THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH
[Illustration: _The Avon and Bridge--Bath._]
August 21, 1888.--From Devizes the traveller naturally turns toward
Bath, which is only a few miles distant. A beautiful city, marred
somewhat by the feverish, disturbing spirit of the present day,
this old place [so old that in it the Saxon King Edgar was crowned,
A.D. 973] nevertheless retains many interesting characteristics of
its former glory. More than a century has passed since the wigged,
powdered, and jewelled days of Beau Nash. The Avon,--for there is
another Avon here, distinct from that of Warwickshire and also from
that of Yorkshire,--is spanned by bridges that Smollett never dreamt
of and Sheridan never saw. The town has crept upward, along both
the valley slopes, nearer and nearer to the hill-tops that used to
look down upon it. Along the margins of the river many gray, stone
structures are mouldering in neglect and decay; but a tramcar rattles
through the principal street; the boot-black and the newsvender are
active and vociferous; the causeways are crowded with a bustling
throng, and carts and carriages dash and scramble over the pavement,
while, where of old the horn used to sound a gay flourish and the
coach to come spinning in from London, now is heard the shriek and
clangour of the steam-engine dashing down the vale, with morning papers
and with passengers, three hours from the town. This, indeed, is not
"the season" and of late it has rained with zealous persistence, so
that Bath is not in her splendour. Much however can be seen, and the
essential fact that she is no longer the Gainsborough belle that she
used to be is distinctly evident. You must yield your mind to fancy if
you would conjure up, while walking in these modern streets, the gay
and quaint things described in _Humphrey Clinker_ or indicated in _The
Rivals_. The Bath chairs, sometimes pulled by donkeys, and sometimes
trundled by men, are among the most representative relics now to be
seen. Next to the theatre [where it was my privilege to enjoy and
admire Mr. John L. Toole's quaint and richly humorous performance of
_The Don_], stands a building, at the foot of Gascoigne place, before
which the traveller pauses with interest, because upon its front he
may read the legend, neatly engraved on a white marble slab, that "In
this house lived the celebrated Beau Nash, and here he died, February
1761." It is an odd structure, consisting of two stories and an attic,
the front being of the monotonous stucco that came in with the Regent.
Earlier no doubt the building was timbered. There are eleven windows in
the front, four of them being painted on the wall. The house is used
now by an auctioneer. In the historic Pump Room, dating back to 1797,
raised aloft in an alcove at the east end, still stands the effigy
of the Beau, even as it stood in the days when he set the fashions,
regulated the customs, and gave the laws, and was the King of Bath; but
the busts of Newton and Pope that formerly stood on either side of this
statue stand there no more, save in the fancy of those who recall the
epigram which was suggested by that singular group:
"This statue placed these busts between
Gives satire all its strength;
Wisdom and Wit are little seen,
But Folly at full length."
[Illustration: _Beau Nash._]
Folly, though, is a word that carries a different meaning to different
ears. Douglas Jerrold made a play on the subject of Beau Nash, an
ingenious, effective, brilliantly written play, in which he is depicted
as anything but foolish. Much always depends on the point of view.
[Illustration: _Bath Abbey._]
Quin [1693-1766] was buried in Bath Abbey, and Bath is the scene of
_The Rivals_. It would be pleasant to fancy the trim figure of the
elegant Sir Lucius O'Trigger strolling along the parade; or bluff and
choleric Sir Anthony Absolute gazing with imperious condescension
upon the galaxy of the Pump Room; Acres in his absurd finery; Lydia
with her sentimental novels; and Mrs. Malaprop, rigid with decorum, in
her Bath chair. The Abbey, begun in 1405 and completed in 1606, has a
noble west front and a magnificent door of carved oak, and certainly it
is a superb church; but the eyes that have rested upon such cathedrals
as those of Lincoln, Durham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, such a heavenly
jewel as Roslin, and such an astounding and overwhelming edifice as
York minster, can dwell calmly on Bath Abbey. A surprising feature
in it is its mural record of the dead that are entombed beneath or
around it. Sir Lucius might well declare that "There is snug lying in
the Abbey." Almost every foot of the walls is covered with monumental
slabs, and like Captain Cuttle, after the wedding of Mr. Dombey and
Edith Granger, I "pervaded the body of the church" and read the
epitaphs,--solicitous to discover that of the renowned actor James
Quin. His tablet was formerly to be found in the chancel, but now it
is obscurely placed in a porch, on the north corner of the building,
on what may be termed the outer wall of the sanctuary. It presents the
face of the famous comedian, carved in white marble and set against
a black slab. Beneath is the date of his death, "Ob. MDCCLXVI. Ætat.
LXXIII.," and his epitaph, written by David Garrick. At the base
are dramatic emblems,--the mask and the dagger. As a portrait this
medallion of Quin gives convincing evidence of scrupulous fidelity to
nature, and certainly it is a fine work of art. The head is dressed
as it was in life, with the full wig of the period. The features are
delicately cut and are indicative of austere beauty of countenance,
impressive if not attractive. The mouth is especially handsome, the
upper lip being a perfect Cupid's bow. The face is serious, expressive,
and fraught with intellect and power. This was the last great declaimer
of the old school of acting, discomfited and almost obliterated by
Garrick; and here are the words that Garrick wrote upon his tomb:
"That tongue which set the table on a roar
And charmed the public ear is heard no more;
Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ;
Cold is that hand which, living, was stretched forth,
At friendship's call, to succour modest worth.
Here lies JAMES QUIN. Deign, reader, to be taught
Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In nature's happiest mould however cast,
To this complexion thou must come at last."
[Illustration: _High Street--Bath._]
A printed reminder of mortality is superfluous in Bath, for you
almost continually behold afflicted and deformed persons who have
come here to "take the waters." For rheumatic sufferers this place
is a paradise,--as, indeed, it is for all wealthy persons who love
luxury. Walter Savage Landor said that the only two cities of Europe
in which he could live were Bath and Florence; but that was long ago.
When you have walked in Milsom street and Lansdowne Crescent, sailed
upon the Avon, observed the Abbey, without and within,--for its dusky,
weather-stained walls are extremely picturesque,--attended the theatre,
climbed the hills for the view of the city and the Avon valley, and
taken the baths, you will have had a satisfying experience of Bath.
The greatest luxury in the place is a swimming-tank of mineral water,
about forty feet long, by twenty broad, and five feet deep,--a tepid
pool of most refreshing potency. And the chief curiosity is the ruin of
a Roman bath which was discovered and laid bare in 1885. This is built
in the form of a rectangular basin of stone, with steps around it,
and originally it was environed with stone chambers that were used as
dressing-rooms. The basin is nearly perfect. The work of restoration of
this ancient bath is in progress, but the relic will be preserved only
as an emblem of the past.
[Illustration: _A Fragment from an Old Roman Bath._]
Thomas Haynes Bayly, the song-writer, 1797-1839, was born in Bath,
and there he melodiously recorded that "She wore a wreath of roses,"
and there he dreamed of dwelling "in marble halls." But Bath is not
nearly as rich in literary associations as its neighbour city of
Bristol. Chatterton, Southey, Hannah More, and Mary Robinson,--the
actress, the lovely and unfortunate "Perdita,"--were born in Bristol.
Richard Savage, the poet, died there [1743], and so did John Hippesley,
the comedian, manager, and farce-writer [1748]. St. Mary Redclyffe
church, built in 1292, is still standing there, of which Chatterton's
father was the sexton, and in the tower of which "the marvellous boy"
discovered, according to his ingenious plan of literary imposture, the
original Canynge and Rowley manuscripts. The ancient chests, which
once were filled with black-letter parchments, remain in a loft in
the church tower, but they are empty now. That famous preacher, the
Rev. Robert Hall [1764-1831], had a church in Bristol. Southey and
Coleridge married sisters, of the name of Fricker, who resided there,
and a house called Myrtle Cottage, once occupied by Coleridge is still
extant, in the contiguous village of Clevedon,--one of the loveliest
places on the English coast. Jane Porter and Anna Maria Porter lived
in Bristol, and Maria died at Montpelier, near by. These references
indicate but a tithe of what may be seen, studied, and enjoyed in and
about Bristol,--the city to which Chatterton left his curse; the region
hallowed by the dust of Arthur Hallam,--inspiration of Tennyson's _In
Memoriam_, the loftiest poem that has been created in the English
language since the pen that wrote _Childe Harold_ fell from the magical
hand of Byron.
[Illustration: _Remains of The Old Roman Bath._]