It is commonly said that Shakespeare was arrested for poaching in this
very park, but the antiquaries have decided that it was the old park of
Fulbrook on the Warwick road, where Fulbrook Castle once stood. But it
makes little difference where the precise place was. That is of interest
only to the Dryasdusts. All we care to know is that Shakespeare wanted
a taste of venison which was denied him, and took it without leave or
license. The descendant of that squire, my gentle Shakespeare, would
give you the entire herd for another speech to "the poor sequestered
stag," which you could dash off--no, you never dashed off anything;
create? no; evolved? that's nearer it; _distilled_--there we have
it--distilled as the pearls of dew are distilled by nature's sweet
influences unknown to man. He would exchange Charlecote estate, man, for
another Hamlet or Macbeth, or Lear or Othello, and the world would buy
it from him for double the cost of all his broad acres, and esteem
itself indebted to him forever. The really precious things of this world
are its books.
To _do_ things is not one-half the battle. Carlyle is all wrong about
this. To be able to tell the world what you have done, that is the
greater accomplishment! Caesar is the greatest man of the sword because
he was in his day the greatest man of the pen. Had he known how to fight
only, tradition would have handed down his name for a few generations
with a tolerably correct account of his achievements; but now every
school-boy fights over again his battles and surmounts the difficulties
he surmounted, and so his fame goes on increasing forever.
What a man says too often outlives what he does, even when he does great
things. General Grant's fame is not to rest upon the fact that he was
successful in killing his fellow-citizens in a civil war, all traces of
which America wishes to obliterate, but upon the words he said now and
then. His "Push things!" will influence Americans when Vicksburg shall
be forgotten. "I propose to fight it out on this line" will be part of
the language when few will remember when it was spoken; and "Let us have
peace" is Grant's most lasting monument. Truly, both the pen and the
tongue are mightier than the sword!
[Sidenote: _Beautiful Trees._]
The drive from Warwick to Leamington is famous, but not comparable to
that between Leamington and Coventry. Nowhere else can be found such an
avenue of stately trees; for many miles a strip about two hundred feet
wide on both sides of the road is wooded. In passing through this
plantation many a time did we bless the good, kind, thoughtful soul who
generations ago laid posterity under so great an obligation. Dead and
gone, his name known to the local antiquary and appreciated by a few of
the district, but never heard of beyond it. "So shines a good deed in a
naughty world." Receive the warm thanks and God bless you of pilgrims
from a land now containing the majority of the English-speaking races,
which was not even born when you planted these stately trees. Americans
come to bless your memory; for what says Sujata:
"For holy books teach when a man shall plant
Trees for the travellers' shade, and dig a well
For the folks' comfort, and beget a son,
It shall be good for such after their death."
Who shall doubt that it is well with the dear, kind soul who planted the
thousand trees which delighted us this day, nodding their graceful
boughs in genial welcome to the strangers and forming a triumphal arch
in their honor.
* * * * *
COVENTRY, June 24.
[Sidenote: _George Eliot._]
Coventry in these days has a greater than Godiva. George Eliot stands
alone among women; no second near that throne. We visited the little
school-room where she learnt her first lessons; but more than that, the
Mayor, who kindly conducted us through the city, introduced us to a man
who had been her teacher. "I knew the strange little thing well," he
said. A proud privilege indeed! I would have given much to know George
Eliot, for many reasons. I heard with something akin to fellowship that
she longed to be at every symphony, oratorio, or concert of classical
music, and rarely was that strong, brooding face missed at such feasts.
Indeed, it was through attending one of these that she caught the cold
which terminated fatally. Music was a passion with her, as she found in
it calm and peace for the troubled soul tossed and tried by the sad, sad
things of life. I understand this. A friend told me that a lady friend
of hers, who was staying at the hotel in Florence where George Eliot
was, made her acquaintance casually without knowing her name. Something,
she knew not what, attracted her to her, and after a few days she began
sending flowers to the strange woman. Completely fascinated, she went
almost daily for hours to sit with her. This continued for many days,
the lady using the utmost freedom, and not without feeling that the
attention was pleasing to the queer, plain, and unpretending
Englishwoman. One day she discovered by chance who her companion really
was. Never before, as she said, had she felt such mortification. She
went timidly to George Eliot's room and took her hand in hers, but
shrank back unable to speak, while the tears rolled down her cheeks.
"What is wrong?" was asked, and then the explanation came. "I didn't
know who you were. I never suspected it was _you_!" Then came George
Eliot's turn to be embarrassed. "You did not know I was George Eliot,
but you were drawn to plain me all for my own self, a woman? I am so
happy!" She kissed the American lady tenderly, and the true friendship
thus formed knew no end, but ripened to the close.
The finest thing not in her works that I know this genius to have said
is this: Standing one day leaning upon the mantel she remarked: "I can
imagine the coming of a day when the effort to relieve human beings in
distress will be as involuntary upon the part of the beholder as to
clasp this mantel would be this moment on my part were I about to fall."
There's an ideal for you! Christ might have said that.
The state here imagined is akin to her friend Herbert Spencer's grand
paragraph.
"Conscientiousness has in many outgrown that stage in which the sense of
a compelling power is joined with rectitude of action. The truly honest
man, here and there to be found, is not only without thought of legal,
religious, or social compulsion, when he discharges an equitable claim
on him; but he is without thought of self-compulsion. He does the right
thing with a simple feeling of satisfaction in doing it, and is indeed
impatient if anything prevents him from having the satisfaction of doing
it." Who is going to cloud the horizon of the future of our race with
traitor-doubts when already, in our own day, amid much which saddens us,
the beams of a brighter sun, herald of a better day, already touch the
mountain tops, for such are this woman and this man towering above their
fellows. By and by these beams will reach the lesser heights--and anon,
the very plains will be transformed by them, and
"Man to man the world o'er shall brothers be,
And a' that."
I think that because we are so happy in this glorious life we are now
leading, we are disposed to be so very kind to each other. The
Charioteers, one and all, seem to me to have reached Mr. Spencer's
ideal. If there's a thing that can be done to promote the happiness of
others, they are only impatient till they have the satisfaction of doing
it. Happiness is known to be a great beautifier--but is it not also a
great doer of good to others? It was resolved to debate the question
whether the happy person is not also the one who really thinks most and
does most for others--not for hope of reward or fear of punishment, but
simply because he has reached the stage where he has a simple
satisfaction in doing it.
[Sidenote: _George Eliot's Poetry._]
Here is George Eliot's greatest thing in poetry, for her poems are much
less known than they should be.
"O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence: live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's search
To vaster issues.
* * * * *
"May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty--
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world."
One thing more about our heroine, and a grand thing, said by Colonel
Ingersoll. "In the court of her own conscience she sat pure as light,
stainless as a star." I believe that, my dear Colonel. Why can you not
give the world such gems as you are capable of, and let us alone about
future things, concerning which you know no more than a new-born babe or
a D.D.?
There is a good guide-book for Coventry, and there's much to tell about
that city. It was once the ecclesiastical centre of England. Parliaments
have sat there and great things have been done in Coventry. Many curious
and valuable papers are seen in the hall. There is the order of Queen
Elizabeth to her truly and well-beloved Mayor of Coventry, directing him
to assist Earls Huntingdon and Shrewsbury in good charge of Mary Queen
of Scots. There is a mace given by Cromwell to the corporation. You see
that ruler of men could bestow maces as well as order his troopers to
"take away that bauble" when the commonwealth required nursing. These
and many more rare treasures are kept in an old building which is not
fire-proof--a clear tempting of Providence. If I ever become so great a
man as a councillor of Coventry, my maiden speech shall be upon the
enormity of this offence. A councillor who carried a vote for a
fire-proof building should some day reach the mayorship. This is a hint
to our friends there.
The land question still troubles England, but even in Elizabeth's time
it was thought not unconstitutional to fix rents arbitrarily. Here lies
an edict of Her Majesty good Queen Bess, fixing the rates for pasturage
on the commons near Coventry: "For one cow per week, one penny; for one
horse, two-pence." Our agriculturists should take this for a basis, a
Queen Elizabeth valuation! I suppose some expert or other could figure
the "fair rent" for anything, if given this basis to start upon.
[Sidenote: _Coventry Cathedral._]
The churches are very fine, the stained-glass windows excelling in some
respects any we have seen, the amount of glass is so much greater. The
entire end of one of the cathedral churches is filled by three immense
windows reaching from floor to roof, the effect of which is very grand.
The choir of this church is not in line with the other portion of the
building. In reply to my inquiry why this was so, the guide boldly
assured us, with a look of surprise at our ignorance, that all
cathedrals are so constructed, and that the crooked choir symbolizes the
head of Christ, which is always represented leaning to one side of the
cross. This idea made me shiver; I felt as if I should never be able to
walk up the aisle of a cathedral again without an unpleasant sensation.
Thanks to a clear-headed, thorough-going young lady, who, "just didn't
believe it," we soon got at the truth about cathedrals, for she proved
that they are everywhere built on straight lines. This guide fitly
illustrates the danger of good men staying at home in their little
island. His cathedral is crooked, and therefore all others are or should
be so. Very English this. Very. There are many things still crooked in
the dear old tight little isle which other lands have straightened out
long ago, or rather never built crooked. Hurry up, you leader of nations
in generations past! It's not your role in the world to lag behind; at
least it has not been till lately, when others have "bettered your
instruction." Come along, England, you are not done for; only stir
yourself, and the lead is still yours. The guide was a theological
student, and therefore could not be expected to have much general
knowledge, but he surely should have known something about cathedrals.
It rained at Coventry during breakfast, and friend G. ventured to
suggest that perhaps some of the ladies might prefer going by rail to
Birmingham and join the coach there, at luncheon; but
"He did not know the stuff
Of our gallant crew, so tough,
On board the Charioteer O."
He was "morally sat upon," as Lucy says. Not a lady but indignantly
repelled the suggestion. Even Mrs. G., a bride, and naturally somewhat
in awe of her husband yet, went so far as to say "Tom is a little queer
this morning."
Waterproofs and umbrellas to the front, we sallied forth from the
courtyard of the Queen's in a drenching down-pour.
"But what care we how wet we be,
By the coach we'll live or die."
That was the sentiment which animated our breasts. For my part I was
very favorably situated, and I held my umbrella very low to shield my
fair charge the better. Of course I greatly enjoyed the first few miles
under such conditions. My young lady broke into song, and I thought I
caught the sense of the words, which I fondly imagined was something
like this:
"For if you are under an umbrella
With a very handsome fellow,
It cannot matter much what the weather may be."
I asked if I had caught the words correctly, but she archly insinuated
there was something in the second line that wasn't quite correct. I
think, though, she was only in fun; the words were quite right, only her
eyes seemed to wander in the direction of young B.
[Sidenote: _The Oxford Don._]
None of the ladies would go inside, so Joe had the compartment all to
himself, and no doubt smiled at the good joke as we bowled along. Joe
was dry inside, and Perry, though outside, was just the same ere we found
an inn. This recalled the story of the coachman and the Oxford Don, when
the latter expressed his sympathy at the condition of the former; so
sorry he was so wet. "Wouldn't mind being so wet, your honor, if I
weren't so _dry_." But I think R. P.'s story almost as good as that. A
Don tried to explain to the coachman the operation of the telegraph as
they drove along. "They take a glass about the size of an ordinary
tumbler, and this they fill with a liquid resembling--ah--like--ah--"
"Anything like beer, your honor, for instance?" If Jehu didn't get his
complimentary glass at the next halt, that Don was a muff.
The rain ceased, as usual, before we had gone far, and we had a clear
dry run until luncheon. We see the Black Country now, rows of little
dingy houses beyond, with tall smoky chimneys vomiting smoke, mills and
factories at every turn, coal pits and rolling mills and blast furnaces,
the very bottomless pit itself; and such dirty, careworn children,
hard-driven men, and squalid women. To think of the green lanes, the
larks, the Arcadia we have just left. How can people be got to live such
terrible lives as they seem condemned to here? Why do they not all run
away to the green fields just beyond? Pretty rural Coventry suburbs in
the morning and Birmingham at noon; the lights and shadows of human
existence can rarely be brought into sharper contrast. If
"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay"
surely better a year in Leamington than life's span in the Black
Country! But do not let us forget that it is just Pittsburgh over again;
nay, not even quite so bad, for that city bears the palm for dirt
against the world. The fact is, however, that life in such places seems
attractive to those born to rural life, and large smoky cities drain the
country; but surely this may be safely attributed to necessity. With
freedom to choose, one would think the rush would be the other way. The
working classes in England do not work so hard or so unceasingly as do
their fellows in America. They have ten holidays to the American's one.
Neither does their climate entail such a strain upon men as ours does.
[Sidenote: _Overworked Americans._]
I remember after Vandy and I had gone round the world and were walking
Pittsburgh streets, we decided that the Americans were the
saddest-looking race we had seen. Life is so terribly earnest here.
Ambition spurs us all on, from him who handles the spade to him who
employs thousands. We know no rest. It is different in the older
lands--men rest oftener and enjoy more of what life has to give. The
young Republic has some things to teach the parent land, but the elder
has an important lesson to teach the younger in this respect. In this
world we must learn not to lay up our treasures, but to enjoy them day
by day as we travel the path we never return to. If we fail in this we
shall find when we do come to the days of leisure that we have lost the
taste for and the capacity to enjoy them. There are so many unfortunates
cursed with plenty to retire upon, but with nothing to retire to! Sound
wisdom that school-boy displayed who did not "believe in putting away
for to-morrow the cake he could eat to-day." It might not be fresh on
the morrow, or the cat might steal it. The cat steals many a choice bit
from Americans intended for the morrow. Among the saddest of all
spectacles to me is that of an elderly man occupying his last years
grasping for more dollars. "The richest man in America sailing suddenly
for Europe to escape business cares," said a wise Scotch gentleman to
me, one morning, as he glanced over the _Times_ at breakfast. Make a
note of that, my enterprising friends, and let it be recorded here that
this was written before my friend Herbert Spencer preached to us the
gospel of relaxation.
It has always been assumed that dirt and smoke are necessary evils in
manufacturing towns, but the next generation will probably wonder how
men could be induced to live under such disagreeable conditions. Many of
us will live to see all the fuel which is now used in so thriftless a
way converted into clean gas before it is fed to the furnaces, and thus
consumed without poisoning the atmosphere with smoke, which involves at
the same time so great a loss of carbon. Birmingham and Pittsburgh will
some day rejoice in unsullied skies, and even London will be a clean
city.
We spent the afternoon in Birmingham, and enjoyed a great treat in the
Public Hall, in which there is one of the best organs of the world. It
is played every Saturday by an eminent musician, admission free. This is
one of the little--no, one of the great--things done for the masses in
many cities in England, the afternoon of Saturday being kept as a
holiday everywhere.
Here is the programme for Saturday, June 25:
[Illustration]
Town Hall Organ Recital.