
 records not only her transcendent virtues, 
 but the fact that she " died of a stricture," 
 whatever that may be. 
 
 We gathered about the two fires, stran- 
 gers from many lands, and I see that my 
 note-book declares that it was "very pleas- 
 ant," — a statement that certainly does 
 not lie open to the charge of womanish 
 exaggeration.
 
 VI. 
 
 AT HA WORTH. 
 
 TTfE had come up from Lincoln via Dor- 
 caster and Bradford into the very- 
 heart of the West Riding. "Next station 
 is Keithley, ladies," said the small boywho 
 punched our tickets. "Change there for 
 Haworth." 
 
 "Keithley?" Our maps and guide- 
 books -were silent as to any station of that 
 name ; but a moment's consideration only 
 was enough to show us that "Keithley" 
 was the local pronunciation of Keighley, 
 a place well known to all lovers of Charlotte 
 Bronte, and known, doubtless, to others as 
 well. Yet I fancy few Americans ever 
 gave a thought to the busy manufacturing 
 town save in its connection with the three 
 gifted women to whom, comparatively in- 
 significant as it is, it was the door that 
 143
 
 144 AT n A WORTH. 
 
 opened into the wide, unknown world 
 beyond it. 
 
 Into the station we rolled at last, and 
 found we had an hour to wait for the train 
 on the branch road to Haworth. 
 
 " Meanwhile, shall we explore the town, 
 Saint Katharine ? " I asked. 
 
 But she answered in unsaintly wise : 
 "We have been exploring too many cathe- 
 dral crypts, wherein are dead men's bones 
 — and other things. Let us save what 
 little strength is left us for Ilaworth." 
 
 So to the waiting-room we went, where 
 a calm-faced, black-gowned woman sat at 
 a little table, sewing. She rose, smiling, 
 to do the honours ; and at once the atmos- 
 phere of the jjlace grew kindly and home- 
 like. Courteous and attentive before, she 
 gi-ew heartily cordial as soon as she found 
 we were going on a pious pilgrimage to 
 Haworth. 
 
 " Many people went there in the old days ; 
 not so many go now," she said.
 
 AT 11 A WORTH. 1 45 
 
 " But liow is that ? " I asked. " Surely, 
 it is not yet time for the Brontes to be 
 forgotten ! ' ' 
 
 " Indeed it is not that," she replied, 
 "though many folk have short memories. 
 But since the parsonage door has been shut 
 in the face of all who come for the sake of 
 them who are dead and gone, and since the 
 new church took the place of the old one, 
 it's only now and then that a stranger cares 
 to go to Haworth, — -or those who are not 
 strangers, either," she added after a little. 
 
 " Then we cannot see the parsonage ? " 
 
 "Ye can see the outside of it. None can 
 hinder that. But it's no good trying to 
 get in. I'd advise ye not. He's a bit comi- 
 cal, the parson is. Yes, we call him a 
 comical stick. He's like the ortz," which, 
 as near as we could make out, was some 
 wayside plant, with a gnarled and crooked 
 stalk. Never having heard of it before, 
 however, the full force of the simile was 
 quite lost upon us. 
 
 L
 
 146 AT HAWORTII. 
 
 The station woman was well read, at 
 least in " Shirley," every detail of which 
 she had at her tongue's end. 
 
 " You should go to Liversedge," she ad- 
 vised. "That was the scene of 'Shirley.' 
 There's many a one can show you where 
 were the hall and the old mill and the rec- 
 tory. And they do say that Shirley were 
 Miss Emily Bronte herself." 
 
 We looked for bleakness and barrenness 
 as we approached the region of the moors. 
 Instead of this, the country had been grow- 
 ing fresher, greener, and more picturesquely 
 beautiful ever since we left Bradford ; and 
 the rolling hills made our hearts bound 
 after the low, flat lands of the " fen coun- 
 try " and Lincolnshire. When the train 
 stopped at Haworth, and we stepped out 
 upon the uncovered platforjn, we could not 
 believe our eyes. Haworth ? Was this Ha- 
 worth, — the Haworth of Charlotte Bronte ? 
 Impossible ! Before us, in the narrow val- 
 ley through which the railway ran, lay a
 
 AT IIAWORTH. 147 
 
 spick and span new village, witli tall, smok- 
 ing factory chimneys dominating over tlie 
 long rows of tenement-houses, — houses 
 which were gradually creeping up the 
 higher ground beyond. But w^here were 
 the ch.urch and the parsonage and the Black 
 Bull Inn ? 
 
 The guard hurriedly deposited our lug- 
 gage upon the platform, and the train swept 
 on. Not a porter was in sight, not a cab, 
 nor a "four-wheeler." But, presently, a 
 young fellow, wearing a gold-banded cap, 
 came to our deliverance. Haworth, old 
 Haworth, that is, was on the other side of 
 the station, quite out of reach of our pres- 
 ent point of vision. Forthwith, he piloted 
 us across ; and towering above us, " so 
 near and yet so far," was the goal of our 
 desires. 
 
 But how were we to get there ? Up the 
 steep height that seemed almost perpendicu- 
 lar climbed a narrow lane bordered on each 
 side by a low stone wall. Our new friend
 
 148 AT IIAWORTir. 
 
 eyed us from under liis visor. "It's not so 
 very far," he said, " but it's steep. Ye can 
 walk, and I'll carry the luggage." 
 
 "But where are your carriages?" I 
 cried in dismay. " Are there none here ? " 
 
 He shook his head. " AYell, they doesn't 
 often coom to the train," he drawled dubi- 
 ously. " Ye'd have a long wait, and it 'ud 
 cost ye all 0' two an' sax, an' mebbe three 
 shillings." 
 
 Evidently, such reckless extravagance 
 was not countenanced in Haworth. We 
 bade him gather up our belongings and lead 
 the way. Two portmanteaus, two hand- 
 bags, and a shawl-strap. He wrestled with 
 the five pieces for a while in a vain attempt 
 to handle them all, then regretfully called 
 a small boy to his aid, and the procession 
 started. 
 
 It was very much like trying to walk up 
 the side of a house, provided the house had 
 an uneven surface, and was well set with 
 cobble-stones. At length I stopped for
 
 AT HAAVORTH. I49 
 
 breath. Still far above us loomed the gray 
 church tower, and I knew the Black Bull 
 Inn was next door to it. "It'll be easier 
 after a bit," said our guide, consolingly. 
 "But them as built this town in the first 
 place built it the wrong way altogether. I 
 never could see the reason o' it." 
 
 Saint Katharine and I sat down on a con- 
 veniently broad stone in the low wall, to 
 laugh as well as to rest, and our escort fol- 
 lowed our example as he wiped his flushed 
 face. 
 
 " Did you know the Brontes ? " I asked 
 as we sat there. 
 
 "No. They were all dead afore my 
 time. I wor not born here. I'm from 
 Derbyshire. But I wor thinking it wor for 
 them yo coom." 
 
 " You are right," I answered. " But we 
 are told that we cannot see the parsonage. 
 How is that ? Do you know ? " 
 
 " I knows little about that," he said with 
 some hesitation. "But I knows him very
 
 150 AT HAWORTII. 
 
 well. I sings in the choir." And he 
 blushed under his tan, as he beamed all 
 over. Evidently, it was a great thing to 
 sing in the choir. 
 
 Up we went, higher and higher. The 
 new town lay at our feet : the old one was 
 still above us, with the moors stretching far 
 beyond. 
 
 We began to have a fellow-feeling for the 
 Haworth doctor, made famous by Mrs. Gas- 
 kell, for whom, when he refused to come 
 to the aid of the lad who was bleeding to 
 death, this apology was made, " He's owd, 
 yo seen, and asthmetic ; and it's up hill." 
 
 But at length we turned into a sort of 
 paved court, or winding way, broader than 
 the lane, and came out at a right angle 
 upon a street paved with rough flags and 
 cobble-stones, and hardly wider than a 
 wide garden path. I had completely lost 
 the points of compass, but I fancied it was 
 east and west. It was as steep as the 
 ascent we had made in the other direction,
 
 AT HAWORTII. I5I 
 
 and was built up as closely as a city block, 
 the queer, irregular houses of varying 
 heights, but mostly tall for the width, or 
 rather for the narrowness of the street, 
 looking as if they had been pressed together, 
 and had thus crowded each other out of 
 shape. A heavily loaded cart was toiling 
 up the hill, drawn by four clumsy-footed 
 horses, with high, oddly shaped collars, 
 all liarnessed tandem. And for a good 
 reason. There was not space enough to 
 drive them abreast. 
 
 "This is what we call the main street," 
 our guide announced proudly, with an in- 
 clusive wave of the hand. 
 
 "We looked up and down : at our left, the 
 long, narrow, steep descent ; at our right, 
 and but a little way off, the street made a 
 sharp curve, and ended in a small, irregular 
 plateau, which is probably in English fash- 
 ion called the market-place. Just at this 
 curve stood the Black Bull Inn, in the very 
 shadow of the church. To say that our
 
 152 AT IIAWORTH. 
 
 hearts sank within us, so dark, so grim, so 
 altogether forbidding, did the old hostelry 
 iook, is to use a very tame expression. 
 But it was the best in the place ; and 
 who would have gone elsewhere, even if it 
 had not been ? So, after paying our young 
 choir-singer two shillings, which he had 
 certainly earned, and congratulating our- 
 selves on having saved all of one shilling by 
 walking, we proceeded to investigate. En- 
 tering the door, which was on a line with 
 the street, we found a hall or passageway, 
 with low, dark ceilings, and a stone floor 
 full of inequalities, out of which, round a 
 corner, rose a flight of stone stairs, worn 
 into such great hollows by the tread of 
 generations dead and gone as to be positively 
 dangerous. In this hall hung, by actual 
 count, fifteen hams in the process of curing. 
 On the left, however, was a little coffee- 
 room, comfortable enough, with its smart 
 carpet and hair-cloth sofa, into which we 
 were escorted by the landlady herself.
 
 AT HAWORTH. 1 53 
 
 Could she give us a room with two beds ? 
 For we two lone women felt a strange un- 
 willingness to be separated that night. 
 
 No, she could not. 
 
 Could she give us two adjoining rooms ? 
 
 No, she could not. 
 
 What, then, could she do ? 
 
 She could give us one room, with one bed, 
 but not two rooms. For if any commercial 
 traveller should happen along, it would be 
 "awkward" (her own expression). How 
 could we expect the luxury of a room, or 
 even a bed, each, when there were but two 
 guest-chambers ? 
 
 But we could take our choice of the two, 
 that was one comfort. So up we went, 
 picking our way carefully, and expecting to 
 find the accommodations offered of most 
 primitive fashion. 
 
 We had already learned to look for incon- 
 gruities. But our surprise thereat was sel- 
 dom greater than when we found in those 
 little, low-ceiled chambers perhaps the
 
 154 AT IIAWORTH. 
 
 richest and handsomest old mahogany 
 furniture we had seen in the United King- 
 dom, with linen and appointments to match. 
 Bedsteads and bureaus, massive and finely 
 wrought, were dark as port wine and shone 
 like glass. 
 
 AVe made our choice ; and forthwith the 
 landlady deprecated it, and strongly ad- 
 vised us to take the other room, giving as her 
 chief argument not only that it was the 
 finer, but that most visitors preferred it, be- 
 cause it overlooked the graveyard ! We 
 abided by our first choice. 
 
 Could we have a carriage to take us at 
 once to the moors ? The afternoon was on 
 the wane, and already the sunset was begin- 
 ning to kindle its fires in the west. How 
 far was it to the waterfall, — Charlotte 
 Brontd's waterfall ? It was a matter of sev- 
 eral miles. If we w^ere to see it, we must 
 ride, much as we would have preferred to 
 walk. But there was no carriage ; and, if 
 there were, there was no man about the
 
 AT HAWORTII. 1 55 
 
 premises but the hostler. And he wasn't 
 there, either, having "gone somewhere" 
 that afternoon. It was only after prolonged 
 discussion that we succeeded in making our 
 hostess understand that the excursion could 
 not be indefinitely postponed, and that, if 
 there was anything to ride in in Haworth, 
 we wanted it immediately. She meditated 
 placidly. Could we go in a dog-cart, for 
 instance ? 
 
 Yes : we could go in a dog-cart, a donkey- 
 cart, a hay-cart, or any kind of a cart. 
 
 It appeared at last, that dog-cart. I 
 climbed up beside the driver. Saint Kath- 
 arine got in behind, and off we started. It 
 was worth all the trouble, and something 
 never to be forgotten, that drive in the 
 flush of the golden sunset, up the breezy 
 hills and over the moors stretching far and 
 wide like prairies, and just beginning to 
 take on the purple glory of the blossoming 
 heather. Our driver was a Haworth man, 
 bom and bred ; and very well did he know
 
 156 AT IIAWORTII. 
 
 the story of the sisters three who had made 
 this out-of-the-way Yorkshire village a 
 Mecca. He, too, knew " it was for them 
 ye coom." 
 
 On the top of a hill from which it seemed 
 as if the lonely moors stretched on every 
 side to the horizon, he brought his swift- 
 footed black pony to a standstill. We were 
 but a few minutes' walk from the little 
 waterfall which was a favourite resort of 
 Miss Bronte's, and by the side of which, 
 tradition says, she wrote many chapters of 
 " Jane Eyre." Thither we went. 
 
 The water was very low, for a long drought 
 had dried up half the springs in England. 
 A slender stream trickled sleepily over the 
 stones, and that was all. But the little 
 green dell was quiet and secluded in the 
 midst of the brown and purple of the moors, 
 the air w-as sweet and fresh, the sky over- 
 head was both blue as a sapphire and pink 
 as an apple-blossom ; and it was good to be 
 there. Nevertheless, I had serious doubts
 
 AT IIAWORTII. 157 
 
 as to those chapters of "Jane Eyre." 
 AVriting under shady trees, to the tune of a 
 tinkling waterfall, is all very well in theory, 
 but it is apt to he quite another thing 
 in practice. The poet betakes himself to 
 the sunny pastures or the woods, and 
 vainly essays a song in praise of the 
 golden afternoon. Both voice and harp 
 are out of tune. The next morning, in 
 the dulness of his study, maybe with the 
 autumn rain dashing drearily against the 
 window-panes, the song sings itself. 
 
 As one sees the moors from a carriage 
 it seems impossible that an adult in his 
 senses could lose his way. The stories 
 of such mishaps seem fabulous. But, 
 when we were out of sight of the high- 
 way and the dog-cart and attempted to 
 retrace our steps, we found it not quite 
 easy to say whether we had come this 
 way or that way. To an unaccustomed 
 eye, while there are many paths, there are 
 few landmarks ; and we could see how
 
 158 AT IIAWORTir. 
 
 one might wander up and down and round- 
 about, and be long in finding one's way- 
 out. As we climbed to our seats again, 
 we said as much to our driver. 
 
 "Yet," he said, "there's many a one 
 about here who can set snares for the 
 grouse of wire no thicker than a hair, and 
 with nought to mark the place, and go 
 and lay his hand on them wi' his eyes 
 shut." 
 
 "But how?" we asked. "How can 
 he find them?" 
 
 He laughed, shrugging his shoulders. 
 " That's what they don't tell," he said; 
 and, not caring to pry too closely into the 
 secrets of the poachers, we were silent. 
 Presently he stopped again, and pointed 
 with his whip, 
 
 " Ha' ye read Mrs. Gaskell's book ? " he 
 asked. No need to ask which book. 
 
 " Yes," we answered. 
 
 "An' do ye mind the story o' the old 
 woman an' her calf ? How she met Miss
 
 AT HAWORTII. 1 59 
 
 Bronte one day walking hereabouts, an' 
 cried out to her, ' Ho, ho. Miss Bronte, ha' 
 yo seen anything o' my cofe ? ' Miss Bronte 
 said how could she tell, for she didn't know 
 the calf. ' Well, nah,' said the old woman, 
 ' it's a-getting up nah betwixt a cah an' a 
 cofe, what we call a stirk. Will yo turn 
 it this way if yo happen to see't? Ah, 
 do now, Miss Bronte.' Do ye mind the 
 story ? " 
 
 Yes, we remembered it. Could anything 
 show more clearly the simplicity of her rela- 
 tions with her father's flock ? He went on : 
 "Well, then, do ye see the little house yon, 
 under the last clump o' trees ? That's 
 where ta old woman lived." 
 
 It is my impression he said lives. But, as 
 the incident he referred to must have oc- 
 curred at least thirty years ago, it is best to 
 be on the safe side, and not assume the role 
 of a resurrectionist. 
 
 We returned to the inn, with our hands 
 full of heather, and, while supper was being
 
 l60 AT IIAWORTII. 
 
 made ready, went out for our first near 
 view of the church and parsonage. The 
 former has been not so much restored as 
 pulled down and built over again. Noth- 
 ing is left of the church of the Bront6 
 days but the tower. We made no attempt 
 to go in that night, neither did we wan- 
 der long among the graves. Anything 
 drearier, darker, denser, and more un- 
 canny, than that old graveyard, where the 
 dead seem to lie huddled one upon an- 
 other, tomb hustling tomb in the deep 
 shadows of tree and church tower, it would 
 be hard to imagine. Perhaps the hour had 
 something to do with it, and the low sough- 
 ing of the wind. But we were glad to pick 
 our way out as rapidly as we could, treading 
 upon grave mounds in spite of our care, and 
 feeling as if we were crushing hearts be- 
 neath our feet. 
 
 Once out, however, upon the footpath 
 that runs along the wall of the church- 
 yard to the parsonage, we found the earth
 
 AT HAWORTII. l6l 
 
 was still bright with the lingering after- 
 glow of sunset, and took courage to go on. 
 There is no need to tell here how the 
 Haworth parsonage is situated. All the 
 reading world knows how it faces upon 
 the churchyard, which, indeed, surrounds 
 it on three sides. A narrow yard lies 
 between it and the place of graves; and 
 from the lower windows of the house the 
 tombstones may possibly be hidden now by 
 a belt of trees and shrubs that look as if 
 of recent growth. The tiny court was gay 
 with scarlet geraniums and other bright- 
 hued flowers that night ; and as we looked 
 longingly through the paling that divides 
 it from the by-street, or lane, (at the end 
 of the house) we saw two young lassies 
 trundling hoops, and heard the sound of 
 merry voices. Doubtless the house as well 
 as the church has been "freshened up." 
 But it is the same unpretentious gray 
 stone house, nevertheless, with the same 
 walls and the same windows ; and we 
 
 M
 
 l62 AT IIAWOIiTH. 
 
 knew well in which one of those front 
 chambers the short, sad life of Charlotte 
 Bronte went out. 
 
 After supper we sat long in the gloaming, 
 looking out upon the little market-place 
 from which three or four steep, narrow 
 lanes struggled hither and thither. It was 
 a strange picture, as foreign in character 
 as if it had been in the heart of France 
 instead of England. Across the way was 
 a small shop, where somebody advertised 
 himself as " Dealer in "Wines and Liquors." 
 On a wooden bench by the side of the door, 
 four men, one in a blue blouse, and one with 
 an imposing gray beard and skullcap, sat 
 indolently lounging as they smoked their 
 long clay pipes and discussed Yorkshire 
 politics with many gestures and loud voci- 
 feration. To them presently appeared 
 a Salvation Army woman, in quaintly 
 fashioned black gown and poke-bonnet 
 tied down with a red ribbon, with a 
 bundle of tracts under her arm, which
 
 AT IIAWOKTII. 163 
 
 she proceeded to distribute, or tried to. 
 There was much good-humoured jesting 
 and coarse laughter, in which she joined 
 as heartily as they ; but not a man took 
 one of the little pamphlets. Soon another 
 "hallelujah lassie" from the barracks be- 
 low the village joined her ; and they went 
 on their way, bandying jokes the while 
 with the men they left behind them. 
 
 Yet I heard afterwards that the Salvation 
 Army had done great good in Haworth. 
 Far be it from me to gainsay it. 
 
 Diagonally across from our window, on 
 a long flight of stone steps leading up to 
 what we took to be a school-house, half a 
 dozen children in wooden shoes, some of 
 them mere babies, were playing, to the 
 imminent peril of their necks, their heels 
 making a tremendous clatter as they raced 
 up and down. Still farther on were more 
 steps ; and on the corner of the building 
 to which they led was the sign "Post- 
 oiiice." England is not a land of rapid
 
 164 AT II A WORTH. 
 
 changes. We wondered if that was the 
 very spot from which "Jane Eyre" went 
 to seek publisher after i)ublisher, and to 
 which, after weary waiting, flew the flocks 
 of white-winged messengers that bore to 
 the shy and sensitive woman the story of 
 recognition and renown. 
 
 " Saint Katharine," I said, " we will set- 
 tle that point to-morrow." 
 
 And we did. It was the identical place, 
 — a humble little shop, with one corner set 
 apart for the public service. What stories 
 its walls could have told if they had had 
 but tongues ! 
 
 But this is a digression. Wliile we were 
 still at the window, a young and handsome 
 cavalier came clattering up the street, rode 
 straight up to the inn door, nothing daunted 
 by the spotless, broad stone flagging, and 
 without alighting knocked imperiously with 
 his whip. Out came the bar-maid, stal- 
 wart, red-cheeked, and round-armed, with 
 a pitcher of foaming beer and a mug which
 
 AT HAWORTII. 1 65 
 
 he held while she filled it with the frothy- 
 amber. He sipped it slowly, smiling and 
 talking the while, as he smoothed his 
 horse's "chestnut mane," then dropped 
 his sixpence into her outstretched hand, 
 and galloped away in the deepening twi- 
 light. Was he one of Robin Hood's men, 
 reappearing in this matter-of-fact century ? 
 For Robin Hood, a real man and no myth, 
 lived near Liversedge ; and his grave is still 
 shown to the curious. 
 
 When we went to our chamber. Saint 
 Katharine eyed the high bedstead inquir- 
 ingly. "The question that disturbs my 
 mind just at present is this," she said; 
 "how are you ever to get up there?" 
 
 " Behold, thou of little faith ! " I cried, 
 drawing the drapery aside, and displaying 
 a flight of carpeted steps, up which I soon 
 mounted triumphantly, to be lost in the 
 abysses of a huge feather bed. 
 
 We were not long in learning why our 
 landlady had so strongly advised us to take
 
 l66 AT IIAWORTII. 
 
 the room "overlooking the churchyard." 
 Dead men tell no tales ; but the men of tlie 
 village, vi^ho, one by one, dropped into the 
 room beneath us for their pipes and beer, 
 and perhaps a drop of something stronger, 
 told many ; and a merry racket they kept 
 up till midnight. All night we heard the 
 church clock strike the quarter-hours, and 
 thought of other ears that had listened to it 
 wearily in the long night watches. And at 
 early dawn the clack, clack, clack, of the 
 wooden shoes began again. 
 
 Need it be said that we thought, too, of 
 the gifted and misguided Branwell Bronte, 
 who had sown the seeds of all his misfort- 
 unes in that very inn ? At breakfast, the 
 maid who waited kindly hoped the ladies 
 had not been disturbed by the noise. Then, 
 as if by way of apology for the carousal, she 
 added, with some hesitation, " It was here, 
 they say, that Brawiwell, as they call him, 
 used to come." 
 
 Poor, brilliant, ambitious, unfortunate
 
 AT HAWORTII. 1 67 
 
 boy, — his very name mispronounced under 
 the roof to which he had been so often 
 summoned, that his wit and precocious 
 cleverness might add sparkle and fragrance 
 to the wine ! In what seemed to be a sort 
 of state apartment, back of the one under 
 ours, we were shown an odd, three-cornered 
 chair, in which he was wont to sit enthroned 
 as king of the revels. 
 
 After breakfast we sallied forth on a 
 voyage of discovery. Just below the sharp 
 curve in the street we had noticed a small 
 stationer's shop, in the window of which 
 was the familiar photograph of Charlotte 
 Bront6; and thither we went. 
 
 "Eobinson Brown" was the name over 
 the door. Might he not be kith or kin to 
 that very Martha Brown who was for so 
 many years poor old Tabby's faithful assist- 
 ant, and who. Miss Bronte herself bearing 
 witness, "waited very nicely" when the 
 Bishop of Ripon made his memorable visit 
 to the Haworth parsonage ?
 
 l68 AT IIAWORTII. 
 
 Behind the counter we found an exceed- 
 ingly pretty young girl, with an abundance 
 of wavy, reddish hair, an exquisite complex- 
 ion, and laughing blue eyes. Yes, Robin- 
 son Brown was her brother; and Martha 
 Brown, who died only two or three years 
 ago, was their aunt. Their father, who 
 was dead also, had been sexton of the 
 church for forty years, during the whole 
 incumbency of Mr. Bronte. 
 
 Was her mother living ? and would it be 
 an intrusion if we went to see her ? Yes 
 and no. Her mother loved to talk of the 
 old days, and she had some relics of Miss 
 Charlotte that she would be glad to show 
 us. 
 
 Not far from the Black Bull Inn, one of 
 the narrow lanes makes a swift descent 
 Half-way down it, we came to a little, low 
 house, quite on a level with the street. Xot 
 even a door-step intervened. Over the door 
 an inscription was rudely hewn in the stone 
 casing, after this fashion : —
 
 AT HAWORTH. 1 69 
 
 "I. S. A.S. 
 
 1 G 7 1," 
 
 which, being interpreted, means, "Is as it 
 was in 1671." Lifting the black knocker, 
 we were soon admitted, and led through a 
 small passageway, carpeted with oil-cloth, 
 into a large and comfortable room, as neat 
 as wax, the stone floor being scoured to 
 the last degree of whiteness. It was 
 evidently the kitchen and living-room. But 
 there were in it two or three pieces of 
 handsome old furniture, dark, lustrous, 
 and brass-handled. There were some pict- 
 ures on the wall, and a bird-cage in the 
 white-curtained window. A young v/oman 
 was ironing at a table under the window; 
 and at another in the centre of the room 
 sat Mrs. Brown, the sexton's widow, on 
 some housewifely task intent. She was a 
 pleasant-faced, elderly woman in a black 
 cap. The merest hint of our reason for 
 seeking her insured us a most cordial 
 welcome.
 
 1 70 AT IIAWORTir. 
 
 "Charlotte," she said to the ironing 
 maiden, "go fetch the little cradle." 
 
 "Is your daughter named for Miss 
 Bronte?" I asked, as the girl disappeared. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, with but very- 
 little trace of the peculiar Yorkshire dialect, 
 her daughters having none of it. " She 
 wor bom just a month after Miss Char- 
 lotte died. She wor very fond of my 
 children, Miss Charlotte wor; and, when 
 my babies wor a month old, she would 
 always ha' them brought up to the house. 
 Miss Charlotte wor good. So wor they all, 
 always thinking of poor folk, and trying 
 to help them." 
 
 Here her daughter returned, bringing the 
 "cradle "and a small box. The former 
 was a mere toy, — a little wooden cradle, 
 from which the head was broken, in which 
 the child Charlotte had rocked her dollies, 
 crooning soft lullabies, no doubt. I held 
 it in my hand reverently. No fragment 
 washed ashore from the sea of her later lit-
 
 AT IIAWOIITII. 171 
 
 erary life, no relic of her womanhood, could 
 have brought her so vividly near. And was 
 it not a comfort to know, by ocular and 
 tangible demonstration, that the lonely, 
 motherless little creatures in that silent 
 parsonage had had dolls, and had cuddled 
 and fondled them like other children? 
 The box contained a few odds and ends, 
 
 — ribbons and bits of lace that Charlotte 
 had worn, with, a bow from her last bonnet, 
 
 — all sacredly treasured by Martha Brown 
 and bequeathed by her to her niece. 
 
 The story of the Brontes, as we heard it 
 that day from the lips of Mrs. Brown, was 
 not new. She told us little that we did not 
 know before. But it is one thing to read 
 that story as one reads a novel, sitting at 
 one's ease, with the ocean rolling between 
 us and Haworth, and quite another to 
 hear it from the lips of a humble, faith- 
 ful friend in the very room where the 
 sisters had so often sat. 
 
 "Oh, that you were a stenographer ! " I
 
 172 AT 11 A WORTH. 
 
 whispered to Saint Katharine. As the 
 talk went on, conventionalities dropped 
 away, the "Miss" seemed a waste of time 
 and breath, and Mrs. Brown spoke of 
 plain Charlotte and Emily and Anne. 
 
 "They do say now," she continued, 
 "that literary folk, such as write books 
 themselves, think that Emily wor as much 
 as Charlotte, an' maybe more. But you 
 see we did not know it. Xobody thought 
 it then. Emily had a very mannish mind, 
 more mannish than the others. She kept 
 herself to herself, close and quiet; but, 
 when you could once get at her, she wor 
 sfree [as free?] and frank as anybody. 
 She wor shut up, you might say, and 
 silent. She could not talk like other folk. 
 A great worker she wor ; and, when sore 
 trouble came, the worse she felt, the 
 harder she worked. You know about 
 Branwell ? That wor a great grief ; but 
 the day he wor buried she just came home 
 and took off her black bonnet and went
 
 AT II A WORTH. 1 73 
 
 to the kitchen to help old Tabby with the 
 dinner, just as if nothing had happened. 
 Yet it wor killing her, and in two months 
 she died herself. She would not have a 
 doctor, though a blind man could see how 
 it wor going; and she would get up and 
 have her clothes on, and do her work till 
 the last morning. It wor dreadful to 
 see her, yet none could say a word. At 
 the very last she whispered to Miss Char- 
 lotte that she might send for the doctor. 
 But it wor too late. She went out like a 
 candle. Very soon Anne followed her, 
 and there wor but one where there had 
 been three. Yes, my husband buried them 
 all, every one of them. He wor sexton 
 forty year. He and Branwell were great 
 cronies. That's his portrait." And she 
 pointed proudly to a crude oil painting 
 that hung behind her, stiff and woodeny 
 enough, yet with a certain air of individu- 
 ality about it that made one sure it was a 
 good likeness. "Branwell painted it."
 
 174 AT II A WORTH. 
 
 Judicious questioning led her in due time 
 to Miss Bronte's betrothal and marriage. . 
 
 " Mr. Brontd would not hear to it at first. 
 He wor dead against it. But she brought 
 him round after a while. It wor kept very 
 still, and it wor a quiet wedding. Mr. 
 Nichols and a friend o' his just slipped 
 across the fields to the church, when no one 
 noticed ; and Miss Charlotte she put on her 
 white gown and bonnet and met them 
 there, just as if it were nothing at all." 
 
 "She did not go through that little gate 
 and down the path through the graveyard, I 
 hope," I said. 
 
 " Oh, no ! That little gate wor not used 
 except for the burials. They wor all carried 
 through that gate. She went down the out- 
 side path by the wall. Miss "Wooler wor 
 with her, and her friend Miss Ellen. At 
 the last minute, if you can believe it, Mr. 
 Bronte would not go, and Miss Wooler had 
 to give her away. Hardly a one knew what 
 had happened till they came out. Then she
 
 AT HAWOKTII. I 75 
 
 had a-hold of Mr. Nichols' arm. They 
 walked that way up to the parsonage ; and 
 Miss Charlotte she wor smiling and wor 
 quite chatty, they said." 
 
 Then came details, too personal and too 
 sacred to be recorded here, of the short, 
 blissful wedded life, the swift approach of 
 motherhood, the months of anguish, the 
 untimely death. 
 
 " When her father saw her lying dead," 
 she went on, ' ' he said : ' I want you all to 
 know that this was why I opposed the mar- 
 riage. She was like her mother. I knew 
 she was not strong enough to bear the ills 
 of matrimony.' " (The chances are that 
 he used the word " maternity " rather than 
 "matrimony." But I choose to quote liter- 
 ally.) " Mr. Bront6 wor a good one," she 
 added thoughtfully. 
 
 " How about the pistol ? " I asked. 
 
 " It wor not true," she answered very 
 decidedly. "Many a thing wor said that 
 never happened about the pistol (though he
 
 176 AT IIAWORTII. 
 
 may well have fired one, now and again, 
 like any other man) and the cutting up of 
 the wife's silk dress and the spoiling of the 
 children's gay shoes. But these things wor 
 not told till the children were all dead and 
 buried." 
 
 A glance at the clock showed that time 
 was flying. We bade Charlotte Bront6 
 Brown and her mother good-by, and made 
 our way to the church. Either there is ex- 
 ceptional narrowness on the part of the Ha- 
 worth people, or there has been great want 
 of tact and good management on the part 
 of the powers that be. Every stone in the 
 old church seems to have been sacred in the 
 eyes of those who were born, as were their 
 ancestors for many a generation, within 
 its shadow. To them the new church is not 
 the loyal and natural successor of the old, 
 but its uprooter and supplanter. The king 
 is dead, and they cannot yet cry, "Long 
 live the king ! " This feeling has been in- 
 tensified by the removal, which was doubt-
 
 AT nAWOIlTH. 177 
 
 less necessary, of the bodies of Charlotte 
 and her kin from the spot where they were 
 first interred. 
 
 " There are folk who would be glad to 
 sweep every vestige of the Brontes off the 
 face of earth," said an old man, with con- 
 centrated bitterness of expression. "They 
 have scattered their very bones." 
 
 On the wall of the new church there is a 
 small tablet, with names and dates ; and 
 there is a memorial window, the gift of an 
 American, we were told, "to the glory of 
 God, and in pleasant memory of Charlotte 
 Bronte." 
 
 We went into the churchyard again, to 
 look at the little private gate through which 
 the dead of the Bronte family had been 
 borne to their graves. We cast another 
 glance at the parsonage windows, but we 
 did not venture to knock at the closed door. 
 After being told a dozen times, by as many 
 different persons, that ungracious repulse 
 was certain, we were not brave enough to
 
 178 AT IIAWORTII. 
 
 take the risk. And we have been sorry 
 for our cowardice ever since ! 
 
 When, at tlie close of our visit to Ha- 
 worth, we reached the station, we found we 
 had still half an hour to spare. A fine- 
 looking, elderly man, a good specimen of a 
 Yorkshire yeoman, was sitting on a bench 
 outside, waiting like ourselves for the train. 
 We asked a question or two about new Ha^- 
 worth, and he one or two about America, 
 and we were friends at once. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I wor born about here. 
 I knew the Brontes well. I saw Miss 
 Charlotte very often, almost every day. 
 She wor nothing to look at. She wor a 
 little thing, little and shy. She did not lift 
 up her eyes. She wor quiet and kept out o' 
 the way. They wor all great," — which 
 seems to be the Ha worth word for "gifted," 
 — "all great, every one of them. But, yo' 
 see, we did not know it till they wor dead. 
 That wor it." And then he repeated, with 
 a slow shake of the head, " That wor it ; we
 
 AT HA WORTH. 1 79 
 
 did not know it till they wor dead." Alas ! 
 how often a wider world than that of this 
 Yorkshire town has been compelled to make 
 the same sad confession ! It took but a 
 word now and then to draw him out. ' ' Yes, 
 we read the books, here in Yorkshire ; and 
 we liked them. Good they wor. But we 
 had no idea who wrote them. Bless yo', 
 nobody ever thought she wor Currer Bell ! — 
 she that wor so little and shy ! There wor 
 one John Greenwood. He kep' a little shop 
 where they used to get their paper to write 
 on. He wor too poor to keep a stock on 
 hand ; and many's the time, when they 
 wanted it and he wor out, he would walk 
 to Keithley for it, and be back afore night. 
 Alway and always he wor wondering what 
 the young leddies at the parsonage did wi' 
 so much paper. But, bless my soul ! John 
 Greenwood never thought no more'n the 
 rest of us that they were writing hooks I 
 Yo' see, we did not know. That wor it."
 
 vn. 
 
 FROM THE BOKDER TO INVER- 
 NESS. 
 
 TT is the little things, the trifles light as 
 air, of which guide-books make no 
 note, the unexpected recognitions, the 
 quaint surprises, that give its greatest 
 charm to travel. We were bending our 
 way northward, and had taken the train, 
 as we supposed, for Melrose, when to our 
 chagrin we found we could go no farther 
 that night than Kelso. The town was 
 quite unknown to us. Neither of our three 
 guide-books so much as mentioned it. We 
 searched the maps, and found a tiny cir- 
 clet, about half-way between Berwick-on- 
 Tweed and the place of our destination. 
 What manner of place was it ? No one 
 seemed able to enlighten our ignorance. 
 "Primitive enough, no doubt," said one 
 i8o
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO IXVERNESS. l8l 
 
 of US, as she looked out of the car win- 
 dow with a disconsolate air. " But I 
 suppose we can find beds, and perhaps 
 bannocks. Bannocks are the proper thing 
 in Scotland, are they not?" 
 
 The truth was, we had set our hearts 
 on spending our first night '-Over the 
 Border " at Melrose ; and the change of 
 plan was not quite satisfactory. 
 
 But there was little time for doubt or 
 questioning. As we sped towards the 
 border, all the hills and streams found 
 voices, and every crag had some tale of 
 the past to tell. The very names were 
 suggestive. Flying along in the gloaming, 
 we stopped for an instant at — was it 
 " Xorham," the name that caught my eye 
 as we swept past the station ? — And why 
 should a swift vision out of the old romances 
 — a vision of mail-clad knights and haughty 
 barons — rise before me at that word ? 
 
 It all came to me presently. " Why, this 
 is Norliam ! " I cried excitedly. "Don't
 
 l82 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 you remember? Norham, where Edward I. 
 met the Lords of Scotland when they made 
 him arbitrator between Robert the Bruce 
 and false John Baliol." 
 
 Just at that moment, the guard, running 
 along on the platform outside, spoke 
 through the open window. "Ladies," he 
 said, touching his cap, ' ' this place was cel- 
 ebrated in the border wars. We shall pass 
 the ruins of Norham Castle presently." 
 
 Soon we saw it to the right of us, loom- 
 ing up in its hoary grandeur like a ghost 
 in the dim twilight. 
 
 We rolled into Kelso, at last. Even our 
 friendly guard was as ignorant as other 
 folk — as ignorant as railroad officials and 
 hotel clerks sometimes are, on the other 
 side of the water. He "had never stopped 
 at Kelso." He "didn't know the place." 
 Was there a good hotel there ? Indeed, he 
 could n't say, but it seemed to him he had 
 "heard mention of an inn called The 
 Crossed Keys."
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 183 
 
 "That sounds rather meclicieval and ro- 
 mantic," whispered Saint Katharine. "Do 
 you suppose there is a dungeon under tlie 
 coffee-room?" Gathering up our belong- 
 ings, we looked about in quest of adven- 
 tures and a porter. 
 
 Alas ! a most commonplace omnibus 
 awaited us. It had not even the musty 
 odour of antiquity to redeem it, but quite 
 dazzled our eyes with its unaccustomed 
 cleanliness and brilliancy, being by all 
 odds the finest carryall we had seen 
 since we left London. 
 
 It takes but little to amuse light-hearted 
 travellers, and we laughed heartily at our 
 own three selves (for there were three of 
 us this time) as we presently emerged 
 into a large, well-paved, and well-lighted 
 market-place, on one side of which stood 
 The Crossed Keys, bearing on its heavy 
 door the iron symbols of guardianship. 
 Well might we laugh at the erroneous 
 impression we had formed of the beauti-
 
 l84 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 ful town of Kelso, which boasts an ancient 
 abbey of its own ; Kelso, with its fine 
 roads, its graceful bridges, its museum 
 and library, and its background of wooded 
 hills with the three Eildon peaks in the 
 distance. 
 
 As for The Crossed Keys, however, it 
 was primitive enough to be interesting ; 
 even though our party of three voted that 
 the breakfast served us the next morning 
 in our pleasant parlour, by a blue-eyed 
 young Scotchman, was the best we had 
 tasted on British soil. 
 
 There was a strange exhilaration in the 
 atmosphere that August morning. Or 
 was it from within ? — a spiritual essence 
 stronger than wine. Did not the very 
 air we breathed with such delight stir the 
 ivies of Melrose, and Abbotsford, and 
 Dry burgh ? 
 
 It was but a dozen miles or so to St. 
 Boswell's, whither we went by rail ; and 
 there took a carriage for the short two-
 
 mile drive to Dryburgli. Alighting on 
 the banks of the Tweed, we crossed the 
 river on a very long, narrow, swaying 
 foot-bridge, under whose piers two young 
 men in tourist costumes were gravely 
 fishing. It was quite safe, with iron 
 railings, and to fall would have been im- 
 possible. But the wind blew strongly, 
 and the procedure was a good deal like 
 walking the deck in a gale. Once over, 
 however, we went on, through green and 
 winding ways, to the first lodge, where we 
 stopped to pay toll — "tuppence" — for 
 crossing the bridge, and to receive direc- 
 tions for finding the abbey. 
 
 One of us was slightly indisposed that 
 morning, in spite of the delicious air ; and 
 crossing that swaying bridge had not 
 helped the matter. She looked ready to 
 commit the crime of fainting. What was 
 to be done ? For we had already left the 
 lodge well behind us. 
 
 Fortunately a little, low cottage sprang
 
 l86 FROM TIIK BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 up out of the shadows by the wayside, 
 and we concluded to make an informal 
 morning call. It was whitewashed on the 
 outside, with scarlet geraniums blooming 
 in the small windows, but inside it was 
 brown and Rembrandtish in tone. 
 
 " Isn't it just like a picture ? " whispered 
 one of us, as we took a quiet survey be- 
 fore entering. 
 
 A wood lire burned in the blackened fire- 
 place, the sticks resting on large iron fire- 
 dogs. On one side were the small-paned 
 windows, with deep window-sills ; on the 
 other, bunks were built into the wall, one 
 above another, sleeping accommodations 
 for the family. 
 
 As we appeared in the narrow doorway, 
 a tall, angular woman, with a complexion 
 like leather, and a wide-bordered cap sur- 
 mounting the black coil of her hair, came 
 forward to receive us. Taking in the 
 situation at a glance, she cried hospitably, 
 while drawing forth a rocking chair, "Oh,
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO IXVERXESS. 1 87 
 
 coom in, coom in ! Let the leddy coom 
 right in ! There's nane hut the bairns in 
 here the morn." 
 
 One of the " bairns," a little, red-cheeked, 
 dark-eyed boy about five years old, was 
 curled up in a great arm-chair, on a many- 
 coloured patchwork cushion, intently watch- 
 ing the boiling of a pot over the fire. He 
 looked at us curiously, but not shyly, lifted 
 his hand, smiled, and said something in 
 an unknown tongue — courteous words of 
 greeting, no doubt. Children soon catch 
 the spirit of their elders ; and this little 
 fellow's mother could not have been more 
 gracious, or more self-respecting, if she 
 had been Duchess of Buccleugh. 
 
 Our invalid was soon conducted upstairs 
 into a low, wide room, with brown rafters, 
 filled with all sorts of household belongings 
 — the odds and ends of many generations. 
 There she was left to herself for half an 
 hour, while the rest of us made friends 
 with the mother and her bairns. The ex-
 
 165 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 perience taught us one fact not mentioned 
 in the guide-books ; viz. , that a Scotch 
 peasant-woman may have a guest-chamber 
 in her small cottage, and may gently de- 
 cline payment from a stranger for the use 
 thereof. 
 
 In due time we passed the second lodge, 
 entered our names in the visitors' book, 
 paid our sixpences, and made our way 
 down the narrow, ivy-hedged lane that 
 leads to the abbey, now so picturesque 
 in ruinous solitude. The ruin is indeed 
 almost complete. We did not try to trace 
 out nave, or choir, or transept, but sat 
 there in the sweet morning stillness, hear- 
 ing the birds sing and communing with tree 
 and flower till we were fully rested. 
 
 Then we sought St. Mary's aisle in what 
 was once the north transept of a stately 
 pile, but which the world hardly knows 
 of now save as the burial-place of Walter 
 Scott. There he sleeps, with his wife and 
 son by his side, and Lockhart at his feet.
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 1 89 
 
 An iron railing prevents intrusion upon 
 the sacred spot ; but seeing some pebbles 
 lying on the pavement within, I put my 
 hand reverently through the grating and 
 gathered them up for friends across the 
 sea v?ho would, I well knew, prize them 
 above rubies. 
 
 The works of men's hands, "yea, all of 
 them shall wax old like a garment, ' ' Yet 
 near the entrance to the abbey stands a 
 yew-tree, still hale and green in its serene 
 old age ; a yew-tree that is older than the 
 abbey itself. What stories could it not 
 tell if it had but a tongue to speak ! 
 
 Abbotsford is too well known to warrant 
 description here. Sulfice it to say that we 
 were permitted to wander at will through 
 the fair chambers that are still haunted 
 by the master's presence, and through the 
 grounds and gardens that he planted. We 
 paused for a moment at the monument 
 erected to the memory of the " twa dogs," 
 Maida and Luf a ; and by the half -finished
 
 IQO FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 statue of Maurice, the exciseman in "Rob 
 Roy." In the armoury, we lingered long 
 over the curious relics so associated with 
 the works of their former owner, and so 
 indicative of his tastes and character — 
 among them EoTd Roy's gun, pouch, and 
 cap ; the keys of the Heart of Midlothian, 
 and some strands of golden hair cut from 
 the head of Bonnie Prince Charlie. In a 
 little octagon recess was the death mask. 
 
 Perhaps what will be remembered long- 
 est is the frieze in the hall entrance, formed 
 wholly of the shields and armorial bearings 
 of the Scottish clans, with this inscription 
 running underneath : — 
 
 "These be the Coat Armouries of ye 
 Clanuis and men of name quha keepit ye 
 Scottish Marches in ye days of auld. They 
 were worthie in their tyme, and in their 
 defens, God thaim defended." 
 
 The drive to Melrose in the sunny after- 
 noon was enchanting as we followed the 
 winding Tweed round the base of the Eil-
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. I9I 
 
 don Hills, three rounded cones, brown and 
 purple with heather. "VYe looked at them 
 curiously, remembering how Michael, the 
 Wizard, had by his dark magic " cleft 
 Eildon Hill in three." It was a fair pict- 
 ure that stamped itself upon our memories 
 that day, — the clear blue sky, the bright 
 sunshine, the sparkling river, the pictur- 
 esque hills, and at their feet, half buried 
 in foliage, the country-seat of the Duke of 
 Buccleugh — his "hunting-box," so called, 
 — the box being large enough to accommo- 
 date a hundred guests. 
 
 The Abbey Inn is at the very gate of the 
 abbey; not a stone's throw off. Indeed, 
 one can hardly help believing that it en- 
 croaches upon the site of the ancient nave. 
 It is a pity that Melrose does not stand like 
 Fountains Abbey, isolated in lonely grand- 
 eur. But as imagination takes hold of and 
 reclothes and repeoples the majestic ruin, 
 one has no room for regrets of any kind. 
 The historic and poetic associations are so
 
 192 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 rich that they become overpowering. To 
 stand where the heart of the Bruce lies 
 buried, on the very spot where the high 
 altar once lifted its imposing splendour, all 
 bathed in the glorious, many-coloured light 
 that streamed in through the 'flamboyant 
 traceries of that marvellously beautiful east- 
 ern window, and then to lift one's eyes 
 and see, not six feet off, the tomb of the 
 Douglases, where lies the Douglas whom 
 Harry Hotspur slew at Otterburn, is surely 
 enough to make the most sluggish heart 
 beat faster than its wont. Here, as every- 
 where in the old world, it is less the thing 
 seen than the thing suggested that stirs 
 one. 
 
 Melrose is beyond description. Surelj' 
 its arches were bent, and its mighty col- 
 umns — bundles of lances bound together 
 by garlands — were reared in days when 
 time was naught and human endeavour was 
 of small moment. What manner of men 
 were they — these builders in what we are
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 1 93 
 
 pleased to call the ''dark ages"? Dark 
 perhaps, because the morning of our boasted 
 civilization had not yet dawned. The deli- 
 cacy and grace of the carvings, whether in 
 the frieze of the cloisters, or in the capitals 
 of the pillars, the corbels, and the keystones 
 of the roof, are incomparable. Rose and 
 lily, thistle, thorn, and fern, kale and oak 
 leaves, with countless other forms of un- 
 approachable loveliness, are reproduced in 
 the solid stone with a fidelity to nature 
 that takes one's breath away. Just above 
 the foliated capital of the centre pillar in 
 the north transept, is carved a hand hold- 
 ing in its slender fingers a few flowers. Of 
 this hand Lockh art says that "were it cut 
 off and placed with the Elgin marbles, it 
 would be kissed by the cognoscenti as one 
 of the finest of them all." 
 
 Passing out by the grand south entrance, 
 
 we found ourselves in the graveyard, from 
 
 the southeast corner of which the best view 
 
 of the building as a whole is to be obtained. 
 
 o
 
 194 FliOM THE IJORDEK TO INVERNESS. 
 
 At this point the eye takes in at once the 
 singular beauty of the flying buttresses, the 
 glorious arches, the grand east window, 
 and the central tower. 
 
 Midway across this field of the dead 
 we found a sunken grave, marked by a 
 little red stone which bore this singular 
 inscription : — 
 
 " The Earth goeth on the Earth 
 
 Glistering like gold ; 
 The Earth goeth to the Earth 
 
 Sooner than it wold ; 
 The Earth builds on the Earth 
 
 Castles and towers ; 
 The Earth says to the Earth 
 
 All shall be ours." 
 
 The stone is very old. On the other side 
 was the name of the silent sleeper, "Jane 
 Ramsey," and the remains of a date that 
 time had blotted out. I fancied her a 
 young girl ; for did not the stone tell us 
 dust had returned to dust " sooner than it 
 wold"? Unfortunately for this theory,
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. I95 
 
 however, the old seem, as a rule, quite as 
 anxious to live as are their grandchildren. 
 
 Not far from "Jane " lies Thomas Pur- 
 die, " Wood Forester at Abbotsford " ; and 
 the stone is erected in "grateful remem- 
 brance" of an old servant, "by Sir Walter 
 Scott, Bart." 
 
 We lingered long in the dim twilight, 
 feeling rather than seeing the witchery of 
 the place, the magic, the beauty of it all. 
 Then we went to bed, but not to sleep. 
 For who could sleep beneath the towers of 
 Melrose, when he knew the moon would 
 rise about midnight ? 
 
 My room overlooked the abbey — was 
 almost in it, in fact. My bed was in front 
 of the window, and I had only to lift the 
 curtain to behold the glorious pageant as 
 the full moon slowly rose, flooding choir and 
 chancel, nave and cloister, with a clear 
 white light that was almost like day. 
 
 ** The broken arches were black in night, 
 And each shafted oriel Khmmered white,
 
 196 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 "Where the cold light's uncertain shower 
 Streamed on the ruined central tower." 
 
 As I gazed, shadowy figures seemed to 
 glide from column to column, from arch to 
 arch. Cowled monks stole down the old 
 staircase; they emerged from the "steel- 
 clenched postern door," they knelt before 
 the high altar. Is that Father Eustacious, 
 the last abbot of St. Mary's ? Is the place 
 alive again with warmth and colour, the 
 breath of incense, the stately splendour of 
 solemn ceremonials ? 
 
 Hark ! a tolling bell strikes the hours, — 
 a weird, unearthly sound that sends a shiver 
 through the soul. It is the very bell that 
 called to prayer four centuries ago. 
 
 Many good things have come into my 
 life, but I count among the best of them 
 those midnight, moonlit hours at Melrose. 
 
 Then followed rare, enchanted weeks in 
 Edinboro' the Proud, Edinboro' the Beauti- 
 ful. The tourist, and there is more than 
 one, who says she should not be proud
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 1 97 
 
 and is not beautiful, has been most unfor- 
 tunate. Either he was soul-sick, or body- 
 sick, or he had atrocious weather, or he 
 did not stay long enough for the fair city 
 to reveal her charms to him. 
 
 "Shall I tell you how your countrymen 
 and countrywomen, for the most part, O.o 
 Edinboro' ? " asked a stately Scotch matron 
 with laughter in her eye and voice. " Very 
 well ! They alight at the station. They 
 get into cabs — one cab, two cabs, fifty 
 cabs, according to the size of the party. 
 They drive through a few streets ; they go 
 up to the castle, and in the twinkling of an 
 eye are whisked from dungeon to tower. 
 Into the cabs again, and down High Street 
 and the Canongate to Holyrood. They 
 glance at St. Giles, and the Tolbooth. 
 They look up at Arthur's Seat, and down 
 from Calton Hill to the Forth. They stop 
 a minute at the Scott monument. They 
 run into a shop and buy a pebble, or a 
 cairngorm. Then to the station again, and
 
 198 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 off they whirl. They have seen Edinboro'. 
 Did I tell you about the young man who 
 went to Kosslyn ? No ? Very well, then. 
 He drove out with a party of friends, 
 and when they got to the chapel actually 
 refused to leave the carriage. ' Why 
 should he alight ? ' he asked. ' He didn't 
 come all the way to Europe to see a 
 parcel of old ruins, ' — not having studied 
 his little red book enough to show that 
 Rosslyn was not a ruin. INIuch good travel 
 does such folk," she added impatiently. 
 "Why doesn't Eate give their chance to 
 the other sort ? " 
 
 And remembering sundry appreciative 
 souls who would give more than the half of 
 their respective kingdoms for the " chance " 
 this callow youth was wasting, my heart 
 echoed the question. 
 
 But the charmed days could not last. 
 We had done all the orthodox things and 
 many that were not orthodox. We had 
 not only seen that grand old pile of em-
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. I99 
 
 bodied history yclept the Castle, but we had 
 dreamed of it, sleeping in its hoary sha.dow, 
 as it were, night after night. We had trod- 
 den the storied ways of beautiful Holyrood. 
 We had stood in the window from which 
 John Knox thundered his anathemas. We 
 had climbed Salisbury Craig, and, sighing 
 because Arthur's Seat — its crest, that is — 
 was too high for us and we could not at- 
 tain unto it, we had looked down on the 
 towered and turreted city sleeping at our 
 feet, and afar off beyond Leith to the blue 
 waters of the Forth. Did we not become 
 familiar with "the hills beyond Pent- 
 land " ? Did we not see the fishwives of 
 Newhaven ? And on one never-to-be-for- 
 gotten day, we followed the serpentine 
 windmgs of the Firth of Forth, past fishing 
 villages and hamlets sleeping in the sun ; 
 past crag and cairn, crumbling tower, ivied 
 ruin, and lofty monument ; past quiet 
 homes, half hidden under sheltering trees ; 
 past stately castles and historic piles ; past
 
 200 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 church and abbey, school and hospital, until 
 at length, as we neared Stirling, so swiftly 
 did the steamer wheel and veer in its tortu- 
 ous channel that the castle on one storied 
 height and the Wallace monument on 
 another seemed playing hide-and-seek with 
 us, and we were fain to believe there were 
 two castles and two monuments. 
 
 But why go on with the inventory ? 
 Wherever we went, whatever we saw or 
 did, one figure walked beside us by night 
 and by day. Walter Scott is the soul 
 of Edinboro'. His presence pervades the 
 streets and the very air. It is fitting that, 
 as the years go hy, he should sit upon his 
 marble throne, under that canopy of carven 
 stone, with the creations of his genius above 
 and around him as a holy guard, in the 
 very heart of the city of his love. You see 
 his face everywhere. Indeed the face of 
 the queen is not more familiar to the peo- 
 ple of London than is that of Walter Scott 
 to the people of Edinboro'.
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 201 
 
 On that last morning we went again up 
 Castle Street to Number Thirty-nine, — the 
 home of the magician for twenty -six years ; 
 the home of his prime, where in one single 
 year he wrote " Peveril of the Peak," " Quen- 
 tin Durward," and "St. Eonan's Well." 
 Number One, North Charlotte Street, was not 
 far off, the occasional home of "Pet Marjo- 
 rie," from whence she came to the Twelfth 
 Night supper at Castle Street, brought in the 
 sedan chair by Duncan Roy and Tougald. 
 It was easy to see it all — the little seven- 
 year-old darling, "all in white, and her 
 eyes gleaming, and Scott bending over her 
 in ecstasy." It required no great stretch 
 of fancy to see the opening of the " big ha' 
 door," and to hear a gay voice cry, " I can 
 make nothing of ' Waverley ' to-day. I'll 
 awa' to Marjorie. Come wi' me, Maida, you 
 thief," as the tall figure strode down the 
 street with a shepherd's plaid over its 
 shoulder. 
 
 It was in the garden back of the Castle
 
 202 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 Street house that poor faithful Camp was 
 buried, the turf above him smoothed by his 
 master's own hand. 
 
 It is the fashion in some quarters to say 
 that the world has outgrown the author of 
 "Waverley," that "nobody reads him." 
 Perhaps so, — though the statistics of pub- 
 lic libraries do not attest this. But he lives 
 and breathes in Scotland. You can scarcely 
 say of him that " being dead he yet speak- 
 eth"; for it is impossible to think of him 
 as dead, even though he has every mountain 
 for a monument. 
 
 Saint Katharine and I resolved ourselves 
 into a committee of two. Should we go up 
 to Inverness " first class," or "second"? 
 The committee referred the question to the 
 stately matron and her fair daughters.. 
 " You would better go first class," was the 
 decision. " It is a long, hard journey up to 
 Inverness, very tiresome if taken in one 
 day." 
 
 The British idea of distance is very amus-
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 203 
 
 ing to an American. A trip of six or eight 
 hours is a "long, hard journey," to be 
 attempted only under protest, and with 
 more impedimenta in the shape of wraps, 
 rugs, and air cushions, than would suffice 
 for an outing across the continent from 
 Xew York to San Francisco. But we w^ere 
 so far influenced as to bestow ourselves 
 and our portmanteaux in a first-class com- 
 partment, thereby paying exactly double 
 for the privilege of sitting on plush instead 
 of rep, and having an extra arm to lean 
 against. That was about all the differ- 
 ence we were able to discover, speaking 
 generally, between first and second class 
 cars, though we made many trials of both. 
 Stirling was an old story. So was Dum- 
 blane, where we looked, as we had looked 
 before, for "Fair Jessie," but failed to 
 find her — though it is quite possible we 
 saw her great-granddaughter in a straw hat 
 and scarlet jacket; said jacket being in 
 close proximity to another jaunty bit of
 
 204 FROM TIIK BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 scarlet that was gay with gold lace and 
 bright buttons. 
 
 After leaving Duniblane we were on new 
 ground. Are there ghostly houses, I won- 
 der? Not houses that are haunted by 
 ghosts, but houses that are ghosts them- 
 selves ? Not a stone is left of the old 
 monastery of the Black Friars at Perth. 
 But surely its shadowy phantom rose be- 
 fore us, and within its unsubstantial cham- 
 bers we saw James the First, wise king, 
 soldier-poet, loyal gentleman, in his very 
 "habit as he lived." Brave Catharine 
 Douglas, too, was there, barring the door 
 against his pursuers with her frail right 
 arm ; and pale Joanna, stilling her trem- 
 bling maids. 
 
 Below us on either side as we crossed 
 the Tay stretched the fair ' ' Inches of 
 Perth," smiling in the level sunshine. 
 Apparently they have quite forgotten how 
 once on their broad meadows thirty men 
 of Clan Chattan fought thirty of Clan Kay,
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO IXYERNESS. 205 
 
 until the river ran with blood, and but 
 twelve men, and they sorely wounded, 
 were left out of the whole sixty. 
 
 Then up we climbed through the heart 
 of the Highlands, mountain towering above 
 mountain, and the scenery growing more 
 and more vividly picturesque, till we reached 
 the wild pass of Killiecrankie, just beyond 
 which a rude stone marks the spot where 
 Claverhouse fell. How or why he ever al- 
 lowed General MacKay to loiter through the 
 easily defended pass, where the very spirits 
 of the woods and the mountains waited to 
 join forces with the "Bonnets of Bonnie 
 Dundee," must ever be a mystery. The 
 battle was fought in the open valley beyond. 
 
 It was nearing sunset when we passed 
 Blair-Athole, that loveliest of Highland 
 hamlets, with the many-turreted castle of 
 the earls of xVthole rising out of the trees 
 on the hillside, and the old church of Blair, 
 the burial-place of Dundee, just beyond it. 
 The scene may not always be so fair as it
 
 206 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 
 
 was that August afternoon, when the purple 
 of the heather, blending with the soft olives 
 and browns of ferns and mosses, clothed 
 every mountain from base to summit, and 
 all were enwrapped in the golden haze that 
 was the forerunner of the sunset. But as 
 we saw it, it was beautiful beyond descrip- 
 tion. The shadows grew deeper as we lost 
 sight of Ben Vrackie. Look, Saint Katha- 
 rine ! Is that the shade of Macbeth stalk- 
 ing along in the gloaming? Surely here 
 "foul whisperings are abroad," for lo! 
 proud Dunsinane towers on one side, and 
 on the other Burnam Hill, robed to its 
 crown in stately evergreens. 
 
 A tall gray monument rose to the right, 
 crowning a slight elevation. " To the hon- 
 our of the ' Wolf of Badenock,' ladies," 
 explained a courtly Highland gentleman 
 who shared our compartment. "You are 
 now in the very heart of the old clans. 
 There are the Macintoshes, over there the 
 MacDoualds, and farther on the Camerons,
 
 FROM THE BORDER TO INVERNESS. 207 
 
 the Gordons, the Frasers, and many another 
 name doubtless as familiar to you as to 
 me." As he got off at Kencraig, and was 
 met by friends, as well as by retainers to 
 whose care he consigned a hamper that had 
 been stowed away under the seat, we had 
 strong suspicions that our courteous cama- 
 rade du voyage was himself ' ' one of the 
 Macintoshes. ' ' 
 
 At the next station two bright-faced lad- 
 dies in Highland caps and shooting jackets, 
 laden with rods and creels and all manner 
 of fishing toggery, swept in upon us like a 
 pair of young whirlwinds. Very well-man- 
 nered whirlwinds they were, however, not 
 forgetting to make graceful salutation as 
 they established themselves in comfortable 
 quarters. Their baskets were suspiciously 
 empty, and it was doubtless the anticipa- 
 tion of joys to come that made their young 
 faces so radiant, and kept them in a sub- 
 dued gale till they left us a few stations 
 farther on.
 
 208 FROM THE BORDER TO IXVERNESS. 
 
 Night fell all too soon. Yet we had i)assed 
 the best of the Highlands before it came ; 
 and what with the glory of the heather, the 
 glory of the mountains, the glory of cloud 
 and sky, we were tired out, and were will- 
 ing at last to shut our eyes, while our souls 
 chanted the Te Deum, — "All the earth 
 doth worship thee, the Father everlasting." 
 
 At ten o'clock we reached Inverness.
 
 VIII. 
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE AND CULLO- 
 DEN MOOR. 
 
 170R four weeks Scotland had given us of 
 her best. We had had the glory of the 
 heather, the glory of the lakes, the glory of 
 mountain and cloud and sky, to say nothing 
 of that other glory of storied castles, ruins 
 magnificent in their decay, and palaces 
 whose every stone could speak. And we 
 had not seen so much as a hint of a Scotch 
 mist, or a drop of rain ! 
 
 But on the 22d of August we found the 
 skies overcast and a storm impending. We 
 compared notes, and consulted the most 
 genial and painstaking host in the United 
 Kingdom. Certainly we had not come up 
 there to be daunted by a little rain; and 
 most certainly, too, if we were to see Caw- 
 dor Castle and Culloden Moor at all, we 
 p 209
 
 2IO TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 must sec them that day. It was not one of 
 the coach days, either. The porter came to 
 the fore to give his advice. The leddies 
 could perhaps get a machine, and go by 
 themselves. "A machine ?'' We opened 
 wide eyes, and then and there added 
 something to our store of knowledge; 
 namely, the fact that in Highland dia- 
 lect a "machine" is any sort of a 
 "trap" in which human beings can ride. 
 Would we have a machine for the round 
 trip, twenty-eight miles ? Indeed we 
 would. 
 
 The machine, in this instance, proved to 
 be a light open wagonette for one horse ; 
 the driver in front, and seats for two, facing 
 each other, behind. Unrolling our mackin- 
 toshes for the first time since we landed at 
 Liverpool, in June, we took our umbrellas, 
 and climbed into the small vehicle. Our 
 host put in wraps and rugs enough for the 
 supply of a regiment, and off we started just 
 as the rain began to fall, declaring to each
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 211 
 
 other that it was great fun, — as it was, if 
 fun is ever synonymous with pure, unadul- 
 terated enjoyment. 
 
 For anything more delightful can hardly 
 be conceived than that drive in the soft, 
 warm rain, that was in itself a luxury 
 after the long drought, — along the curving 
 shores of the Moray Firth, through lovely 
 wooded recesses where the dripping branches 
 met above our heads, between hedge-rows 
 where all sweet wild things were growing 
 together in riotous confusion, holly, and 
 wild rose, and ivy, and bramble, twining 
 their arms about each other and dancing 
 as if for very joy, and beside banks all 
 matted with heather, so deliciously pink 
 when seen near at hand, so royally purple 
 when it stretches afar over moorland and 
 mountain. All along the way bluebells 
 swaying in the wind and rain swung their 
 perfect chalices, and tiny pink and yellow 
 flowers, unknown to us, poised like butter- 
 flies on slender stalks to keep them com-
 
 212 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 pany. Here and there stately rowan-trees 
 flamed beside the road, their great trusses 
 of scarlet berries burning like torches in the 
 dark emerald of their leaves. 
 
 The roads were perfect, as level as a floor ; 
 not a rut, nor a stone, nor a hillock big 
 enough to make a "cradle-hole," and no 
 mud even in the rain. Well, Great Britain 
 has been building her roads for eighteen 
 hundred years, and she had the Romans to 
 teach her how^ and set her a good example. 
 Perhaps ours vyill be as fine when we have 
 worked at them as long. 
 
 We drove up at length, after much cir- 
 cumambulation and many devious wind- 
 ings, before Ye Cawdor Arms, a little quaint 
 old inn at the junction of the highway with 
 the lane that leads to the castle. It was a 
 most primitive establishment in which to 
 look for entertainment for man and beast. 
 The low stone walls had lost, if they had 
 ever possessed, the garniture of ivj- that so 
 often makes the hovel more picturesque
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 2I3 
 
 than the palace, and stood forth in all their 
 unveiled nakedness. A few scarlet runners 
 on poles made a hit of intense brightness 
 in one corner. On the opposite corner of 
 the house, just under the low eaves, a 
 weather-beaten sign displayed the latest 
 attempt at emblazoning the arms of the 
 House of Cawdor. Apparently it had been 
 painted over and over again by a hundred 
 successive generations. The inn itself 
 looked old enough to have given food and 
 shelter to King Duncan's retainers, when 
 he made his unfortunate visit to the Thane 
 of Cawdor. 
 
 It had stopped raining by this time, and, 
 leaving our waterproofs and dripping um- 
 brellas at the inn, we walked down the lane 
 to the ivy-covered arch of the gatev/ay 
 leading to the castle. Near it was a small 
 cottage, too unpretentious to be called a 
 lodge, in the door of which stood an old 
 woman, curtsying. Did we wish to call on 
 the leddies o' the family ? No, we were
 
 214 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 strangers. We only wished permission to 
 see the castle, we answered. "But ye 
 maun ha' tickets for that,'''' she said. Here 
 was a dilemma. But it proved a veiy 
 simple matter. They could be had at the 
 post-office for a " saxpenny " each ; and our 
 driver, who, having looked after the well- 
 being of his horse, now stood at a little dis- 
 tance, peering over the lichen-covered stone 
 wall into the dark flowing rivulet beyond 
 it, could readily obtain them. The "sax- 
 pennies" were for the poor. Meanwhile, 
 what wonder that we were seized with a 
 sudden conviction that our feet were cold ? 
 
 "May we come in and warm our feet by 
 your fire ? " I asked. 
 
 "Ay, ay, coom in, coom in, and sit ye 
 doon," she said heartily, as she ushered us 
 in, and wiped two spotlessly clean chairs 
 before offering them to us. Such a queer 
 little place as it was ! The outside door 
 was of some rich, dark, polished wood, 
 studded with brass knobs, but in it lay all
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 215 
 
 the splendour of the establishment. The 
 walls were so low I could have touched the 
 celling with my hand. The stone floor, the 
 table, and the two or three chairs, one of 
 which was adorned with a cushion covered 
 with worsted patchwork, had been scoured 
 till they were white. In one corner stood 
 a narrow bed, entirely covered by a pointed 
 canopy of some faded pink stuff. Over the 
 blackened, smoke-stained fireplace were a 
 couple of shelves, not for bric-^-brac, but 
 filled with dishes and household utensils. 
 A kettle hummed over the fire, which was 
 certainly built on an economical scale, con- 
 sidering the dampness of the day. On the 
 one broad window-seat lay a book, brown 
 leather and well-thumbed, which was evi- 
 dently a Bible. In the chimney-corner, a 
 cat purred softly. It was like a chapter 
 out of some story of humble, pious poverty, 
 — little fire, little cat, well-worn Bible, 
 and all. 
 
 The old woman was interested in her
 
 2l6 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 visitors. We had come a long ways, — from 
 Lunnon, or from furren parts, mebbe, to 
 see the old castle ? 
 
 Yes ; we had come from over the sea, all 
 the way from America. 
 
 As usual, we had found the "open 
 sesame." Everywhere, in England and 
 Scotland alike, America had been the magic 
 key that unlocked all doors. 
 
 "Ye can't get in till three o'clock," she 
 said, excitedly. "But if ye only tell the 
 housekeeper tliat^ she'll let ye in noo ! " 
 
 We preferred, however, notwithstanding 
 this encouragement, to wait till the regular 
 hour of admittance. As we started to go 
 back to the inn for our luncheon, I slipped 
 a bit of silver into the old woman's wrinkled 
 hand. She would have refused it, had I 
 not insisted, crying, " Ye needn't to do it ; 
 ye needn't to do it ! But God bless ye, and 
 mak' ye rich, and bring ye safe hame to yer 
 ain people." 
 
 This was so remarkable that I at once
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 217 
 
 "made a note on't." And I wish here 
 to solemnly record the fact that there were 
 two persons in the United Kingdom who 
 actually objected to receiving a proffered 
 shilling. In both cases they were not able- 
 bodied men, but poor, lonely old women. 
 
 Ye Cawdor Arms does not provide very 
 luxuriously for its guests. But we had our 
 luncheon, such as it was, at the same table 
 with a young man who looked like a student 
 on his vacation tramp. As he slowly ate 
 his cold meat and bread and cheese, and 
 sipped his single glass of wine, he read from 
 a book lying open beside his plate, with one 
 hand resting half the time on the head of a 
 beautiful Scotch collie. The master kept i 
 his distance ; but the dog, after making a '. 
 deliberate survey, drew nearer and nearer, i 
 and finally laid his great head on my knee, 
 while his eloquent brown eyes begged for 
 a share of our portion of the feast. He 
 got it. 
 
 We started for the castle at last, entering
 
 2l8 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 in under the ivied archway, and going up 
 the broad gravelled road, with smooth green 
 lawns, dotted with stately forest trees, 
 stretching far to the left. 
 
 "'This castle hath a pleasant seat; the 
 air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
 unto our gentle senses,' " quoted Saint 
 Katharine, as we crossed the rusty draw- 
 bridge over the moat, and entered through 
 what had once been a portcullis into a small, 
 square court, from which steps descended 
 on either side unto other courts. Eight in 
 front of us, facing the drawbridge, was a 
 mounted cannon, with the conical heap of 
 balls beside it. We knew that in spite of 
 all these warlike preparations there must be 
 a hospitable bell somewhere ; and failing to 
 discover it above, we went down into the 
 lower right-hand court, where we found it, 
 and the door of entrance. 
 
 An exquisite young Adonis in livery ap- 
 peared, — Jeemes being generally a more 
 elegant man than his master. Certainly
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 219 
 
 we could see the castle, from three to five. 
 But — looking at his watch — it still wanted 
 five minutes to three. 
 
 We begged pardon. Our watches must 
 be at fault. But, meanwhile, might we be 
 permitted to walk in the grounds ? 
 
 We might ; and he would himself notify 
 the housekeeper of our desires. 
 
 We crossed the drawbridge again, nothing 
 loath to wander about the place, so still and 
 peaceful now, and to look down the long 
 vistas leading into the adjoining forest. 
 Presently a schoolboy, with slate and books, 
 came out of the castle, and hurried down a 
 shaded lane to a building near by. Soon 
 two young women in walking costume, with 
 tartans picturesquely draped over their 
 shoulders, and carrying small baskets, 
 passed by us, on the traditional errand of 
 mercy, no doubt. 
 
 " Port wine and beef-tea in one basket, 
 no doubt," said I, " and a flannel petticoat 
 in the other."
 
 220 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 Then, as we turned towards the house 
 again, we met two gentlemen, one of whom, 
 it was evident, from his air of proprietor- 
 ship and at-homeness, was Lord Campbell. 
 
 ' ' ' The Thane of Cawdor lives, a pros- 
 perous gentleman ' still, if one may judge 
 from appearances," I remarked to Saint 
 Katharine, as he lifted his cap, and we went 
 our separate ways. 
 
 The housekeeper, a handsome, middle- 
 aged woman, in cashmere gown and pretty 
 cap, received us at the door with such an 
 air of smiling hospitality that we felt at 
 home a,t once. Cawdor Castle is almost 
 the only one of the really old castles — 
 that is, those that have not been thoroughly 
 made over and modernized — that is still 
 used as a family residence. We were first 
 taken into the dining-room, where the 
 table, not yet fully cleared, showed that 
 luncheon was just over. It was a pleasant, 
 low-ceiled room, completely hung with old 
 needle-work tapestry. The only modern
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 221 
 
 thing in or about it was the carved wooden 
 mantelpiece, which was put in by the 
 present earl, and bears his crest and those 
 of his four sisters, with the date of the 
 room, 1510. 
 
 From thence we went to the kitchen, 
 whose walls, many feet thick, had been redo- 
 lent with the odours of roasting mutton and 
 venison as far back as the fourteenth cen- 
 tury. The enormous fireplace that nearly 
 fills one end is unaltered, and before it, or 
 in it, the family cooking is done to this 
 day. For the help of the cook there is 
 some odd machinery, still in good working 
 order and in daily use, though as old as the 
 chimney itself, by which the heat of the 
 fire turns and regulates the spit. The upper 
 end of the great room is hewn out of the 
 solid rock, floor, walls, and ceiling being 
 of the same mass of stone. Long tables 
 extended down the middle throughout the 
 whole length, and half a dozen maids, busy 
 with pans, pots, and scrubbing-brashes,
 
 222 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 glanced at us curiously as we passed by. 
 Familiarity breads contempt; and there is 
 small doubt that they marvelled under 
 their caps at the interest, or curiosity, that 
 brought so many questioning eyes into 
 their old kitchen. 
 
 A short winding passage and a flight 
 of steps led us to the dungeon. It is 
 not a bad place, a;s dungeons go, having 
 more light, air, and space than most of 
 them. Still, the sound of the heavy iron 
 door swinging to, with a clang, upon its 
 rusty hinges, must have been anything 
 but agreeable to the poor captives upon 
 whom it has so often closed. It was a 
 hard thing to realize, with that kindly, 
 smiling face beside us, instead of a warder 
 in coat-of-mail. In the middle of the 
 dungeon, like the central column of a 
 chapter-house, rose the trunk of a large 
 hawthorn-tree. " There is a curious story 
 about this old tree, which is older than 
 the castle itself," said the housekeeper,
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 223 
 
 laying her hand upon it. "Tlie founder 
 of the house was looking for a place to 
 build upon, when a saint, or an angel (it 
 doesn't matter which), appeared to him, 
 and told him he must build upon what- 
 ever spot an ass kden with gold should 
 stop three times successively. Shortly 
 afterward, an ass weighed down with 
 treasures persisted in stopping three times 
 in the shade of this hawthorn-tree. And 
 so, you see, we have our castle, which 
 was built around it." 
 
 To establish at once the principle of 
 believing whatever is told you, wonder- 
 fully enhances the interest of travel. 
 We had done this at the very outset of 
 our pilgrimage, and of course believed 
 this bit of medieval history implicitly. 
 But we may perhaps be forgiven if we 
 venture to wonder whether the ass and 
 his gold belonged to the founder, or to 
 his dearest enemy. 
 
 *'Now you must see King Duncan's
 
 224 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 room," said our pleasant guide, leading 
 the way to the tower stairs. The climb- 
 ing of steep, narrow, winding ways, worn 
 into such great hollows that one can hardly 
 feel sure of a foothold, is, to put it mildly, 
 not as easy as going up in an elevator. 
 But reflecting it was but once in a life- 
 time, I plucked up my courage, and gal- 
 lantly followed in the wake of the small 
 procession. After ascending two or three 
 flights, we entered a large square room, 
 with two windows commanding a wide 
 and pleasant outlook. It was plainly 
 furnished, containing a canopied bed, with 
 chintz drapery drawn up and carefully 
 spread over the pillows, after the inevi- 
 table Scotch-English fashion, a table, a 
 chest of drawers, and a few chairs. 
 
 " Now tell me truly," said I, — for, sad 
 as it is to say it, there is sometimes a 
 limit to the credulity of the most con- 
 scientious traveller, — '■'■ icas King Duncan 
 ever in this room ? The castle figures in
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 225 
 
 the play, but was the king murdered 
 here ? " 
 
 " No," she said, " as you ask me frankly, 
 I must say he was not. This castle is not 
 as old as the date of Macbeth. But 
 Shakespeare chose it as the scene of the 
 murder, and out of deference to that fact 
 the family has always kept up the tradi- 
 tion, and called this the Duncan room." 
 
 The decorations of the apartment, if so 
 they could be called, were truly unique. 
 The space above the fireplace, in which 
 was a pair of huge iron fire-dogs, was com- 
 pletely covered by a charcoal sketch done 
 upon the white wall. The three weird 
 sisters were brewing their unholy witch- 
 broth in a great caldron, while the flames 
 struggled with the clouds of smoke, out 
 of which the uncanny faces peered. On 
 one side of the fire, a black cat humped 
 her back, and hissed at a serpent coiled 
 and just ready to dart, on the other side. 
 On the left of the fireplace was a life- 
 Q
 
 226 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 sized figure of Macbeth, with hair on end 
 and dagger drawn, staring with horror in 
 his eyes at the real and truly bed, in 
 which Duncan, no doubt, was supposed to 
 be lying. On the wall at the foot of the 
 bed was Lady Macbeth, tragical to the 
 last degree, urging him on to the commis- 
 sion of the bloody deed. Rough as they 
 were, there was spirit in the drawings. 
 Evidently a party of merry young people 
 had amused themselves with this attempt 
 to make the Duncan room truly Shake- 
 spearian. 
 
 The rest of the party went up several 
 flights farther, while I stayed below with 
 Duncan and the witches. They saw the 
 window from which Simon Fraser, Lord 
 Lovat, was let down in a basket during 
 the Jacobite wars, — escaping then, only to 
 be beheaded afterwards ; and the loop- 
 holes through which, in the good old 
 times, melted lead was poured like coals of 
 fire upon the heads of besieging foes.
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 22/ 
 
 Pleasanter far than this was it to look 
 down from their airy perch into the for- 
 est, where they could see the lovely wood- 
 land paths stretching on and on. The 
 great estate runs thirty miles in one di- 
 rection. 
 
 We were agreeably surprised by being 
 taken into the family rooms, the private 
 apartments, to say much of which here 
 would be a breach of trust and hospital- 
 ity. But some jewel-lovers amongst us 
 envied my lord the magnificent gems that 
 sparkled on his dressing-table. One daintily 
 furnished chamber, with the open Prayer- 
 Book on its own small table, the text for 
 the day on the wall, the basket of needle- 
 work, the well-worn companionable books 
 lying witliin convenient reach of the low, 
 deep-cushioned chair that awaited the com- 
 ing of its mistress in front of the smoul- 
 dering fire, left on some of our minds a 
 most pleasant impression of gentle, re- 
 fined, studious, thoughtful girlhood.
 
 228 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 The great drawing-room was as homelike 
 a place as one need wish to see, — a long, 
 low-ceiled, tapestry-hung apartment, with 
 the fii e of logs on the broad hearth burning 
 low, the sunshine streaming in, and flowers 
 in profusion everywhere ; a room for use, 
 not show, for on a little table where some 
 one had been mounting photographs, the 
 sponge, bowl of water, and mucilage bottle 
 were all ready for further operations. From 
 the walls the ancient lords and ladies of 
 Cawdor looked down on the pretty, peace- 
 ful scene. I wondered if they did not 
 think they had had a hard time of it 
 themselves, in the far-away centuries full 
 of turmoil and bloodshed. 
 
 " Have the lords of Cawdor always been 
 Campbells ? " I inquired. 
 
 "Oh, no," was the answer. "But long 
 ago the sole heiress of the house of Cawdor 
 married a Campbell, — one of the Argyles, 
 you know," she added confidentially, — 
 "and so the family name was changed."
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 229 
 
 Soon after this we passed out under the 
 portcullis and over the drawbridge, down 
 the broad, smooth walk, and through the 
 green archway into the country lane again, 
 and our visit to Cawdor Castle was over. 
 
 It was not actually raining again, but it 
 was still dark and lowering. The young 
 Highlander who had charge of our " ma- 
 chine " looked dubiously at the clouds, as 
 we resumed our seats. By a short cut 
 across country, we could be home in an 
 hour. If we went round by way of Cullo- 
 den, we would surely be caught in the 
 rain. 
 
 " And there's nothing to see there, any- 
 how," he said. " Just an empty field." 
 
 But the nothingness of Culloden Moor 
 was exactly what we wanted to see, and 
 we went on. 
 
 Nature had harmonized charmingly with 
 all our doings through the whole summer. 
 Sunshine would have been out of place that 
 afternoon. As we approached Culloden,
 
 230 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 the clouds grew darker and deeper. The 
 dull gray mists lay damp and heavy on the 
 barren moor. The silent hills were blotted 
 out. The sky hung so low it seemed as if 
 we could touch it ; and it and the mists 
 shut us in. There was nothing left of the 
 whole wide world but the moor of Cullo- 
 den, and we were the only living creatures 
 in it. Not a bird sang ; not a grouse, nor 
 a rabbit, resented our intrusion upon its 
 solitudes. 
 
 First we passed, lying in a field to our 
 left, but very near the road, an immense gray 
 bowlder, lettered ''Cumberland, 1746. '' 
 From this stone the "Butcher Duke ^' com- 
 manded the field, on that April day when 
 the last hope of the Stuarts was crushed. 
 An eighth of a mile farther on, the horse 
 stopped. 
 
 " This is the ' Field of the Dead,' " said 
 our young cavalier, half under his breath. 
 He had not wanted to come, but now that 
 he was here the scene and the hour took
 
 TO CAAVDOR CASTLE. 23 1 
 
 hold upon him as upon us. The poet 
 has set his sign manual upon all things here 
 in this Old World. It is quite probable that 
 this young fellow did not know he was quot- 
 ing ; but half the schoolboys in America 
 have "spoken" — 
 
 " Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day 
 When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle 
 
 array, 
 For the Field of the Dead rushes red on my 
 
 sight, 
 And the clans of Culloden are scattered in 
 
 flight." 
 
 We got out of the wagonette silently, and 
 walked reverently across the field, still 
 so\vn with ridges, perceptibly greener than 
 the rest, where the dead were buried in 
 trenches, to a rough gray stone near the 
 outer wall on the left. It was on the very 
 outskirts of the field, and on the other side 
 of the crumbling, moss-grown barricade a 
 few stunted trees and shrubs kept watch 
 and guard.
 
 232 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 The stone bore this inscription, rudely 
 
 ^^* = - Well 
 
 Of the Dead. Here the chief 
 Of the Clan MacGillivrays 
 Fell. 
 
 Farther down the field was another stone, 
 
 marked thus : — 
 
 Clans. 
 
 Macintosh. 
 MacLean. 
 Mac Lauc hl an . 
 MacGillivray. 
 Highlanders. 
 
 Others, still farther down, were inscribed, 
 severally, "Cameron," "Stewart of Ap- 
 pin," "Fraser." 
 
 The stones were all of the roughest 
 description. They looked as if they had 
 been hewn out with the head of a battle- 
 axe, and lettered as rudely. But they 
 were so in keeping with the place, and 
 with the strong, rough natures of the 
 fiercely loyal clansmen who fell at Cul- 
 loden, that they were more impressive than
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 233 
 
 the most imposing of monuments. On the 
 top of many of the stones kindly hands 
 had laid sprays of their own pink heather. 
 Two only had been overlooked, "Cameron " 
 and " Stewart of Appin." We placed our 
 offering of heather on these also, and then 
 crossed the road to the cairn on the opposite 
 side. 
 
 I cannot give the dimensions of this great 
 heap of stones, very slightly conical, if 
 indeed it is conical at all, and flat on top. 
 It is entirely devoid of ornament, this im- 
 mense sombre cairn, built of the common 
 rounded pebbles lying broadcast on the 
 moor. On one side is an inscription, 
 guarded by an iron grating ; for the vandal, 
 like death, has all times and places for his 
 own. It runs thus : — 
 
 " Battle of Culloden was fought on this 
 moor 16th April, 1746. The graves of the 
 gallant Highlanders who fought for Scot- 
 land and Prince Charlie are marked by 
 the names of their clans."
 
 234 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 
 
 "By the names of their clans." No 
 separate glory, no distinctive honour, not 
 even a record on a memorial stone, for the 
 warriors who fell at CuUoden. 
 
 The English are buried near the Cumber- 
 land stone. One mile farther on, a slab 
 inscribed " King's Stables " shows where 
 the English army was quartered after the 
 battle. 
 
 Right or wrong, good or bad, weak or 
 wicked, by some strong fascination the un- 
 fortunate Stuarts hold the hearts of man- 
 kind. Bonnie, sunny-haired Prince Charlie 
 is too picturesque a figure to be speedily 
 blotted from the page of history. Peace to 
 his ashes, and long may the purple bells of 
 the heather ring their soft chimes above the 
 dust of his unforgotten braves. 
 
 We lingered as long as we dared, and 
 then drove on to Inverness. Just as we 
 entered the town a burst of sunshine 
 greeted us. The beautiful river Ness 
 shone, and danced, and sparkled; reju-
 
 TO CAWDOR CASTLE. 235 
 
 venated birds, thinking spring had come 
 again, poured floods of music from hedge 
 and thicket ; and by the time we reached 
 the hotel not a cloud was to be seen. 
 
 Smiling, deft-handed Scotch lassies took 
 our wet wraps to the kitchen to be dried. 
 In a trice a fire blazed brightly on our 
 hearth ; dinner was served, the dear home 
 letters were brought us, and two happy 
 women settled themselves for an evening of 
 quiet content. 
 
 "Saint Katharine," said I, "this has 
 been a day to remember."
 
 IX. 
 AN ENCmVNTED DAY. 
 
 " TTOT water, mem, and the 'bus leaves at 
 
 ■^ seven," said a soft voice at the door. 
 
 ''Are you awake, Saint Katharine?" I 
 called. "Do you hear? Must we leave 
 Inverness to-day?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, sleepily , to all three 
 questions. "We must. But do you suppose 
 that when we get to heaven we can stay as 
 long as we want to ? We have not been to 
 the castle yet." 
 
 ' ' Don't bother your blessed head about 
 that," I said consolingly. " The castle is 
 frightfully modern, and it is only a prison, 
 at the best. Nothing is worth looking 
 at over here that is not older than the 
 seventeenth century. Is your portmanteau 
 packed?" 
 
 The omnibus was soon announced; but 
 236
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 237 
 
 early as it was, — and seven o'clock is very- 
 early in Scotland, — we found our genial 
 host waiting to escort us to the steamer by 
 which we were to go down the Caledonia 
 Canal. Presently we were whirling away 
 through the sunlit, silent streets and over 
 the sparkling river, on our way to the 
 dock of the pretty little Glengarry. As we 
 crossed the bridge, we looked up for the 
 last time, not so much to the castle as to 
 its site on the storied hill. For there Mac- 
 beth and his proud queen had dwelt, and 
 there, in some dark chamber of the old 
 eleventh-century castle, that once stood 
 there, there can be little doubt that gentle 
 King Duncan was foully slain. Malcolm 
 Caen-More, he of the "Big Head," razed 
 it to the ground in his filial vengeance, 
 and builded in its stead another and a finer 
 one, where he and fair Margaret Atheling 
 held court for many a day. This, in its 
 turn, was blown up by the troops of Bonnie 
 Prince Charlie in 174G, and number three,
 
 238 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 
 
 the present castle, is a court-house and a 
 jail. 
 
 It was a glorious morning, clear and cool, 
 with the bluest of skies, and sunshine that 
 transfigured whatever it touched. There 
 was a merry stir and bustle on board the 
 small craft, but even before we were fairly 
 off order had succeeded chaos, and the 
 passengers, singly, in pairs, or in groups, but 
 all, like John Gilpin, "on pleasure bent," 
 had chosen their seats and established them- 
 selves for the day. The comfortable, large- 
 windowed cabins accommodated many ; but 
 most of us preferred the upper deck, from 
 which we could watch the long, changeful 
 panorama as it unrolled before us. For the 
 Caledonia Canal, despite its prosaic name, 
 is but a connecting link between a series of 
 surpassingly lovely lochs, running through 
 the Highlands, in almost a direct line, from 
 Inverness to Oban. 
 
 For miles after leaving its dock, the lit- 
 tle steamer wound its way between green
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 239 
 
 banks, the canal following so closely every 
 bend and curve of the river Ness, which 
 was here scarcely wider than itself, as to 
 seem its veritable shadow or double. The 
 effect was very singular. They were so 
 near each other, and there was so little 
 that was artificial in the appearance of 
 the latter, with its environment of reeds 
 and rushes and the varied outline of its 
 banks, that it was hard to say which was 
 river and which was canal. Just below 
 Inverness we passed the new cemetery, on 
 a hillside sloping to the shore. Trees and 
 flowers, green turf and golden sunshine, 
 made God's-acre beautiful that morning, 
 and we caught glimpses of granite columns 
 and of sculptured marbles. Over one small 
 grave a white-winged angel poised lightly, 
 bearing aloft a flaming torch. The sun- 
 light, streaming down upon it, kindled it 
 as with fire from heaven. 
 
 But not for life nor death did our pretty 
 GlengaiTy pause ; and on we swept through
 
 240 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 
 
 little Loch Dockfour into Loch Ness, the 
 longest link in the chain of lakes, and aver- 
 aging but one mile and a half in breadth. 
 Long and narrow as it is, it has depth 
 enough and to spare, and it never freezes. 
 Little cared the merry passengers w^hether 
 it did or no, as we stopped for a moment 
 at Urquhart, and saw jutting out into the 
 loch, on a bold peninsula, the ruins of 
 Urquhart Castle. A truncated tower, ivy- 
 mantled to its summit, and with many 
 loop-holes in and out of which the wander- 
 ing vines creep as they will, and some low 
 crumbling walls, are all that is left of its 
 ancient strength and splendour. A few 
 miles farther down, and we landed at Foy- 
 ers. There, it was said, omnibuses would 
 be in waiting, to convey such of the passen- 
 gers as did not care for so long a walk to 
 the falls of Foyers. The boat would wait 
 for us an hour. But the enterprising in- 
 habitants must have made up their minds 
 that the average tourist is a pedestrian.
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 24I 
 
 Just one nondescript vehicle waited at the 
 little pier; and it was filled and whirling 
 away down the road with the first comers 
 long before the rest of us had left the boat. 
 There was a rush for tickets, and then by- 
 twos, and threes, and half-dozens, a boat- 
 load of people hurried off in the direction 
 of the falls. 
 
 "Go on, Saint Katharine," I said, "and 
 see the show if you can. The attempt, 
 even, is beyond my powers," 
 
 I followed, very much at my leisure. To 
 see the falls was a matter of small account. 
 But just once in a lifetime to have a few 
 blessed moments all to one's self in those 
 sweet, wild Highland solitudes, — would not 
 that be worth the havmg? Fate granted 
 me a full half-hour. The crowd passed 
 by me; the footfalls, the gay voices, the 
 peals of laughter, died away. At my left, 
 a narrow path wound up the heights and 
 through the woods to the falls. Before 
 me, the level road stretched on and on. 
 
 R
 
 242 AN EXCriANTED DAY. 
 
 Sheer cliffs, not bare and desolate, but 
 mantled by all manner of creeping growths, 
 towered on one side. On the other, behind 
 a screen of trees, brightened here and 
 there by the scarlet berries of the rowan, 
 or mountain ash, the beautiful lake shone 
 in the sun. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock. The air was 
 fresh, yet warm, and spicy with the breath 
 of the sweet-ferns. At a little distance, a 
 gate in a hedge-row led into a descending 
 lane, fern-bordered and thickly shaded. 
 It was very enticing, and I tried the latch. 
 Alas, it was fastened ! There is always a 
 flaming sword before the gate of Paradise 
 — or, if not a sword, its equivalent — to 
 keep us out. Yet why seek for anything 
 better than the best ? Paradise was all 
 around me. Now and then a bird, forget- 
 ting that springtime and love were over, 
 trilled softly. Butterflies, black and golden, 
 fluttered in the sun, and held special ren- 
 dezvous wherever the brown earth in the
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 243 
 
 roadway still kept the moisture of the 
 dews. Everything seemed strangely famil- 
 iar ; cranesbill and buttercups bloomed 
 by the wayside, and in the tangled thick- 
 ets brakes and ferns jostled each other 
 precisely as in rocky Green Mountain past- 
 ures. I looked at my watch, and knew 
 that just then the same sun that shone 
 on me in that sweet sylvan solitude was 
 rising over Killington and Pico, three thou- 
 sand miles away, — kindling the mountain- 
 tops with sudden glory, and filling all the 
 fair valleys with radiant light. Nature 
 was chanting the same Te Deum there 
 as here, — "All the earth doth worship 
 thee, the Father everlasting." 
 
 But my half-hour was over. Tramp, 
 tramp, came the returning feet ; laugh 
 answered to laugh, and an occasional shout 
 awakened the echoes. Saint Katharine, 
 finding me under a tree, congratulated me 
 on my wisdom in lagging behind. The 
 falls were pretty enough, yet hardly worth
 
 244 AX ENCHANTED DAY. 
 
 the climb to those of us who knew the 
 grand New World, where Nature works on 
 so large a scale. Embarking again, we had 
 a good view of Mealfourvomie, an isolated 
 peak rising on the opposite side of the loch, 
 and then swept on our downward way to 
 Fort Augustus, where, by a series of seven 
 locks, we ascend to Aberchalder, at the 
 north end of Loch Oich. The passage of 
 these locks takes an hour or two. For 
 a while we sat upon the deck, watching the 
 slow procedure, as two dozen men tugged 
 and pulled and pushed, turning a sort of 
 turnstile round and round ; and we won- 
 dered how long it would have been, in 
 America, before some one of the two dozen 
 would have discovered a way to apply 
 horse or steam power to the work, which 
 was evidently tedious. 
 
 Pictures to right of us, pictures to left 
 of us. For our delight, no doubt, even 
 though all unconsciously, a young woman 
 in a brown gown, with a red kerchief
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 245 
 
 knotted about her throat, and no cover- 
 ing on her bright brown hair, had seated 
 herself on the very edge of the canal, 
 and was devoting her strong, supple fingers 
 and all her energies to the making of a 
 great gray fish-net. No royal dame, no 
 princess of the blood, could have glanced 
 at the canaille with a more superb scorn 
 than she at us. Her seat was her throne. 
 What cared she for idle tourists ? With 
 bagpipes under his arm, his green plaid 
 over his shoulder, and his Scotch cap set 
 jauntily, here comes Sandy, striding along 
 a^ if in seven-league boots. Two younger 
 laddies — for Sandy is but a lad himself — 
 trot by his side, small copies of the big 
 brother or cousin, bagpipes and all. Scar- 
 let coats gleam here and there, as her 
 Majesty's omnipresent soldiers mingle with 
 the crowd, exchanging greetings and bandy- 
 ing jokes. Old women, in mob-caps with 
 flapping borders, preside at little tables un- 
 sheltered from the sun, and dispense beer,
 
 246 AN ENCITANTED DAY. 
 
 ale, milk, and sundry other things to such 
 of the passengers as are tempted to test 
 their hospitality. But the old crones waste 
 no time while waiting. Each has her knit- 
 ting-work, and the long blue-gray stocking 
 grows apace as the shining needles flash 
 merrily. Children, quaintly dressed, and 
 looking as if they had stepped out of a Kate 
 Greenaway book, race up and down the 
 pier. All is bustle and animation. 
 
 Not far off, the monastery of St. Ben- 
 edict rose in the midst of extensive grounds. 
 We had seen the ghosts of monasteries and 
 abbeys without number, and most entranc- 
 ing we had found them. Now here was 
 our chance to see one that was alive, — a 
 bit of mediaeval existence dropped into the 
 last quarter of the nineteenth century. So 
 climbing the rather long ascent from the 
 dock to the pretty lodge at the entrance of 
 the grounds, we made the usual inquiries 
 of the portress. Yes, we could go in. The 
 fee was a shilling. But it was too late to
 
 AN EXCIIANTED DAY. 247 
 
 go over the monastery, A party from the 
 boat had gone up long before (conscientious 
 sight-seers that they were, while we lazily 
 dallied looking at pictures), and there was 
 not time to escort two parties, etc. Over- 
 whelmed with remorse for our shortcom- 
 ings, we looked at each other in dismay, 
 and were about to go back, when we heard 
 first an unobtrusive call, then a loud shout. 
 Some one at the entrance of the monastery, 
 at a long distance down a gravelled walk, 
 was waving both hands, beckoning franti- 
 cally, and shouting something that sounded 
 amazingly like a Yankee " Hurry up ! " 
 
 Hurry we did, to find that the whole 
 party of early birds had been kept waiting 
 all this while, for the possible addition of 
 two or three late comers. Our gesticu- 
 lating friend, who proved to be the janitor, 
 a talkative, red-haired Irishman, was soon 
 conducting us up stairs and down, from 
 chapel to cloister, from kitchen to refectory, 
 from recitation-room to dormitory. For
 
 248 AN ENXIIANTED DAY. 
 
 the monastery of St, Benedict, which was 
 once Fort Augustus, having exchanged the 
 clash of arms for the tumult of cricket and 
 tennis, is now a college, or large school for 
 boys. It was vacation, and not a soul was 
 to be seen, — not a single lad in cap and 
 gown, not so much as the shadow of a 
 black-robed friar in hall, chapter-house, or 
 cloister. 
 
 *' Where are all the brethren ? " asked 
 an inquisitive American, with a broad 
 sombrero and a long beard. " Where do 
 the monks hide themselves ? Can't you 
 show 'em up ? Come, now, I'll give you 
 an extra shilling," 
 
 The janitor looked at him with half- 
 closed eyes, from beneath a pair of heavy 
 eyebrows, for full half a minute, " You 
 won't see them," he said quietly. "The 
 brothers are not such fools as you may 
 think. They're not on exhibition, — the 
 friars." 
 
 It was interesting to see a monastery of
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 249 
 
 our own time. But it lacked the atmos- 
 phere, the glamour, the mystery, of the 
 past. It is a fine building, and doubtless a 
 good school. Yet very poor and common- 
 place did it seem in the strong, clear light 
 of to-day, and very prosaic and shadowless 
 are its brand-new, spick-and-span cloisters, 
 unhallowed by song or legend. 
 
 The warning-bell rang sharply, and as 
 we hurried back to the boat we saw one or 
 two tall figures, in black gowns and low, 
 broad-brimmed hats, stealing towards St. 
 Benedict, through the lanes and behind the 
 hedges. Neither the friars nor the mon- 
 astery were on exhibition now, and the 
 brothers were hastening home. 
 
 As we left Fort Augustus we saw the 
 prettiest picture of all. Do the folk about 
 there live out-of-doors, I wonder, French 
 fashion ? Soon after we were under way 
 again, on the very shores of the lake, we 
 passed a family group that looked as if 
 posing for a photograph. In the fore-
 
 250 AX ENCITANTED DAY. 
 
 ground, seated in a low chair, with her 
 knitting in her lap, was a lovely lady in 
 black, whose only head-covering was a 
 ■widow's cap, so fresh and immaculate that 
 one could but wonder how it was ever made 
 and put on. A younger woman leaned on 
 the back of her chair, and some pretty 
 children, bare-headed, played at her feet, 
 scarcely noticing the steamer as it passed so 
 near them that it would have been easy to 
 toss a ball into the midst of the group. At 
 the right of the fair lady stood a gentleman 
 in full Highland costume, with tartan kilt 
 that left the knees uncovered, a belted 
 jacket, and a bright plaid draped across the 
 breast, and fastened on one shoulder with 
 a cairngorm clasp, or brooch. His richly 
 ornamented sporran, or pouch, reached 
 below the kilt. By his side hung his dirk, 
 and the handle of the sheathed knife with 
 the unpronounceable name, stuck from the 
 top of the stocking, where it is worn. My 
 laird would have been handsome in any
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 25 I 
 
 costume. In this he was simply superb. 
 For an instant, it seemed like a tableau 
 gotten up for our especial benefit, and I, 
 for one, felt an absurd desire to applaud as 
 the pretty picture faded out of sight. 
 
 Soon after we entered Loch Oich it began 
 to rain so violently that we were driven 
 below, much to our chagrin. Yet the 
 passing shower proved to be but a blessing in 
 disguise, and by the time we had passed 
 through two or three more lochs and as 
 many locks to Banavie, the sun, "clear 
 shining after rain," made the constantly 
 changing panorama more beautiful than 
 before. There we left the steamer, and 
 found omnibuses in waiting to convey us a 
 mile or two across a sort of peninsula to 
 Corpach, where we again embarked. 
 
 The long summer afternoon was at its 
 height when we caught our first glimpse of 
 the mighty bulk of Ben Nevis towering 
 above Fort William. A little farther north- 
 ward stood the round towers of ruined
 
 252 AX ENCHANTED DAY. 
 
 Castle Inverlochy, once a royal fortress, 
 but dismantled even so long ago as when 
 the chiefs of Glengarry and Keppoch and 
 Lochiel sent the fiery cross far and wide 
 through all the mountains of Lochaber, 
 summoning their vassals to do battle with 
 Montrose against Argyle. Here Argyle had 
 encamiDed, in the narrow valley "where 
 the Lochy joins Loch Eil," and here Camp- 
 bells and Camerons, the Knight of Arden- 
 vohr an'd bold Ranald of the Mist, had 
 met hand to hand in deadly combat. 
 Every mountain pass, every narrow de- 
 file, every lonely glen, was peopled with 
 the spirits of the past. And hark ! What is 
 that ? The bagpipes are sounding. Surely 
 it can be nothing less than the 
 
 " Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 Pibroch of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 Summon Clan Conuil ! " 
 
 "Wild waves the eagle plume blended 
 with heather," sang he who will live as
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 253 
 
 long as the hills and lakes of his own bonnie 
 Scotland. We saw no eagle plumes that 
 day, but there was not a Scotch man or 
 woman on the boat who did not wear the 
 heather fastened in cap or bonnet. Some- 
 times it was worn alone, as an all-sufficient 
 ornament ; sometimes it was held in place 
 by a great cairngorm, as lustrous and full 
 of imprisoned sunshine as an Oriental 
 topaz, and sometimes by Lochaber axes, 
 dirks, or claymores, fashioned from pebbles 
 set in silver. As a fine contrast to these 
 northern splendours, we had on board an 
 Indian nobleman, Prince Hernam Singh, 
 and his dusky princess, in whose brown 
 ears gleamed long, barbaric pendants of 
 emerald and pearl. All day long, their 
 servant, a tall and stately figure in snowy 
 turban and Oriental costume, stood on one 
 of the stairways leading to the upper deck, 
 silent, impassive, statuesque. He was a 
 most imposing and impressive figure, with 
 his folded arms, his compressed lips, and
 
 254 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 
 
 his dark, inscrutable eyes, that took in 
 every unaccustomed feature of lake and 
 sky and mountain. His master and mis- 
 tress made few demands upon him ; but 
 more than once I saw the latter approach 
 him with a few low words in soft Hindo- 
 stanee, or perhaps some dainty from the 
 lunch-basket. When we stopped at Cor- 
 pach, the little street gamins, to say noth- 
 ing of their elders, crowded about him on 
 the dock ; touching his strange garments, 
 peering up into his face, and making them- 
 selves generally disagreeable. He did not 
 turn his head nor lift his hand, heeding 
 them no more than if they had been insects 
 buzzing about a marble statue. 
 
 Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Great 
 Britain, is grand and imposing, less from its 
 height, which is only 4406 feet, than from 
 its breadth, if one may use the word. Its 
 circumference at the base is, we were told, 
 nearly twenty-five miles. To the average 
 eye it seems higher than it is, at least when
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 255 
 
 seen from the water. It is a world of 
 precipices, and glens, and huge rents and 
 fissures, and vast shadowy masses that are 
 always taking on new outlines and new 
 proportions. Often it appears in the 
 similitude of some great, crouching monster 
 brooding in sombre majesty over the pyg- 
 mies at its feet. 
 
 At last, as day began to wane, we passed 
 through Loch Aber and the Corran Narrows 
 into Loch Linnhe. And here the mighty 
 spirit of the lakes and mountains took 
 possession of us all, and held that boat-load 
 of merry people silent and spellbound. It 
 was as if we were being borne onward, 
 swiftly and noiselessly, into the inmost 
 lioly of holies. Even the captain and the 
 very deck-hands stood like men entranced, 
 overwhelmed by the surpassing splendour. 
 Anything so grand, so weird, so magical, 
 can hardly be imagined, much less de- 
 scribed. The rain of two hours before had 
 left the air heavy with vapour, through
 
 256 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 
 
 which the sun now shone gloriously, pro- 
 ducing the most marvellous effects. " You 
 might make this trip a hundred times, 
 ladies," said the captain, as he stood un- 
 covered, " and not get the half of what you 
 are getting to-day, — no, nor the tenth 
 of it." 
 
 I quote this, lest some of our dear, 
 wandering kinsfolk, who have been " down 
 the Caledonia Canal ' ' on some dull, gray 
 day, when the Scotch mists hemmed them 
 in on all sides, and they could scarcely see 
 beyond the decks, should cry out, "How 
 that woman exaggerates!" But we have 
 all seen transformation scenes on the stage, 
 where the effect of light and colour, of 
 rapidly dissolving views, and of seemingly 
 supernatural revelations filled us with word- 
 less awe. Now make the stage one vast 
 panorama of shining, sparkling water, as 
 still as a sheet of silver. Dot the surface 
 with islands, dark masses of verdure rising 
 out of the depths, and often picturesquely
 
 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 257 
 
 beautiful with ivy-grown mouldering towers, 
 broken arches, and here and there a stately- 
 monument. Let the nearer hills, sloping 
 upwards from the shores, be cultivated and 
 clothed with living green more than half- 
 way up ; make them gentle and homelike 
 by building stately mansions on the broad 
 terraces, and letting small gray cottages, 
 like birds'-nests, perch on the sightly cliffs ; 
 then, stretching far above these human 
 habitations, let the purple of the wald 
 heather, blending with the soft olives of 
 ferns and mosses, climb to their very tops. 
 Beyond them, tier on tier, not in regular 
 ranges, but jutting out edgewise, and cross- 
 wise, and «?Zwise, let the mightier hills 
 stretch upwards and onwards, appearing 
 and disappearing ; now looming up out of 
 the vapour in cold, blue splendour, then 
 suddenly vanishing like pallid ghosts ; 
 changing every moment ; presenting con- 
 stantly new vistas, new cloud marvels, and 
 new openings into far, radiant reaches,
 
 258 AN ENCHANTED DAY. 
 
 through which you seem to see heaven 
 itself. Throw over all this light veils of 
 mist, that soften rather than obscure, — 
 pale gray, dazzling silver, soft rose, trans- 
 lucent amber, puri^le amethyst, — veils that 
 lloat, and lift, and waver, with every breath 
 and with every motion of the boat, and you 
 will have some faint idea of what our eyes 
 beheld that August evening as we crossed 
 Loch Linnhe and passed into Loch Leven, 
 pausing for a few moments at Ballachulish, 
 and then, turning into Linnhe again, swept 
 on our downward way towards Oban. But 
 you must do still more. You must imagine 
 all this magnificence of cloud and mountain 
 and island so perfectly mirrored in the 
 clear, still waters of the lake that even the 
 changing splendour of colour was dupli- 
 cated, and heaven was below as well as 
 above us. 
 
 It grew dark and chill at last. The over- 
 powering glory died, and earth was earth 
 once more. But the effect remained.
 
 AN EXCIIAXTKD DAY. 259 
 
 Young men and maidens, old men and chil- 
 dren, were content to sit in silence, or to 
 speak in subdued whispers, as we watched 
 for the first gleam of the semicircular 
 cordon of lights that guard the bay of 
 Oban. 
 
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 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
 
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