_Miltonian ramble—Forest-hill, etc._
Horton, in Buckinghamshire, is supposed to have supplied to Milton the
imagery of the _Allegro_ and _Penseroso_, chiefly because he there
composed those delightful poems, in which the very essence of what is
most poetical in the scenery and rural life of England is so admirably
condensed. But if it could be shown that, so early in the maiden life of
Mary Powell as when these poems appeared, she had become the cynosure of
Milton’s eyes, and had attracted him to Forest-Hill as a visitor, it
might, one would suppose, be very fairly maintained, that this place
alone answers, in all respects, to the demands of the poetry in
question. It may at least be said with justice, that when the poet
visited Forest-Hill with his bride, he realized more perfectly there
than anywhere else, the rural delights which he has so exquisitely
detailed; and which he has invested at one time with the sprightly
aspect in which Nature reveals herself to youth and health, and, at
another, with the more sentimental beauties which she wears before the
eye of refined and meditative maturity. However, it was not for me to
settle such nice questions. Forest-Hill lies not far from Milton, where
the poet’s grandfather lived, and from which comes his name; and
Shotover-Forest, of which the grandfather was ranger, is part of the
same vicinage. It is very probable that the Powells were early friends
of the poet, and that his youthful imagination was wont to haunt the
whole hill-country thereabout, in honour of the lady’s charms to whom he
afterwards gave his hand. Such at least was my creed, for the time, when
I enjoyed a delightful walk over the scenes in the company of
intelligent persons whose remarks often heightened not a little the
extraordinary pleasures of the day.
Among the Bishop’s guests, at breakfast, there was the usual planning of
occupations for the morning, and I heard with great satisfaction the
proposal of a walk to Forest-Hill, in which it was supposed I might be
glad to share. Our party was soon made up, consisting of the Archdeacon,
the Rev. Mr. J——, Sir C—— A——, a young Etonian closely related to
the Bishop’s family, and the Bishop’s youngest son. After some
preliminary reconnoiterings about the hamlet of Cuddesdon itself, (of
which the adjoining slopes and meadows furnish very pretty views,) off
we went, well shod and with sturdy staves in hand, and in all respects
well-appointed for an English ramble; which implies everything requisite
for thorough enjoyment of the diversion. We stretched our legs, as
Walton would say, over Shotover-Hill, encountering a variety of rustic
objects in the fields and farms; here a fold of sheep, and there a
hedge, and again a ditch, or a turnip-field, but everything in its turn
was of interest to me as presenting, in some form or other, a contrast
to similar objects in my own country, the advantage being generally in
favor of England, so far as the picturesque is concerned. I can indeed
think of many a walk in America, incomparably more interesting than this
in the character of its scenery; but what I mean is, that the same kind
of country with us, would have been almost devoid of interest. Thus,
instead of presenting field after field, cultivated like a garden,
beautifully hedged and exhibiting every mark of careful husbandry; or a
succession of green pastures, in which fine cattle, and the whitest and
fattest of sheep were disposed in a manner entirely suitable to the
painter; or instead of a succession of views of the most pleasing
variety; here a hamlet and spire, and there a neat cottage, and there a
lordly mansion among trees, and there a snug farmhouse: the same number
of miles with us, over a slightly undulating country, devoted to
pasturage and farming, would scarcely have offered a single scene on
which the eye could rest with satisfaction. At length, we reached
Shotover-Lodge, which has unfortunately been rebuilt within the last
hundred years, but the original of which supplies the ideal of those
famous lines in _L’Allegro_—
“Russet lawns and fallows gray
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighboring eyes.”
Next we descended into a daisied meadow, and looked for the plowman and
the milkmaid, as it was yet too early for the tanned haycock, or the
mower whetting his scythe. Here the Archdeacon recalled to my mind a
criticism of Warton’s, which I had quite forgotten, asking me if I
remembered the meaning of the lines—
“And every shepherd _tells his tale_,
Under the hawthorn in the dale,”
in which the idea is not that of narrative, or eclogue, but the more
English one of Thyrsis turning the sheep out of fold for the day, and
counting them, one by one; that is, _telling the tale_, like the tale of
brick exacted by the Egyptians, as we read in Genesis. Many such
comments from my companions gave great inspiration to the ramble, which
brought us at last up the sides of Forest-Hill itself, where we first
encountered some cottages of surprising neatness, inhabited by thrifty
tenants, who farmed a few acres of their own hiring. Here Sir C——,
like a true Protectionist, stopped to ask a few questions of Hodge and
his family about the prospects of “the British farmer,” and the
practical results of Cobdenism; and I fancied, from the interest taken
in the disclosures by my young friend from Eton, that the lads who now
play cricket on the banks of the Thames, under “the antique towers,” are
not unlikely, at some future day, to maintain the rights of the landed
gentry, with the same primary reference to agriculture which so largely
distinguishes Mr. Disraeli. And now we came to the little Church of
Forest-Hill, where, for aught I know, Milton was married to the daughter
of the good old cavalier, but where he could not have been surrounded by
a very great crowd of rejoicing friends upon the happy occasion, as the
sacred place will scarcely contain threescore persons at a time. It has
no tower, but only one of those pretty little gable-cots for the bell,
so familiar of late in our own improving architecture of country
Churches. The altar-window is near the road, and the bell-gable is at
the other extremity, surmounting the slope of the land, on a pretty
terrace of which, embosomed among the trees and shrubs, is situated the
parsonage. The little Church itself is of the early English period, but
has repairs in almost every variety of pointed style, and some in no
style at all. It has had very little aid from the builder, however, for
nearly a century. In the early Caroline period, or a little before the
date of Milton’s marriage, it was probably new-roofed and put into good
order, possibly as the result of injunctions from the King and Council,
with some of whom, “the filthy-lying of Churches” was not reckoned a
proof of growing godliness in the nation. Accordingly I noticed on one
of the tie-beams of the roof, the inscription, C. 1630 R., and again on
the door, C. R. 1635. In the churchyard is a remarkably fine holly tree,
and, what is still more interesting, the grave of Mickle, the translator
of the Lusiad. Here he lies, ignorant alike that his Lusiad is almost
forgotten, and that his little ballad of Cumnor-Hall has reproduced
itself in the world-famous story of Kenilworth. We ventured to call at
the parsonage, where we were very courteously shown the parish-register,
a little old parchment book, in which I observed the entry of Mary
Powell’s christening, and also the record of burial of persons brought
in after such and such a fight, in the Civil Wars. In a nice little
cottage hard by, we found an old dame teaching half-a-dozen children;
and if any one marvels at my mentioning so insignificant a fact, let me
say that it was one of the most pleasing of my day’s adventures to visit
this school, which seemed to be the original of many a queer cut,
familiar from the painted story-books of the nursery. The cottage seemed
to contain but one room, the dame’s bed being turned up against the
wall, and neatly concealed by a check curtain. The windows were
casements, with diamond panes—and the walls were so thick, that the
window-sill afforded space for several boxes of plants, set there for
the sunlight. The floor was so neat, that it might have served for a
table without offence to the appetite; sundry shelves shone with
polished pewter and tin; the whitewash, without and within, was fresh
and sweet; and sundry vines were trained about the door. The little
scholars, evidently the children of laboring people, were tidy in their
appearance too, and they sat, each upon his stool, with A-B-C-Book held
demurely before the nose, and eyes asquint at the visitors. Every thing
convinced me that the old dame was a strict disciplinarian, whose “moral
suasion” consisted in the rod of Solomon, fairly displayed before the
eyes of the urchins, and no doubt faithfully used. And yet nothing could
exceed the good-nature and propriety of her appearance, except the
humility with which she seemed to regard the literary pretensions of her
academy. Good-bye, dame! Reverend is thy little starched cap, and
dignified thy seat in the corner of the chimney. True, they teach
greater things hard by, at Oxford; but thou art an humble co-worker with
its ablest Dons and Doctors: and happy are the children, who have only
to peep out of their school-house door to see the top-rounds of the
ladder, about the foot of which they climb; even the towers of Christ
Church, and of Magdalen, and the dome of the Radcliffe Library.
“Yes,” said one of my companions—“when the Great Tom of Oxford rings
its _hundred-and-one_ of a summer evening, then, standing on this hill,
you will get the meaning of Milton’s lines:—
“’Oft, on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-watered shore,
_Swinging slow, with sullen roar_.’”
To which I ventured to object, that although the heavy sound of a bell
like the Great Tom would alone justify the description in the last of
these lines, I saw nothing in the view before me, to account for the
allusion to a “wide-watered shore.” This, however, was met by the
assurance that the little rivulet, which might be seen in the mead, was
not unfrequently lost in a spreading inundation, and that at such times
nothing could be more descriptive than the very words of the poem! This,
I was bound to admit as satisfactory. And now I made a discovery of my
own. Hard by the dame’s cottage I found a spring, overarched with
substantial masonry, and adorned with ivy. I suggested that John Milton
had certainly tasted of that water, for that the well was antique, and
evidently designed for the use of a gentleman’s household; to which Sir
C——, who is a judge of such matters, at one assented, pronouncing it
of the period of Mary Powell’s youth, and paying my discovery the
practical compliment of producing his sketch-book, and drawing it on the
spot. A similar drawing he made of the Powell house itself, to which we
now proceeded. It presents the remains of a much larger house, but even
in its reduced dimensions, is quite sufficient for a comfortable farmer.
Still the rose, the sweet-briar and eglantine are redolent beneath its
casements; the cock, at the barn-door, may be seen from any of its
windows; and doubtless the barn itself is the very one in which the
shadowy flail of Robin Goodfellow threshed all night, to earn his bowl
of cream. In the house itself we were received by the farmer’s daughter,
who looked like “the neat-handed Phillis” herself; although her
accomplishments were, by no means, those of a rustic maiden, for she
evidently had entered fully into the spirit of the place, and imbued
herself with that of the poetry in no mean degree. We were indebted to
her for the most courteous reception, and were conducted by her into
several apartments of the house, concerning all of which she was able to
converse very intelligently. In the kitchen, with its vast hearth and
over-hanging chimney, we discovered tokens of the good-living for which
the old manor-house was no doubt famous in its day: and in its floor,
was a large stone said to have been removed from a room, now destroyed,
which was formerly the poet’s study. The garden, in its massive wall,
and ornamented gateway, and an old sundial, retains some trace of its
manorial dignities in former times—when the maiden Mary sat in her
bower, thinking of her inspired lover; or when, perchance, the runaway
wife sighed and wept here over a letter brought by the post, commanding
Mistress Milton to return to her duty in a dark corner of London, on
pain of her husband’s displeasure, and of being made the heroine of a
book on divorce! Our fair conductress next called our attention to an
outhouse, now degraded to the office of domestic brewing, but which she
supposed to be the “still, _removed_ place” of _Penseroso_; and in proof
of the nobler office to which it had been originally designed, she
pointed out the remains of old _pargetting_, or ornamental plaster-work,
in its gables. The grace with which she used this term of art, would
have rejoiced the soul of an ecclesiological enthusiast. Moreover, she
brought forth a copy of Sir William Jones’ Letters, and pointed out to
us his description of the place, proving that our researches on
Forest-Hill can make no pretensions to originality, though certainly he
could not boast of the advantages we derived from the illustrative
powers of our hostess. It was her idea that the house had originally
been a convent; and this notion, she said, receives force from the
lines:—
“Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,” etc—
imagery, which, in her opinion, could only be suggested by the
associations of the spot. Many a worse theory in literature has been
built upon foundations quite as slender; and so without committing
ourselves to this interpretation, but with many thanks for the hint, and
for all her civility, we respectfully bade adieu to the house, and its
respectable occupants, with all necessary apologies for our intrusion.
Next morning, when I met Sir C—— at breakfast, he startled me by
throwing upon the table two accurate and beautiful drawings of the well
and mansion at Forest-Hill. He had produced them from the little
sketches which I had seen him take upon the spot; and as they must have
been made either very late at night, or very early in the morning, they
were pleasing proofs of his kind disposition to gratify and oblige me,
by the gift of a memorial of our Miltonian day, that must long afford me
the additional pleasure of renewing its associations with him. In a few
hours I bade farewell to Cuddesdon; but it so turned out that some of
the acquaintances there formed, were subsequently renewed in other
places, and in travel on the Continent. Nor can I forbear to mention
with gratitude, that the kind attentions of the Bishop to his guest, so
far from ceasing when I had taken leave, were continued through the
whole period of my sojourn in England, and frequently opened to me
unexpected sources of benefit and enjoyment.
But I must not conclude without observing, with reference to
Forest-Hill, that Sir William Jones declares its groves to have been
long famous for nightingales; while, at the same time, by distinctly
recognizing the “distant mountains that seem to support the clouds,” as
part of the view to be gained from the summit of the hill, he has done
much to identify the spot as indeed the true scene of the poems. It is
allowed that nothing like mountains are to be seen from Horton; but Sir
William fully justifies the allusion, as suited to Forest-Hill, while at
the same time he removes all ground for the hackneyed complaint, that
this reference to mountains is a blemish to the poem, as being wholly
unwarranted by the character of English scenery.