"In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun."
An "unbodied joy!" That's a hit, surely!
Here is Browning on the thrush, which I think should be to the lark:
"He sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture."
The third is just thrown in by the prodigal hand of genius in a poem not
to a lark but to a daisy:
"Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' speckl'd breast,
When upward springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east."
How fine is Wordsworth's well known tribute:
"Type of the wise, who soar but never roam,
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!"
And now I remember Shakespeare has his say too about the lark--what is
it in England he has not his say about? or in all the world for that
matter; and how much and how many things has he rendered it the highest
wisdom for men to keep silent about after he has said his say, holding
their peace forever.
[Sidenote: _Reading Abbey._]
A row upon the silver Thames after luncheon, and we are off again for
Reading, where we are to rest over night at the Queen's. Reading has a
pretty, new park and interesting ruins within its boundaries which we
visited before dinner. There are but few traces left of the once famous
Abbey, founded early in the twelfth century by Henry I. In the height of
its prosperity more than two hundred monks fattened at its hospitable
board, and its mitred abbot sat as a peer in Parliament. It was noted,
too, as a centre of learning, but the jolly brethren must have sadly
degenerated in this respect, if we can believe the report of the royal
commissioners in temp. Henry VIII., for Hugh Cook, the last abbot, who
was hanged and quartered near his own door in 1539, is described as a
"stubborn monk, absolutely without learning." But, of course, all who
believe that the much-married Henry was a monster of iniquity will put
no faith in the reports of his minions, and will continue to believe
that Abbot Hugh was a holy man of God, whose shortcomings in the small
matters of orthography and syntax were more than made up by his
proficiency in vigils, fastings, and prayers. That he was the "right
man in the right place" is proven by the inventory of the relics found
in his keeping by the aforesaid minions at the time of the suppression
of the monastery. Among these sacred objects were "twoo peces of the
holye crosse," "Saynt James hande," "a bone of Marye Magdelene," "a pece
of Saynt Pancrat' arme," and "a bone of Saynt Edwarde the martyr is
arme." Can it be possible that this saintly man, who so zealously
guarded such treasures to the last moment of his life, should still be
allowed to suffer under the imputation of stubbornness and ignorance! He
mightn't just have been "one of those literary fellers," but it is very
clear he had a firm grasp of the "fundamentals" of the faith. What is
learning compared to a "bone of Saynt Edwarde" as a means of keeping the
sheep in the true fold! The old abbot knew his business better than
Henry's commissioners. The tooth of Buddha, which I went to see when in
Ceylon, draws crowds from all parts of the island, and excites more
piety than the tom-tom, or the incantations of the most learned priest.
Truly there's nothing like a relic as a means of grace.
A pretty lawn in the rear of our hotel gave us an opportunity for a game
of lawn tennis in the twilight after dinner, and in the morning we were
off for Oxford. The editorial in the Reading paper that morning upon
emigration struck me as going to the root of the matter. Here is the
concluding paragraph:
"Already the expanding and prospering industries of the New World are
throwing an ominous shadow across the Old World and are affecting some
of its habits and practices. But over and above and beyond all these,
the free thought, the liberty of action, the calm independence and the
sense of the dignity of man as man, and the perfect equality of all
before the law and in the eye of the constitution now existing in
America, are developing a race of men who, through correspondence with
home relations, the intercourse of free travel, the transaction of
business, and the free, outspoken language of the press, are gradually
disintegrating the yet strong conservative forces of European society,
and thus preparing the downfall of the monarchical, aristocratic,
military, and ecclesiastic systems which shackle and strangle the people
of the Old World. These thoughts seem to me to convey the meaning of the
great exodus now going on, and he is a wise statesman who reads the
lesson aright."
There's a man after my own heart. He grasps the subject.
[Sidenote: _Causes of Emigration._]
The editor tells one of the several causes of the exodus which is
embracing many of the most valuable citizens of the old lands where
class distinctions still linger. Man longs not only to be free but to be
equal, if he has much manhood in him; and that America is the home for
such men, numbers of the best are fast finding out. But England will
soon march forward; she is not going to rest behind very long. There
will soon be no superior political advantages here for the masses, nor
educational ones either. England is at work in earnest, and what she
does, she does well. I prophecy that young England will give young
America a hard race for supremacy.
Some of us walked ahead of the coach for several miles, and I had a chat
with a man whom we met. He was a rough carpenter and his wages were
sixteen shillings per week ($4). A laborer gets eleven shillings (not
$2.75), but some "good masters" pay thirteen to fourteen shillings
($3.25 to $3.50), and give their men four or five pounds of beef at
Christmas. Food is bacon and tea, which are cheap, but no beef. Men's
wages have not advanced much for many years (I should think not!), but
women's have. An ordinary woman for field work can get one shilling per
day (24 cents); a short time ago ninepence (18 cents) was the highest
amount paid. Is it not cheering to find poor women getting an advance?
But think what their condition still is, when one shilling per day is
considered good pay! I asked whether employers did not board the workers
in addition to paying these wages, but he assured me they did not. This
is southern England and these are agricultural laborers, but the wages
seem distressingly low even as compared with British wages in general.
The new system of education and the coming extension of the suffrage to
the counties will soon work a change among these poor people. They will
not rest content crowding each other down thus to a pittance when they
can read and write and vote. Thank fortune for this.
Our ladies were unusually gay in their decorations to-day, with bunches
of wild flowers on their breasts and hats crowned with poppies and
roses. They decked the Queen Dowager out until she looked as if ready to
play Ophelia. Their smiles too were as pretty as their flowers. What an
embodied joy bright, happy ladies are under all conditions, and how
absolutely essential for a coaching party! Was it not Johnson's idea of
happiness to drive in a gig with a pretty woman? He wasn't much of a
muff! If anything could have kept him in good humor, this would have
done it. If he could have been on top of a coach with a bevy of them,
not even he could have said a rude thing.
[Sidenote: _Oxford._]
Oxford was reached before the sun went down. Its towers were seen for
miles--Magdalen, Baliol, Christ Church, and other familiar names. We
crossed the pretty little Isis, marvelling at every step, and drove up
the High Street to the Clarendon.
The next day was to be Commencement, and only a few rooms were to be had
in the hotel, but we were distributed very comfortably among houses in
the neighborhood. Several hours before dinner were delightfully spent in
a grand round of the colleges. We peeped into the great quads, walked
the cloisters, and got into all kinds of queer old-fashioned places. But
the stroll along the Isis, and past Magdalen Tower, and up the long
walk--that was the grand finish! We pardon Wolsey his greed of getting,
he was so princely in giving. To the man who did so much for Oxford much
may be forgiven.
* * * * *
OXFORD, June 21.
This morning was devoted to visiting the principal colleges more in
detail, and also to the ascent of the tower of the Sheldonian Theatre,
which no one should ever miss doing. Below us lay the city of palaces,
for such it seems, palaces of the right kind too--not for idle kings or
princes to riot in, and corrupt society by their bad example, but for
those who "scorn delights and live laborious days."
Our Cambridge member, Mr. B., tells us it does not cost more than L200
($1,000) per annum for a student here. This seems very cheap. The tariff
which we saw in one of the halls gave us a laugh:
"Commons.
Mutton, long, 11_d._
do. short, 9_d._
do. half, 7_d._"
The long and the half we could understand, but how could they manage the
short? This must be a kind of medium portion for fellows whose appetites
are only so-so. You see how fine things are cut even in Oxford. Our
party thought if the students were coaching there would be little
occasion for them to know anything of either short or half. At least we
were all in for long commons at eleven pence.
[Sidenote: _Martyrs._]
We drove past the martyrs' memorial, Latimer and Ridley's. Cranmer does
not deserve to be named with them. A visit to such a monument always
does me good, for it enables me to say to those who doubt the real
advancement of mankind: Now look at this, and think for what these grand
men were burnt! Is it conceivable that good, sterling men shall ever
again be called upon in England to die for opinion's sake! That Cranmer
wrote and advocated the right and necessity of putting to death those
who differed from him, and therefore that he met the fate he considered
it right to mete to others, shows what all parties held in those dark
days. I claim that the world has made a distinct and permanent advance
in this department which in no revolving circle of human affairs is ever
to be lost. The persecution of the Rev. Mr. Green, of Professor
Robertson Smith, and of Bishop Colenso in the present day proves, no
doubt, that there is much yet to be done ere we can be very proud of our
progress; but these are the worst of to-day's persecutions, and could
occur only in England and Scotland. There is a long gap between them and
burning at the stake! Grand old Latimer was prophetic when he called out
from amid the faggots to his colleague: "Be of good comfort and play the
man; we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace as I trust
shall never be put out!"
I think it certain that the candle will never again be put out. The
bigots of to-day can annoy only in Britain. In other English-speaking
communities even that power has passed away, and persecution for
opinion's sake is unknown. "A man may say the thing he will"--there is a
further and a higher stage yet to be reached when a man will consider it
a man's part to have an opinion upon all matters and say what he thinks
boldly, concealing nothing.
We left Oxford with just a sprinkle of rain falling, but we had scarcely
got fairly out of the city when it ceased and left the charming
landscape lovelier than ever. Banbury Cross was our destination, and on
our route lay magnificent Blenheim, the estate given by the nation to
the Duke of Marlborough. See what the nations do for the most successful
murderers of their fellows! and how insignificant have ever been the
rewards of those who preserve, improve, or discover--for a Marlborough
or a Wellington a fortune, for a Howard or a Wilberforce a pittance. It
is only in heathen China that the statesman, the man of letters, heads
the list. No military officer, however successful as a destroyer, can
ever reach the highest rank there, for with them the victories of peace
are more renowned than those of war; that is reserved for the men who
know--the Gladstones and the Disraelis, the Darwins and the Spencers,
the Arnolds and the Ruskins. It is only in civilized countries that the
first honors are given to butchers.
[Sidenote: _Blenheim._]
Blenheim is superb, grand, and broad enough to satisfy princely tastes.
And that noble library! As we walked through it we felt subdued, as if
in the presence of the gods of ages past, for a worthy collection of
great books ever breathes forth the influence of kings dead yet present,
of
"Those dead but sceptred sovereigns
Whose spirits still rule us from their urns."
And to think that this library, in whose treasures we revelled,
reverently taking one old tome after another in our hands, has since
then been sold by auction! Degenerate wretch! but one descended from
Marlborough can scarcely be called degenerate. You may not even be
responsible for what seems like family dishonor; some previous heir may
have rendered the sale necessary; but the dispersion of such treasures
as these must surely open the eyes of good men in England to the folly
of maintaining hereditary rank and privilege. Perhaps, however, the
noble owner had no more use for his books than the lord whose library
Burns was privileged to see, which showed no evidences of usage. The
bard wrote in a volume of Shakespeare he took up:
"Through and through the inspired leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But oh! respect his lordship's taste
And spare his golden bindings."
With many notable exceptions, the aristocracy of Britain took its rise
from bad men who did the dirty work of miserable kings, and from women
who were even worse than their lords. It seems hastening to an end in a
manner strictly in accordance with its birth. Even Englishmen will soon
become satisfied that no man should be born to honors, but that these
should be reserved for those who merit them. But what kind of fruit
could be expected from the tree of privilege? Its roots lie in
injustice, and not the least of its evils are those inflicted upon such
as are born under its shadow. The young peer who succeeds in making
somebody of himself does so in spite of a vicious system, and is
entitled to infinite praise; but though our race is slow to learn, the
people hear a wee bird singing these stirring days, and they begin to
like the song. The days of rank are numbered.
* * * * *
BANBURY, June 22.
[Sidenote: _Banbury Cross._]
Banbury Cross was reached about five o'clock, and few of us were so far
away in years or feeling from the days of childhood as not to remember
the nursery rhyme which was repeated as we came in sight of the famous
Cross. We expected to see a time-worn relic of days long past, and I
verily believe that some of us hoped for a glimpse of the old lady on
the white horse, with "rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes."
Imagine our disappointment, then, when we saw an elaborate Gothic
structure, looking as new and modern as if it had received its finishing
touches but yesterday. And so indeed it had, for it was recently
erected by public subscription. The charm was gone.
I like new political institutions for my native land, but prefer the old
historical structures; and as we drove past this spick-and-span
imitation of antiquity I felt like criticising the good people of
Banbury for the sacrilege I supposed they had committed in thus
supplanting the ancient landmark which had made their town known the
wide world over. I could not help entertaining a hope, too, that the
original "goodly Crosse with many degrees about it," had been put away
in some museum or other safe place where it could receive the homage of
all devoted lovers of Mother Goose. Alas! inquiry developed the fact
that the Puritanic besom of destruction, which demolished so many images
and other ornaments in the churches in good Queen Bess's time, swept
away Banbury Cross as early as 1602, and that not a piece of it remains
to tell of its ancient glory.
Banbury was early noted as a stronghold of Puritanism, and was famous,
as Fuller says, for "zeale, cheese and cakes." The zeal and the cheese
are not now as strong as they were, but Banbury cakes are still in as
high repute as ever, and are largely made and exported. They are
probably the same now as in the days of Ben Jonson, who tells of them in
"Bartholomew Fair,"--a kind of miniature mince pie, generally
lozenge-shaped, consisting of a rich paste with a filling of Zante
currants and other fruits.
Banbury has the celebrated works of my friend, Mr. Samuelson, M.P.; and
before dinner I walked out to see them, and if possible to learn
something of Mr. Samuelson's whereabouts. Upon returning to the hotel I
found that he was at that moment occupying the sitting-room adjoining
ours. We had an evening's talk and compared notes as brother
manufacturers. If England and America are drawing more closely together
politically, it is also true that the manufacturers of the two countries
have nearly the same problems to settle. Mr. Samuelson was deep in
railway discriminations and laboring with a parliamentary commission to
effect changes, or rather, as he would put it, to obtain justice.
I gave an account of our plans, our failures, and our successes, of
which he took note. This much I am bound to say for my former colleagues
upon this side (for before I reformed I was a railway manager), that the
manufacturers of Britain have wrongs of which we know nothing here,
though ours are bad enough. I add the last sentence lest Messrs.
Vanderbilt, Roberts, Cassatt, and the Garretts (father and son), might
receive a wrong impression from the previous admission; for these are
the gentlemen upon whom our fortunes hang.
[Sidenote: _Political Economy Club._]
The evidence given before the Parliament Commission in Britain, proves
that the people there are subjected to far worse treatment at the hands
of railway companies than we are here. American grain is transported
from Liverpool to London, for one-half the rate charged upon English
grain from points near Liverpool--I give this as one instance out of
hundreds. The defence of the railway company is that unless they carry
the foreign article at half rates the ships will carry it to London
direct, or that it will go by sea from Liverpool. I attended a meeting
of the Political Economy Club, in London, where the question of
legislative interference with railway charges was ably discussed. The
prevalent opinion seemed to be that it was doubtful whether the evils
could be cured by legislation. Being called upon to state our experience
here, I gave them an account of the unwise policy pursued by the
Pennsylvania Railroad Company (now happily reversed) at Pittsburgh and
its consequences; for the great riot in Pittsburgh had for its real
source the practice of the Railway Company of carrying the manufactures
of the East, from New York and Philadelphia, through the city of
Pittsburgh to the West for less than it would carry the same articles
for from Pittsburgh, although the distance was twice as great. Many such
anomalies as this still exist in England.
The members seemed interested in hearing that the result was that the
railway company finally agreed that in no case should the rates to and
from the shorter exceed those charged for the greater distance, and
Pittsburgh manufactures are now taken East and West at ten per cent.
less than the through rates between Chicago and the seaboard, no matter
how these may be forced by competition. While this rule does not ensure
exact justice nor cover all cases, it is nevertheless a great step in
advance and removes most of the more serious causes for just complaint.
The club spoken of is a notable one. It consists of twenty-five members,
only vacancies caused by death being filled by election. Admission is
considered a great honor. It is said that every question within the
range of practical politics upon which the club has declared its
opinion, has been legislated upon within a short time in accordance with
its decision. Every member is well known and must have a national
reputation. Among those present were Sir John Lubbock, who learnt early
in youth a rare secret, the way to learn--"_consider the ways of the
ant, and be wise_"--and Mr. Fawcett, the blind Postmaster-General, a man
whose career proves, as clearly perhaps as ever was proved, the truth
that there is no difficulty to him who wills.
Mr. Leonard Courtney, one of the coming men, took a leading part in the
discussion on railways; Mr. Giffen, however, read the paper of the
evening, which of course was able, although on the wrong side, as I
think. He is the noted man of figures, whose recent article, read before
the Statistical Society, showing the hundreds of millions America is
soon to contain, produced so startling an effect here, as well as in
Europe. Mr. Shaw Le Fevre, Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe), and the
father of the Corn Law Repeal movement, Mr. Villiers, and several
others of note were present.
[Sidenote: _Satires and Epigrams._]
I was indebted to one of the members, my friend Prof. Thorold E. Rogers,
M.P., for the coveted opportunity to visit this club. By the way, I
wonder the Professor's book of Satires and Epigrams has not been
republished in America. It is wonderfully clever, and the Charioteers
have had many a laugh and many a pleasant half hour enjoying it.
Here is a specimen, which I may be pardoned quoting, as I found upon
inquiry that the hero Brown was no less than one of my own friends, a
Dunfermline man too, at that, Mr. Reid, M.P.:
"Sent to a distant land in early youth,
Brown made his way by honor, thrift, and truth;
Ten years he worked and saved, then, satisfied,
Back to his native land our merchant hied.
A man of worth as well as wealth, he sought
How he might wisely use the cash he'd brought:
He clearly saw his fortune could be graced
Only by prudence, candor, judgment, taste;
Assumed no airs, indulged in no pretence,
Guided his words, his acts, by common sense;
Maintained his self-respect, though glad to please,
Seemed not to aim, but won his aims with ease,
And proved that he had learnt the highest tact,
When no one feared and no one dared detract.
(I don't say hate, for some men are so nice
They cannot bear a man without a vice);
Well, such a hater, with a well-bred sneer,
(He took good care that all the room could hear):
Said, 'Dawdle asked me, Brown, if I could tell
What are your shield, your arms, your motto?' Well,
Brown winced, grew red, looked puzzled for a while,
Then answered gayly with a pleasant smile,
'My shield is _or_, sir, and the arms I bear,
Three mushrooms rampant.'--Motto, '_Here we are_.'"
There are many similar good things in the book, so I venture to point it
out to the enterprising publishers of America as something worthy
of--"conveying."
There is much discussion this morning as to the best route to take,
there is so much to tempt us on either of several ways. Shall we go by
Compton Verney (there is a pretty English name for you), Wellesbourn,
and Hastings? or shall we take our way through Broughton Castle,
Tadmarton, Scoalcliffe, Compton Wynyate, and Oxhill? In one way Wroxton
Abbey, one of the real genuine baronial abbeys, if one may say so, and
Edgehill. Surely no good Republican would miss that! But on the other
route we shall see the stronghold of Lord Saye and Sele, older yet than
Wroxton, and Compton Wynyate, older and finer than all--"a noble wreck
in ruinous perfection," and a third route still finer than either as far
as scenery is concerned. Such is this treasure house, this crowded grand
old England, whose every mile boasts such attractions to win our love.
"Look where we may, we cannot err
in this delicious region--change of place
Producing change of beauty--ever new."
Every day's journey only proves to us how little of all there is to see
we can see; how much we miss on the right and on the left. One might
coach upon this Island every summer during his whole life and yet die
leaving more of beauty and of interest to visit than all that he had
been able to see. When one does not know how to spend a summer's holiday
let him try this coaching life and thank heaven for a new world opened
to him.
[Sidenote: _Wroxton Abbey._]
We chose the first route, and whatever the others might have proved we
are satisfied, for it is unanimously decided that in Wroxton Abbey we
have seen our most interesting structure. Though it dates only from the
beginning of the seventeenth century, it is a grand building and a fine
example of the domestic architecture of the period. Its west front is a
hundred and eighteen feet long, and its porch is an elegant specimen of
the Italian decorated entrances of the time. Blenheim and Windsor are
larger, but had we our choice we would take Wroxton in preference to
either. With what interest did we wander through its quaint irregular
chambers and inspect its treasures! James I. slept in this bed, Charles
I. in that, and George IV. in another; this quilt is the work of Mary
Queen of Scots--there is her name; Queen Elizabeth occupied this chamber
during a visit, and King William this. Then the genuine old pictures,
although in this department Blenheim stands unrivalled. Marlborough knew
the adage that "to the victor belongs the spoils," and acted upon it
too, for he had rare opportunities abroad to gather treasures. But for a
realization of your most picturesque ideal of a great old English house,
betake yourselves to Wroxton Abbey. Its little chapel, rich in very old
oak carving, is in itself worth a journey to see.
A pretty story is told of the visit of James I. to the Abbey. The wife
of Sir William Pope, the owner, had lately presented him with a
daughter, and on the King's arrival the babe was brought to him bearing
in her little hand a scroll containing the following verses:
"See this little mistres here,
Did never sit in Peter's chaire,
Or a triple crowne did weare;
And yet she is a Pope.
"No benefice she ever sold,
Nor did dispence with sins for gold;
She hardly is a sev'nnight old,
And yet she is a Pope.
"No King her feet did ever kisse,
Or had from her worse look than this:
Nor did she ever hope
To saint one with a rope;
And yet she is a Pope.
A female Pope, you'll say, a second Joan;
No sure--she is Pope Innocent or none."
[Sidenote: _Edgehill._]
We lunched off deal tables and drank home-brewed ale in the tap-room of
the Holcroft Inn, a queer old place, but we had a jolly time amid every
kind of thing that carried us back to the England of past centuries.
Beyond Holcroft we came suddenly upon the grandest and most extensive
view by far that had yet rejoiced us. We were rolling along absorbed in
deep admiration of the fertile land that spread out before us on both
sides of the road, and extolling the never-ceasing peacefulness and
quiet charm of England, when, on passing through a cut, a wide and
varied panorama lay stretched at our feet. A dozen picturesque villages
and hamlets were in sight, and by the aid of our field-glass a dozen
more were brought within range. The spires of the churches, the poplars,
the hedgerows, the woods, the gently undulating land apparently giving
forth its luxuriant harvest with such ease and pleasure, all these made
up such a picture as we could not leave. We ordered the coach to go on
and wait at the foot of the hill until we had feasted ourselves with the
view. We lay upon the face of the hill and gazed on Arcadia smiling
below. Very soon some of the neighboring residents came, for one is
never long without human company in crowded England; and we found that
we were indeed upon sacred ground. This was Edgehill! As sturdy
republicans we lingered long upon the spot, gazing on the scene of that
bloody fight between king and people which, however, was almost without
immediate result--for it was a drawn battle--but which eventually led
to so much. Charles's army lay at Banbury, whence we had just come, that
of the Parliament at Kineton yonder, and spread out before us was the
plain where they met. The ground is now occupied by two farms called the
Battle Farms, distinguished as Battleton and Thistleton. Between the
farm-houses, on the latter place, are the places where the slain were
buried, appropriately called the Grave Fields. A copse of fir trees in
one place is said to mark the site of a pit into which five hundred were
thrown.
Some of the royalist writers have tried to prove that Cromwell was not
present at Edgehill, and one has even countenanced an idle tale that he
witnessed the battle from a steeple on one of the neighboring hills, and
that he incontinently took to his heels, or rather to his horses' legs,
when he thought the meeting had resulted disastrously to the forces of
the Parliament. But Carlyle characterizes this story as it deserves, for
Lord Nugent expressly mentions Cromwell's troop of dragoons as among
those that charged at the close of the battle. No, no, stern old Oliver
was not the man to stand aloof when he once had scent of a battle; and
we may be sure, although he was then but a captain of horse, that he did
good service at Edgehill.
There were good men on both sides that day, and not the least among them
was brave Sir Jacob Astley, who commanded Charles's foot. He was withal
a man of piety, for the Parliamentarians did not have a monopoly in
that line, however much their chroniclers may claim it; and I have
always regarded his prayer on that momentous Sunday morning as a model
which many clergymen might study with profit to themselves and to their
congregations. "O Lord!" said he, as he settled himself firmly in the
saddle, "Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do
not Thou forget me. March on, boys!" Is not that to the purpose?
Let such as are at their appointed work have no fear that they will ever
be forgotten--the performance of a duty ranks before the offering of a
prayer, any day--nay, is of itself the best prayer. There's plenty of
time for lip service when we have served the Lord by hard work in a good
cause. When people have nothing better to do let them pray, but don't
let them be too greedy and ask much for themselves.
[Sidenote: _Warwick Castle._]
Our route lay through Warwick and Leamington. The view of the castle
from the bridge is, I believe, the best of its kind in England. "From
turret to foundation stone" it is all perfect. The very entrance tells
of the good old days. As we pass beneath the archway, over the
drawbridge, and under the portcullis, it all comes back to us.
"Up drawbridge, grooms. What, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall!
To pass there was such scanty room
The bars descending razed his plume."
Warwick, the king-maker! This was his castle. His quarrel with the king
was one of our most taking recitations. The Scribe was considered heavy
in this:
"Know this, the man who injured Warwick
Never passed uninjured yet."
He found that out, did he not, my lord of the ragged staff!
The view from the great hall looking on the river below is fixed in my
mind. Don't miss it; and surely he who will climb to the top of Guy's
Tower will have cause for thankfulness for many a year thereafter. You
get a look at more of England there than is generally possible. I
sympathize with Ruskin in his rage at the attempt to raise funds by
subscription to mend the ravages of a recent fire in the castle. A
Warwick in the role of a Belisarius begging for an obolus! If the
king-maker could look upon this! But historical names are now often
trailed in the dust in England; and it must be some consolation to him,
wherever he may be, to know that the bearer of the title, if responsible
for this, is no scion of the old stock.
[Sidenote: _Guy of Warwick._]
The legend of Guy of Warwick, accepted as an historical fact by the
early writers, has been relegated to the garret of monkish superstition,
with the ribs of the dun cow and other once undoubted relics; but its
romance will always lend an interest to the old castle and attract the
traveller to the site of the hermitage on Guy's Cliff where the fabled
hero died and was buried. You must not suppose that Guy's Tower had any
connection with the original Guy, for the building dates only from the
close of the fourteenth century, while the latter boasts an antiquity of
nearly a thousand years. Indeed, we can place him to a dot, for the
antiquary Rous is very precise in his statement. He says: "On the
twelfth of June, 926, being the third year of the reign of Athelstan, a
most terrible single combat took place between the champions of the
kings of England and Denmark--Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Colebrand the
Pagan, an African giant; through the mercy of God the Christian
undertook the combat, being advised thereto by an angel; and the
faithful servant of God and the Church fortunately vanquished the enemy
of the whole realm of England."
Is it not dreadful to contemplate what might have been the consequences
if Colebrand the African had got the upper hand of that faithful servant
of God and the Church! But it was not to be. The Pagan had a lost fight
from the start, for, though the chronicle does not expressly say so, it
is very evident to the reflecting mind that Guy was backed throughout by
the angel--a mean advantage which, but for the immensity of the stake,
would have led any ordinary lover of fair play to side with the weaker
party. But not so with the wily monks of those days. In their easy
consciences the end justified the means, and so they glorified Guy as
the champion of all that was good, and so sedulously trumpeted his fame
that the Norman barons who succeeded to the ownership of the old Saxon
stronghold saw their interest in adopting the victor as an ancestor. In
time these Normans came to believe implicitly in the family tree with
Guy at the root, just as some silly people pin their faith to the
parchment evidences of the professional genealogists proving their
descent from some fabulous hero who followed William and his crew from
Normandy. They named their sons after Guy, called the tower his tower,
and hung up his arms and armor in the great hall, while their wives and
daughters worked his exploits in tapestry.
These proud descendants of a fabulous ancestor remind one of the general
in the "Pirates of Penzance" who is found weeping at the tomb in the
abbey belonging to the property he has purchased. When it is suggested
to him that his tears are misplaced, he replies: "Sir, when I bought
this property I bought this abbey and this tomb with its _contents_. I
do not know whose ancestors these _were_, but I do know whose ancestors
they _are_." And he falls to sobbing again, bound to have an ancestry of
some kind, the more important the more to belittle himself by
comparison. But the general is very English for all that. Tennyson's
lines,
"Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heavens above us bent
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent,"
are well known and repeated by the school children all over the land,
but the grown men and women, entirely free from the weakness of trying
to figure out a family tree of respectable antiquity, will be found
unexpectedly small in this old land. Josh Billings settled the matter as
far as Americans are concerned, for the malady is even more ridiculous
in the New World. "We can't boast old family here," says he, "the
country ain't _long_ enough, unless a feller has Injun in him." That is
what the lawyers call an estoppel, I take it.
[Sidenote: _Kenilworth Castle._]
Driving through Leamington we reached Kenilworth Castle for luncheon, to
which we had looked forward for several days. Alas! the keeper informed
us that no picnic parties are admitted since the grounds have been put
into such excellent order by the kind Earl Clarendon (for which thanks,
good earl). But he was a man of some discrimination, this custodian of
the ruins, and when he saw our four-in-hand and learned who we
were--Americans! Brighton to Inverness!--he made us an exception to the
rule, of which I trust his lordship will approve, if he ever hears. We
had one of our happiest luncheons beneath the walls under a large
hawthorn tree, which we decided was the very place where the enraged
Queen Bess discovered dear Amy Robsart on that memorable night.
A thousand memories cluster round this ruin; but what should we have
known of it had not the great magician touched with his wand this dead
mass of stone and lime and conferred immortality upon the actors and
their revels? In his pages we live over again the days of old, and take
part with the Virgin Queen and her train of lords and ladies in the
grand reception so lavishly prepared for her amusement by the then
reigning favorite; ruined walls and towers and courts assume their
ancient proportions and resound with music and revelry, and the noble
park, now so quiet, is alive once more with huntsmen and gayly clad
courtiers. But vivid as is Scott's picture, it is exceeded in quaint
interest by the original account of the festivities from which the great
romancer drew his facts, but which is as little known to the ordinary
reader of "Kenilworth" as is the prototype of Hamlet to the common
play-goer. Master Robert Laneham, the writer, was a sort of hanger-on of
the court, and appears to have accompanied Leicester to Kenilworth. His
account is in the form of a letter addressed to "my good friend, Master
Humfrey Martin, Mercer," in London, and is written, says Scott, "in a
style of the most intolerable affectation, both in point of composition
and orthography."
After a brief account of the preliminary journey of the queen, this
veracious chronicler informs us that she was "met in the Park, about a
flight shoot from the Brayz and first gate of the castl" by a person
representing "one of the ten Sibills, comely clad in a Pall of white
Sylk, who pronounced a proper Poezi in English Rime and meeter."...
"This her majestie benignly accepting, passed foorth untoo the next gate
of the Brayz, which, for the length, largenes, and use they call now
the Tylt-yard; whear a Porter, tall of Person, big of lim and stearn of
countinance, wrapt also all in Sylke, with a club and keiz of quantitee
according, had a rough speech full of Passions, in meeter aptly made to
the purpose."
[Sidenote: _A Giant's Portrait._]
Be it here recorded that the Charioteers had the pleasure while in
London of looking upon the portrait of this giant porter, which hangs in
the King's Guard Chamber at Hampton Court Palace. It is supposed to have
been painted by the Italian artist Ferdinando Zucchero, who, it will be
remembered, visited England. The fellow is truly called "big of lim,"
for the canvas is more than nine feet high and the figure, which is said
to be of life size, measures eight and a half feet. His hand is
seventeen inches long. He stands with his left hand on his hip and his
right on a long rapier; is dressed in large balloon breeches, with black
stockings, and a white quilted vest with a black waistcoat over it; and
wears a cap with a feather in it and a small ruff. The picture was
painted after the queen's visit to Kenilworth, for the date 1580 is
plainly to be seen in one of the upper corners.
When the great porter had concluded, "six Trumpetoours, every one an
eight foot hye in due proportion of Parson beside, all in long garments
of Sylk suitabl," who stood upon the wall over the gate, sounded a "tune
of welcum." These "armonious blasterz mainteined their music very
delectably," while the queen rode into the inner gate, "where the Ladye
of the Lake (famous in King Arthurz Book) with two Nymphes waiting uppon
her, arrayed all in Sylks, attended her highness' coming. From the midst
of the Pool, whear uppon a moovable Iland bright blazing with Torches,
she floating to land, met her majestie with a well-penned meeter,"
expressive of the "Anncientie of the castl" and the hereditary dignity
of its owners.
"This Pageant was cloz'd up with a delectabl harmony of Hautboiz,
Shalmz, Cornets, and such oother loord Muzik," that held on while her
majesty crossed a bridge over a dry valley in front of the castle gate,
the different posts of which were decorated with fruits, flowers, birds,
and other decorations emblematic of the gifts of Sylvanus, Pomona,
Ceres, Neptune, and other divinities. Having passed this, the main gate
of the castle was reached. Over it, on a "Tabl beautifully garnisht
aboove with her Highness' Arms" was inscribed a Latin poem descriptive
of the various tributes paid to her arrival by the gods and goddesses.
The verses were read to her by a poet "in a long ceruleoous garment,
with a side and wide sleevz Venecian wize drawen up to his elboz, his
dooblet sleevz under that Crimson, nothing but Sylk: a Bay garland on
his head, and a skro in his hand."... "So passing into the inner Coourt,
her majesty (that never rides but alone), thear sat down from her
palfrey, was conveied up to Chamber: When after did follo so great peal
of gunz, and such lightning by fyrwork a long space toagither, as
Jupiter woold sheaw himself too be no furthur behind with his welcoom
than the rest of his gods."
The chronicler then gives an account of the festivities, which lasted
seventeen days and comprised nearly every amusement known to the period.
On Sunday, after "divine servis and preaching," the afternoon was spent
in "excellent muzik of sundry swet Instruments and in dauncing of Lordes
and Ladiez, and other woorshipfull degreez, uttered with such lively
agilitee and commendable grace az whither it moought be more straunge
too the eye, or pleazunt too the minde, for my part indeed I coold not
discern."
[Sidenote: _Bearbaiting._]
One morning was devoted to a bearbaiting, in which thirteen bears and
bandogs took part, "with such fending and prooving, with plucking and
tugging, skratting and byting, by plain tooth and nayll a to side and
toother, such expens of blood and leather waz thear between them, as a
moonths licking I ween will not recoover."
Refined amusement, you say, for the Queen of England and her court only
three hundred years ago. But not so fast, my dear lady; think what three
hundred years hence will say of you and your amusements. Did you not
give us a lively description the other evening of your riding after the
hounds? Lady Gay Spanker herself, I thought, could not have done it
better, and I am sure she was not more fascinating than you. But long
before one hundred years shall pass, my friend, ladies in your station
will be equally amazed that you could so torture a poor hare or fox and
feel it to be not only not _unworthy of a lady_ but a source of
enjoyment to you. I say your grandchild will blush for her grandma as
she shows to her children the picture of your lovely face. What Queen
Elizabeth is now in your eyes, what Roman emperors in the bloody
Coliseum were in hers, you will be in the eyes of the third generation
after you. Think of this. Remember what Cowper says:
"I would not rank among my list of friends,
Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
That man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm."
Men will give up such sports after a time; but surely we may expect
women to find even in this day not only no pleasure but even positive
pain in such sports and leave them to coarser natures.
[Sidenote: _Sunday Amusements._]
Another day was marked by the exhibition of an Italian tumbler, who
displayed "such feats of agilitee, in goinges, turninges, tumblinges,
castings, hops, jumps, leaps, skips, springs, gambaud, soomersauts,
caprettiez, and flights; forward, backward, sydewize, a doownward,
upward, and with sundry windings, gyrings and circumflexions; allso
lightly and with such eaziness, as by me in feaw words it is not
expressibl by pen or speech I tell yoo plain." On the second Sunday,
after a "frutefull Sermon," a "solemn Brydeale of a proper Coopl was
appointed in the tylt-yard," attended by all the country folk in holiday
costume. This was followed by Morris dances, a Coventry play, and other
games. "By my troth, Master Martyn, 'twaz a lively pastime; I beleeve it
woold have mooved sum man to a right meerry mood, though had it be toold
him hiz wife lay a dying." And all this on the Holy Sawbath--for shame,
Queen Bess!
Nearly every hour had its appointed sport, one amusement following
another in endless variety, and the park was peopled with mimic gods and
goddesses who surprised the queen with complimentary dialogues and
addresses at every turn. Dancing and feasting were kept up all day long
and far into the night, for no note was taken of time. "The clok bell
sang not a note all the while her highness waz thear; the clok also
stood still withall; the handz of both the tablz stood firm and fast,
allwayz poynting at two a clok," the hour of banquet.
The day of our visit to Kenilworth was very warm, even for Americans,
and after luncheon we became a lazy, sleepy party. I have a distinct
recollection of an upward and then a downward movement which awoke me
suddenly. One after another of the party, caught asleep on a rug, was
treated to a tossing amid screams of laughter. We were all very drowsy,
but a fresh breeze arose as the sun declined, and remounting the coach
late in the afternoon we had a charming drive to Stratford-on-Avon.
* * * * *
STRATFORD-ON-AVON, June 23.
Our resting-place was the Red Horse Inn, of which Washington Irving has
written so delightfully. One can hardly say that he comes into
Shakespeare's country, for one is always there, so deeply and widely has
his influence reached. We live in his land always; but, as we approached
the quiet little village where he appeared on earth, we could not help
speculating upon the causes which produced the prodigy. One almost
expects nature herself to present a different aspect to enable us to
account in some measure for the apparition of a being so far beyond all
others; but it is not so--we see only the quiet beauty which
characterizes almost every part of England. His sweet sonnets seem the
natural outbirth of the land. Where met he the genius of tragedy, think
you? Surely not on the cultivated banks of the gentle Avon, where all is
so tame. But as Shakespeare resembled other burghers of Stratford so
much, not showing upon the surface that he was that
"largest son of time
Who wandering sang to a listening world,"
[Sidenote: _Shakespeare's Tomb._]
our search for external conditions as to his environment need not be
continued. Ordinary laws are inapplicable--he was a law unto himself.
How or why Shakespeare was Shakespeare will be settled when there shall
be few problems of the race left to settle. It is well that he lies on
the banks of the Avon, for that requires us to make a special visit to
his shrine to worship him. His mighty shade alone fills the mind. True
monotheists are we all who make the pilgrimage to Stratford. I have been
there often, but I am always awed into silence as I approach the church;
and when I stand beside the ashes of Shakespeare I cannot repress stern,
gloomy thoughts, and ask why so potent a force is now but a little dust.
The inexplicable waste of nature, a million born that one may live,
seems nothing compared to this--the brain of a god doing its work one
day and food for worms the next! No wonder, George Eliot, that this was
ever the weight that lay upon your heart and troubled you so!
A cheery voice behind me. "What is the matter? Are you ill? You look as
if you hadn't a friend in the world!" Thanks, gentle remembrancer. This
is no time for the Scribe to forget himself. We are not out for lessons
or for moralizing. Things are and shall be "altogether lovely." One must
often laugh if one would not cry.
Here is a funny conceit. A worthy draper in the town has recently put an
upright stone at the head of his wife's grave, with an inscription
setting forth the dates of her birth and death, and beneath it the
following verse:
"For the Lord has done great things for us, whereof we are
exceeding glad."
The wretch! One of the wives of our party declared that she could not
like a man who could think at such a crisis of such a verse, no matter
how he meant it. She was confident that he was one of those terribly
resigned kind of men who will find that the Lord has done great things
for him in the shape of a second helpmeet within two years.
This led to a search for other inscriptions. Here is one which struck
our fancy:
"Under these ashes lies one close confined,
Who was to all both affable and kind;
A neighbor good, extensive to ye poor,
Her soul we hope's at rest forevermore."
This was discussed and considered to go rather too far. Good
Swedenborgians still dispute about the body's rising again, and make a
great point of that, as showing their superior wisdom, as if it mattered
whether we rise with this body or another, any more than whether we wear
one suit of clothes or another; the great matter being that we rise at
all. But this good friend seems to bespeak rest forever for the soul.
One of us spoke of having lately seen a very remarkable collection of
passages from Scripture which seemed to permit the hope that all for
whom a kind father has nothing better in store than perpetual torture
will kindly be permitted to rest. One of the passages in question was:
"For the wicked shall _perish_ everlastingly." The question was remitted
to the theologians of our party, with instructions to give it prayerful
consideration and report.
[Sidenote: _Everlasting Punishment._]
If there be Scriptural warrant for the belief, I wish to embrace it at
once. Meanwhile I am not going to be sure that any poor miserable sinner
is to be disturbed when after "life's fitful fever he sleeps well" on
the tender, forgiving bosom of mother earth, unless he can be _finally_
fitted for as good or a better life than this. Therefore, good Emma and
Ella and the rest who are staunch dogmatists, be very careful how you
report, for it is a fearful thing to charge our Creator unjustly with
decreeing everlasting torture even to the worst offender into whom He
has breathed the breath of life. Refrain, if possible,
"Under this conjuration speak;
For we will hear, note, and believe in heart
That what you speak is in your conscience washed
As pure as sin with baptism."
I have not yet been favored with the report asked for, and therefore the
question rests.
The Charioteers got upon delicate ground occasionally, as was to be
expected, and although in all well regulated families two
subjects--politics and religion--are proscribed, we came near running
foul of the latter to-day. There were wide differences of opinion among
us, of course, from the true blue Presbyterian, strong for all the
tenets of Calvin, down to the milder Episcopalian who took more hopeful
views and asked:
"Shall there not be as good a 'Then' as 'Now'?
Haply much better! since one grain of rice
Shoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,
And all the starry champak's white and gold
Lurks in those little, naked, gray spring-buds."
I related an incident which happened in Rome. As I entered the general
drawing room one evening, an exciting discussion was going forward on
the very subject which we were then considering. A lady of rank was
giving expression to very advanced ideas which others were combatting.
An old gentleman at last said: "Ladies and gentlemen, all this reminds
me of a discussion we young men were having once in my good old father's
hall, when my father happened to enter. After listening to us a few
minutes he said: 'Young men, you may as well cease your arguing. I'll
tell you all about it. In this life
"Our ingress is naked and bare,
Our progress is trouble and care,
Our egress is--no one knows where.
If you do well here, you'll do well there,--
I could tell you no more if I preached for a year."'"
The effect was instantaneous. Unanimous adhesion was given to the old
gentleman's conclusion, and the party bid each other a cordial good
night and went reconciled to bed. I am happy to record that such was
also the effect upon the Charioteers.
[Sidenote: _Shakespeare Stories._]
It will be taken for granted that while the Charioteers were in this
hallowed region many stories were told about Shakespeare. Two of the
gentlemen of our party, at least, dated our love of letters to the
circumstance that we were messenger boys in the Pittsburgh telegraph
office; and when we carried telegrams to the managers of the theatre,
good kind Mr. Porter (followed by one equally kind to us, Mr. Foster)
permitted us after delivering them to pass up to the gallery among the
gods, where we heard now and then one of the immortal plays. Having
heard the melodious flow of words, which of themselves seem to have some
spiritual meaning apart from the letter--differing in this from all
other combinations of words--how could we rest till we got the plays and
learnt most of the notable passages by heart, crooning over them till
they became parts of our intellectual being? One story, I remember,
shows how completely the master pervades literature. It is authentic,
too, for the teller was one of the actors in it.
Visiting friends in a country town, he went with the family to church
Sunday morning. The clergyman called in the evening and seeing upon the
parlor table an open copy of Shakespeare, perhaps suspecting (which was
true) that our friend had been entertaining the ladies with selections
from it, Sunday evening as it was, he felt moved to say that it was the
worldling's bible, which for himself he thought but little of and never
recommended for general reading. It was the mainstay of the theatre.
That is very strange, said our friend, for we have all been saying that
the finest part of your sermon was a short quotation from Shakespeare,
and I have been reading the whole passage to the ladies. Here it is:
"The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesses him that gives, and him that takes."
Imagine the feelings of the narrow, ignorant man, who really thought he
had a call from God to teach mankind. But he could not help it. A man
can no more escape the influence of Shakespeare than he can that of
surroundings. Shakespeare is the environment of all English-speaking
men.
Davie's Shakespearean story was of a fellow in Venango County who,
having just "struck ile," bought from a pedler a copy of "As You Like
It." He was so pleased with Touchstone that he wrote to the pedler: "If
that fellow Shakespeare ever writes anything more, be sure to get me one
of the first copies--and d-- the expense!"
[Sidenote: _Sir Thomas Lucy._]
We had one of the loveliest mornings imaginable for leaving Stratford.
Many had assembled to see the start, and our horn sounded several
parting blasts as we crossed the bridge and rode out of the town. Our
destination was Coventry, twenty-two miles away, and the route lay
through Charlecote Park and Hampton Lucy. This was one of the most
perfect of all our days. The deer in hundreds gazed on us as we passed.
There were some noble stags in the herd, the finest we had seen in
England, and Charlecote House was the best specimen of an Elizabethan
mansion. It was built about 1558 by the very Sir Thomas Lucy whom
Shakespeare satirized as Justice Shallow. The original family name was
Charlecote or Cherlcote, but about the end of the twelfth century
William, son of Walter de Cherlcote, assumed the name of Lucy and took
for his arms three luces (pike fish); so Justice Shallow was warranted
in affirming that his was an "old coat." The poet's verses will stick to
him as long as the world lasts; but judging from other circumstances,
Sir Thomas was a very good sort of a man and no doubt a fair specimen of
the English Squire of the time. His effigy may still be seen on his tomb
in Charlecote Church, beside that of his wife--a not unintelligent face,
with moustache and peaked beard cut square at the end, surrounded by the
ruff then in fashion. There is no epitaph of himself, but the marble
bears a warm memorial of his wife, who died five years before him,
concluding thus:
"Set down by him that best did know
What hath been written to be true."