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Transcriber's note:
The following typographical errors have been corrected:
Page 75: "It was to this charming valley that Walter Scott came,
with his young wife, in the first year of their wedded life." 'to'
amended from 'to to'.
Page 108: "We believe that many changes in the conditions of life
and labour are needed, and are coming to pass ..." 'needed' amended
from 'neeeded'.
Page 114: "At sight of this group of buildings one almost expects
to catch a glimpse of the well-meaning but not over-wise Mrs.
Thornburgh ..." 'buildings' amended from 'buidings'.
Page 249: "... everything that makes us see across our poor lives a
splendid goal and a boundless future, comes to us from people of
simplicity, those who have made another object of their desires
than the passing satisfaction and vanity ..." 'splendid' amended
from 'spendid'.
By Charles S. Olcott
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA. Illustrated.
THE COUNTRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Illustrated.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
[Illustration: THE STEPPING STONES]
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
BY
CHARLES S. OLCOTT
_Author of "George Eliot: Scenes and People of
her Novels" and "The Country
of Sir Walter Scott"_
ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published September 1914_
TO MY BOYS
GAGE, CHARLES, AND HOWARD
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
PREFACE
The difference between a ramble and a journey is about the same as that
between pleasure and business. When you go anywhere for a serious
purpose, you make a journey; but if you go for pleasure (and don't take
the pleasure too seriously, as many do) you only ramble.
The sketches in this volume, which takes its name from the first
chapter, are based upon "rambles," which were for the most part merely
incidental excursions, made possible by various "journeys" undertaken
for more serious purposes. It has been the practice of the author for
many years to carry a camera on his travels, so that, if chance should
take him within easy distance of some place of literary, historic, or
scenic interest, he might not miss the opportunity to pursue his
favorite avocation.
If the reader is asked to make long flights, as from Scotland to Italy,
then back, across the Atlantic, to New England, and thence overland to
Wyoming and Arizona, he must remember that ramblers take no account of
distance or direction. In this case they must take no account of time,
for these rambles are but the chance happenings that have occurred at
intervals in a period of more than a dozen years.
People who are in a hurry, and those who in traveling seek to "do" the
largest number of places in the shortest number of days, are advised not
to travel with an amateur photographer. Not only must he have leisure to
find and study his subjects, but he is likely to wander away from the
well-worn paths and use up his time in making inquiries, in a fashion
quite exasperating to the tourist absorbed in his itinerary.
The rambles here chronicled could not possibly be organized into an
itinerary or moulded into a guidebook. The author simply invites those
who have inclinations similar to his own, to wander with him, away from
the customary paths of travel, and into the homes of certain
distinguished authors or the scenes of their writings, and to visit with
him various places of historic interest or natural beauty, without a
thought of maps, distances, time-tables, or the toil and dust of travel.
This is the real essence of rambling.
The chapter on "The Country of Mrs. Humphry Ward" was published
originally in _The Outlook_ in 1909, and "A Day in Wordsworth's
Country," in the same magazine in 1910.
CONTENTS
I. THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 1
II. LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 15
English Courtesy--The George Eliot
Country--Experiences in Rural England.
Overcoming Obstacles--A London
"Bobby"--Carlyle's Birthplace--The Country of
Scott and Burns
III. A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 49
IV. FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 73
V. THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 93
I. MRS. WARD AND HER WORK 95
II. THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE 110
III. OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY 128
VI. A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 147
VII. LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 175
I. CONCORD 179
II. SALEM 196
III. PORTSMOUTH 207
IV. THE ISLES OF SHOALS 222
VIII. A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 233
IX. GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 251
X. THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA 271
INDEX 297
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE STEPPING STONES _Frontispiece_
On the River Rothay, near Ambleside, England, and below Fox How,
the home of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, grandfather of Mrs. Humphry
Ward. One of the scenes in "Robert Elsmere" was suggested by
these stones.
A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS 10
White Mountains, N.H.
PROFILE LAKE 12
Showing the Old Man of the Mountains.
In the Franconia Notch, White Mountains, N.H. The profile
suggested to Hawthorne the tale of "The Great Stone Face."
THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL 22
Near Nuneaton, England. The original of Cheverel Manor, in
George Eliot's "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story."
A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON 30
Where George Eliot attended school in her eighth or ninth year.
THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS 34
In Ellastone, England, the original of the "Donnithorne Arms" of
"Adam Bede."
THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS 40
In Ayrshire, Scotland. The poet was born here January 25, 1759.
The left of the building is the cottage of two rooms where the
family lived. Adjoining, on the right, is the "byre," or
cow-house.
THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE 44
The monument was built in 1820. It is sixty feet high, and
almost an exact duplicate of the monument in Edinburgh.
THE BRIG O' DOON, AYRSHIRE 48
The bridge over which Tam o' Shanter rode to escape the witches.
GRASMERE LAKE 60
"For rest of body perfect was the spot."
DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE 64
Wordsworth's home for eight years. The view is from the garden
in the rear of the cottage.
WORDSWORTH'S WELL 68
In the garden of Dove Cottage, where the poet placed "bright
gowan and marsh marigold" brought from the border of the lake.
HAWTHORNDEN 76
The home of the Drummond family, on the banks of the Esk,
Scotland.
THE SYCAMORE 80
The tree at Hawthornden under which William Drummond met Ben
Jonson.
RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE 86
In Roslin Glen overlooking the Esk.
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD 96
At the villa in Cadenabbia, overlooking Lake Como, where Mrs.
Ward wrote "Lady Rose's Daughter."
"UNDER LOUGHRIGG" 100
The view from the study window of Thomas Arnold at Fox How.
THE PASSMORE EDWARDS SETTLEMENT HOUSE 104
Tavistock Place, London.
THE LIME WALK 110
In the garden of Trinity College, Oxford. Referred to in "Robert
Elsmere."
COTTAGE OF "MARY BACKHOUSE" 114
At Sad Gill, Long Sleddale. The barns and storehouses, on either
end, give the small cottage an attenuated appearance.
THE RECTORY OF PEPER HAROW 118
In Surrey, England. The original of Murewell Rectory, the house
of "Robert Elsmere."
THE ROTHAY AND NAB SCAR 130
From Pelter Bridge, Ambleside, England.
LAKE COMO 138
From "the path that led to the woods overhanging the Villa
Carlotta."
STOCKS 144
The home of Mrs. Humphry Ward, near Tring, England.
LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY 150
According to Ruskin the most beautiful of the Italian Lakes.
ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE 154
The costly summer home of Count Vitaliano Borromeo in the
Seventeenth Century.
THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA 170
At Cadenabbia, Lake Como.
"I CALL THIS MY J. M. W. TURNER" 174
View from the dining-room window of the Villa Maria.
THE OLD MANSE 180
In Concord, where Emerson wrote "Nature" and Hawthorne lived for
three years.
WALDEN WOODS 184
The cairn marks the site of Thoreau's hut and "Thoreau's Cove"
is seen in the distance.
HOUSE OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON 190
Concord, Massachusetts.
THE WAYSIDE 194
House in Concord, where Hawthorne lived in the latest years of
his life.
THE MALL STREET HOUSE 200
Salem, Mass. The room in which Hawthorne wrote "The Scarlet
Letter" is in the third floor, front, on the left.
THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES 204
The house in Turner Street, Salem, Mass., built in 1669, and
owned by the Ingersoll family.
THE BAILEY HOUSE 208
The house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of Thomas Bailey
Aldrich's grandfather, known as "Captain Nutter" in "The Story
of a Bad Boy."
"AUNT ABIGAIL'S" ROOM 212
In the "Nutter" House.
AN OLD WHARF 216
On the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth, where Aldrich often played
in his boyhood.
CELIA THAXTER'S COTTAGE 224
On Appledore, where the poet maintained her famous "Island
Garden."
APPLEDORE 232
Trap-dike, on Appledore, the largest of the "Isles of Shoals."
JOHN BURROUGHS AT WOODCHUCK LODGE 238
The summer home of Mr. Burroughs is near Roxbury, New York, in
the Catskill Mountains. When not at work he enjoys "the peace of
the hills."
JOHN BURROUGHS AT WORK 244
The "study" is a barn, where the naturalist sits facing the
open doors. He looks out upon a stone wall where the birds and
small animals come to "talk with him." The "desk" is an old
hen-coop, with straw in the bottom, to keep his feet warm.
HYMEN TERRACE 254
At Mammoth Hot Springs in the Yellowstone National Park.
PULPIT TERRACE 258
A part of Jupiter Terrace, the largest of the formations at
Mammoth Hot Springs.
OLD FAITHFUL 264
The famous geyser in the Upper Geyser Basin of the Yellowstone
National Park. It plays a stream about one hundred and fifty
feet high every sixty-five minutes, with but slight variations.
THE GROTTO GEYSER 266
A geyser in the Yellowstone National Park notable for its
fantastic crater.
THE CANON OF THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER 268
The view from Inspiration Point.
THE TRAIL, GRAND CANON 278
The view shows the upper part of Bright Angels' Trail, as it
appears when the ground is covered with snow.
THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA 290
The view from Bright Angels'. The plateau over which the trail
leads to the edge of the river is partly covered by a deep
shadow. The great formation in the left foreground is known as
the "Battleship."
I
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
I
Two pictures, each about the size of a large postage-stamp, are among my
treasured possessions. In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, in a
white dress, is vigorously kicking a football. The second depicts a
human wheelbarrow, the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, whose two
plump arms serve admirably the purpose of a wheel, his stout legs making
an excellent pair of handles, while the motive power is supplied by an
equally robust lad of eight, who grasps his younger brother firmly by
the ankles.
These two photographs, taken with a camera so small that in operation it
was completely concealed between the palms of my hands, revealed to me
for the first time the fascination of amateur photography. The discovery
meant that whatever interested me, even if no more than the antics of my
children, might be instantly recorded. I had no idea of artistic
composition, nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, and
printing papers. Still less did I foresee that the tiny little black box
contained the germ of an indefinable impulse, which, expanding and
growing more powerful year by year, was to lead me into fields which I
had never dreamed of exploring, into habits of observation never before
a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of countless places of
historic and literary interest as well as natural beauty and grandeur,
which would never have been mine but for the lure of the camera.
The spell began to make itself felt almost immediately. I determined to
buy a camera of my own,--for the two infinitesimal pictures were taken
with a borrowed instrument,--and was soon the possessor of a much larger
black box capable of making pictures three and a quarter inches square.
The film which came with it was quickly "shot off," and then came the
impulse to go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend a day at a
pretty little inland lake, a few hours' ride from our home. I hastened
to the druggist's to buy another film, and without waiting to insert it
in the camera, off we started. Arrived on the scene, our first duty was
to "load" the new machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow the
directions did not seem to fit. But we got it in place finally and began
to enjoy the pleasures of photography.
Our first view was a general survey of the lake, which is nearly twelve
miles long, with many bays and indentations in the shore-line, making a
rather large subject for a picture only three and a quarter inches
square. But such difficulties did not seem formidable. The directions
clearly intimated that if we would only "press the button" somebody
would "do the rest," and we expected the intangible somebody to perform
his part of the contract as faithfully as we were doing ours. Years
afterward, chancing to pass by the British Museum, which stretches its
huge bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of nearly four hundred
feet, we saw a little girl taking its picture with a "Brownie" camera.
"That reminds me of 'Dignity and Impudence,'" said my wife, referring to
Landseer's well-known painting which we had seen at the National Gallery
that afternoon. This is the mistake which all amateurs make at
first--that of expecting the little instrument to perform impossible
feats.
But to resume my story. We spent a remarkably pleasant day composing
beautiful views. We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the steamers and
the sail-boats and at everything else in sight except the huge
ice-houses which disfigure what would otherwise be one of the prettiest
lakes in America. We posed for each other in picturesque attitudes on
the rocks and in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had a
delightful outing and only regretted when, all too soon, the last film
was exposed. But we felt unusually happy to think that we had a
wonderful record of the day's proceedings to show to our family and
friends.
That night I developed the roll, laboriously cutting off one exposure at
a time, and putting it through the developer according to directions.
Number one was blank! Something wrong with the shutter, I thought, and
tried the next. Number two was also blank!! What can this mean? Perhaps
I haven't developed it long enough. So into the fluid went another one,
and this one stayed a long time. To my dismay number three was as vacant
as the others, and so were all the rest of the twelve. Early the next
morning I was at the drug store demanding an explanation. The druggist
confessed that the film-roll he had sold me was intended for another
camera, but "It ought to have worked on yours," he said. Subsequent
investigation proved that on my camera the film was to be inserted on
the left, while on the other kind it went in on the right. This
difference seemed insignificant until I discovered that in turning the
roll to insert it on the opposite side from what was intended, I had
brought the strip of black paper to the front of the film, thus
preventing any exposure at all! Thus I learned the first principle of
amateur photography:--_Know exactly what you are doing_ and take no
chances with your apparatus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted to
explain the use of the various "stops" on her camera, impatiently
interrupted me with the remark, "Well, that's the way it was set when I
got it and I'm not going to bother to change it. If the pictures are no
good, I'll send it back." It is such people who continually complain of
"bad luck" with their films.
It was two or three years after the complete failure of my first
expedition before the camera again exerted its spell, except that
meanwhile it was faithfully recording various performances of the
family, especially in the vacation season. It was in the autumn of 1898.
The victorious American fleet had returned from Santiago and all the
famous battleships and cruisers were triumphantly floating their ensigns
in the breezes of New York Harbor. "Here is a rare opportunity. Come!"
said the camera. Taking passage on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by
the lifeboats, outside the rail, where the view would be unobstructed.
We passed in succession all the vessels, from the doughty Texas,
commanded by the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Oregon, with the
laurels of her long cruise around Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by
one I photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, are some pictures
worth while. I had been in the habit of doing my own developing--with
indifferent success, it must be confessed. These exposures, made under
ideal conditions, were too precious to be risked, so I took the roll to
a prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, for developing and
printing. Every one was spoiled! Not a good print could be found in the
lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had left yellow spots and
finger-marks on every negative! Subsequent investigation revealed the
fact that a negro janitor had been entrusted with the work. Here, then,
was maxim number two for the amateur--_Do your own developing_, and be
sure to master the details of the operation. The old adage, "If you want
a thing well done, do it yourself," applies with peculiar force to
photography.
Another experience, which happened soon after, came near ending forever
all further attempts in photography. This time I lost, not only the
negatives, but the camera itself. Having accomplished very little, I
resolved to try no more. But a year or two later a friend offered to
sell me his 4 x 5 plate camera, with tripod, focusing-cloth and all, at
a ridiculously low price, and enough of the old fever remained to make
me an easy--victim, shall I say? No! How can I ever thank him enough? I
put my head under the focusing-cloth and for the first time looked at
the inverted image of a beautiful landscape, reflected in all its colors
upon the ground glass. At that moment began my real experience in
photography. The hand camera is only a toy. A child can use it as well
as an expert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of a prison
yard, and beyond them one cannot go. All is guesswork. Luck is the
biggest factor of success. Artistic work is practically impossible. It
is not until you begin to compose your pictures on the ground glass that
art in photography becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing to see how
many variations of the same scene may be obtained, how many different
effects of light and shade, and how much depends upon the point of view.
Then, too, one becomes more independent of the weather, for by a proper
use of the "stop" and careful application of the principles of correct
exposure, it is possible to overcome many adverse conditions.
An acquaintance once expressed surprise that I was willing to spend day
after day of my vacation walking about with a heavy camera case, full of
plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky tripod slung over my shoulder. I
replied that it was no heavier than a bagful of golf-sticks, that the
walk took me through an endless variety of beautiful scenery, and that
the game itself was fascinating. Of course, my friend could not
appreciate my point of view, for he had never paused on the shore of
some sparkling lake to study the ripple of the waters, the varying
shades of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the pebbly beach with
smooth flat stones whitening in the sun, but looking cooler and darker
where seen through the transparent cover of the shallow water, the deep
purple of the undulating hills in the distance, and above it all the
canopy of filmy, foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded
outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the loveliest cerulean blue.
He had never looked upon such scenes as these with the exhilarating
thought that something of the marvelous beauty which nature daily
spreads before us can be captured and taken home as a permanent reminder
of what we have seen.
To catch the charm of such a scene is no child's play. It requires the
use of the best of lenses and other appliances, skill derivable only
from long study and experience, and a natural appreciation of the
artistic point of view. It requires even more, for the plate must be
developed and the prints made, both operations calling for skill and a
sense of the artistic.
The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and in many forms of
recreation is the overcoming of obstacles. The football team must defeat
a heavy opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. If the
opponents are "easy," there is no fun in the game. The hunter who incurs
no hardship complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman would rather
land one big black bass after a long struggle than catch a hundred perch
which almost jump into your boat without an invitation.
[Illustration: A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS]
Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who
love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging
rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle.
Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer
for the purpose of taking the animal's picture than they would get if
they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes--and in this
class I include myself--can find all the sport they want in the less
strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out
the attractive scenes,--the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook;
the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined
castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of
some noteworthy historical event,--but the art of photography itself
presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select
the right point of view; to secure an artistic "balance" in all parts of
the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting
in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to
catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired
transparency in the shadows,--these and a hundred other considerations
give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the
never-ending fascination of the game.
I have noticed that the camera does not lure one into the beaten tracks
which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded
coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many
people are around, especially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do
its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with
leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always
felt a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable jargon of
the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show
places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such
places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the
other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an
acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at
leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not
only with a sense of complete satisfaction, but with a new friendship to
add to the pleasure of future memories.
[Illustration: PROFILE LAKE]
To visit the places made famous by their associations with literature
and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and
awe-inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast
depths of the Grand Canon, or restful in their sweet simplicity like the
quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people in their
homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages; to find new beauty
daily, whether at home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the
sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds; to gain
that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes
from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the
picturesque and beautiful,--these are the possibilities offered by
amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera.
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
I
Emerson said of the English people, "Every one of these islanders is an
island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable," and that "It is almost
an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced." Holmes,
on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were "received with
nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate
kindness." Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as
"the only real thing in a wilderness of shams," and thought his
patronage "divertingly insufferable." On the other hand, he praised the
genuineness of the better men of England, as "so manly-tender, so brave,
so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is
thicker than water." Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days
what he called "the two opposite poles of English character." One of
them was "taciturn, reserved, fastidious" and without "power of
enjoyment"; the other was "expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly,
laughing loud and long." All of this suggests that in attempting to
write one's impressions of the English or any other people, one must
remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great
emphasis--"some people are not all alike!"
I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without
exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland,
manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work
delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise
obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but
seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of
the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his
orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my
protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to
another, until, continuing to pass "higher up," I was at last
photographing everything of interest, including the "Beef-Eater" who
obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these
helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be
more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I
might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should
not be disappointed.
An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic
experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure
for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example
of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere
prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as
possible, the scenes of George Eliot's writings, and on the day of our
arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a
particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned
that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the
Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the
great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully
preserved.
Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis
Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite
assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an
appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present
again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting
permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr.
Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically
repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and
wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as
a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial
smile, calling me by name and saying, "I have something I want to show
you, if you would care to see it." Considerably surprised, I saw him
touch a button as he resumed,--"It's a picture of George Eliot,--at
least we think it is, but we are not sure,--we bought it from the
executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist." Here the
attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to
be a large painting in water-colors of a woman's face, with remarkably
strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say,
"If any woman in the world can do a man's thinking, I'm that person." A
letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore
Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the
painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered
portrait was a "study" for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic
Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true
womanliness of George Eliot's character, for he certainly softened the
expression of those determined-looking eyes.
After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend
inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as
possible, the scenes of George Eliot's novels and to photograph all the
various places of interest. "Of course you'll go to Nuneaton?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, in a tone of assurance; "I expect to visit Arbury
Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor." "I suppose, then, you are
acquainted with Mr. Newdegate," said he, inquiringly. I had to confess
that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise.
"Why, you can't get in if you don't know him. Arbury is a private
estate." This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I
could go anywhere. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very
beginning appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. Of course, I could
not expect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs,
and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin
seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. "I happen to
know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I'll give you a
letter of introduction.--No, I'll do better. I'll write and tell him
you're coming."
This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was
as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the
original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was
about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and
added, "Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture";
and the interview ended with his promise to have the official
photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report
that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and
the next morning received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall
cordially inviting us to visit him.
Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the
full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir
Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging side by side in
the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I
was, therefore, eager to find them.
We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at
the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster's
conviviality. Readers of "Janet's Repentance" will recall that the great
"man of deeds" addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of
the "Red Lion," protesting against the "temptation to vice" involved in
the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He
brought the meeting to a close by calling for "Three cheers for True
Religion"; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the
inn, he caused "the most capacious punch-bowl" to be brought out and
continued the festivities until after midnight, "when several friends of
sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them
showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter."
[Illustration: THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL]
The old tavern, one of the few which still retain the old-fashioned
arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change
horses, boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished
than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was
sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept
since Shakespeare's time.
In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the private grounds of which
make a beautifully wooded park of three hundred acres. The mansion is
seen to the best advantage from the opposite side of a little pool,
where the surrounding trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in
the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are waving gently in the
summer air, and the pond-lilies spread their round green leaves to make
a richer, deeper background for their blossoms of purest white. On a
green knoll behind this charming foreground stands a gray stone mansion
of rectangular shape, its sharp corners softened with ivy and by the
foliage at either end. Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked
on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each with a double-storied
oriel, and a multitude of pinnacles surmounting the walls on every side,
give a distinguished air to the building, as though it were a part of
some great cathedral. This Gothic aspect was imparted to the mansion
something over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdigate, who was the
prototype of George Eliot's Sir Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist
describes the place as if in the process of remodeling.
We were cordially welcomed by the present owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose
hospitality doubly confirmed our first impressions of British courtesy.
After some preliminary conversation we rose to begin a tour of
inspection. Our host threw open a door and instantly we were face to
face with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel, which for so long had stood in my mind as the only known
objects of interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the way, not of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, but of George Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory,
probably a full score of years after her last visit to the place, and
this is one of several slight mistakes. These fine portraits, really
representing Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the end of a
large and sumptuously furnished room, with high vaulted ceiling in the
richest Gothic style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its
tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster Abbey. The saloon,
as the apartment is called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window,
the very one through which Sir Christopher stepped into the room and
found various members of his household "examining the progress of the
unfinished ceiling."
Looking out through these windows, our host noticed some gathering
clouds and suggested a drive through the park before the shower. Soon
his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty little horse
appropriately named "Lightheart," for no animal with so fond a master
could possibly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few minutes at
Astley Castle, the "Knebley Abbey" of George Eliot, an old but
picturesque mansion, once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour and
his ill-fated protegee, Lady Jane Grey. Then, after a brief pause at the
parson's cottage, we proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building with a
square tower such as one sees throughout England.
A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure suggested George Eliot's
bucolic parson, the Reverend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the
farmers and talked of "short-horns" and "sharrags" and "yowes" during
the week, and on Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old sermons to
the ever-increasing satisfaction of his parishioners. We photographed
this ancient temple on the inside as well as outside, for it contains
some curious frescoes representing the saints holding ribbons with
mottoes from which one is expected to obtain excellent moral lessons.
Our next objective was the birthplace of George Eliot, a small cottage
standing in one corner of the park. We were driving rapidly along one of
the smooth roads leading to the place, when the pony made a sudden turn
to the right. I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, camera
and tripod in hand. The cart went down a steep embankment, then up
again, and the next instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the ground,
while near by lay the tripod, broken into a hundred splinters.
Scrambling to my feet, I saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a
ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on the seat, and nobody
the worse for the accident except poor Lightheart, who was almost
overcome with excitement. He had encountered some men on the road
leading a bull, and quickly resolved not to face what, to one of his
gentle breeding, seemed a deadly peril.
Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked back to the house, and in
due season sat down to luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that
splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought "looked less like a
place to dine in than a piece of space inclosed simply for the sake of
beautiful outline." A cathedral-like aspect is given to the room by the
great Gothic windows which form the distinguishing architectural feature
of the building. These open into an alcove, large enough in itself, but
small when compared with the main part of the room. The ecclesiastical
effect is heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of the canopies
built over various niches in the walls, or rather it would be, were it
not for the fact that the latter are filled with life-size statues in
white marble, of a distinctly classical character. Opposite the windows
is a mantel of generous proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations
of which would not be inappropriate for some fine altar-piece; but Cupid
and Psyche, standing in a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any
churchly thoughts, though they seem to be having a heavenly time.
After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, in the left wing of the
building, examining a first folio Shakespeare, while our host busied
himself with various notes of introduction and other memoranda for our
benefit. As we sat in the oriel window of this room,--the same in which
Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp,--we noticed what appeared to
be magazines, fans, and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They
proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It is related that Sir Roger
Newdigate--"Sir Christopher Cheverel," it will be remembered--used to
remonstrate with his lady for leaving her belongings scattered over his
library. She--good woman--was not only obedient, but possessed a sense
of humor as well, for she promptly removed the articles, but later took
advantage of her lord's absence to leave their "counterfeit presentment"
in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a
century.
The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining
the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that in
the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow
panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed
arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was
curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the
full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel "standing with one arm
akimbo," exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember
that "arm akimbo," if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for
more than twenty years?
It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured
out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The
harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played--her name was Sally
Shilton--is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only
that interesting instrument, but also the "queer old family portraits
... of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly
developed head-dresses--of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high
shoulders, and red pointed beards."
Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness that we had met in
his friend Mr. Colvin, informed us that he had invited the Reverend
Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet
us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were invited,
however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, and later did so, receiving
a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various
mementoes of her husband's distinguished relative, including a lace cap
worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess
Czerlaski of "The Sad Fortune of the Reverend Amos Barton." I can still
hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and
pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, "And here is Aunt Glegg!"
There she was, sure enough, with the "fuzzy front of curls" which were
always "economized" by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this
point the canon suddenly asked, "Have you seen the stone table?" I had
been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when
Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically
told in "Middlemarch." I had expected to find it at Griff House, near
Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot's girlhood, but the arbor at the end
of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when
Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table
of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident.
Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing,
while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr.
N----, who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in
the neighborhood. We accordingly stopped our little coupe at the
doctor's door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the
landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle
and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify
nearly all the localities of "Amos Barton" and "Janet's Repentance." He
also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her
eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a
crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy
faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made
no objection.
[Illustration: A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON]
On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at
their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice.
The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known
George Eliot's father and mother, and had been interested to paint
various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call,
because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when,
upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this
same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating
that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among
them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly
Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait
of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear
people seemed determined to make our quest a success.
We now turned our attention to "Adam Bede," traveling into Staffordshire
and Derbyshire, where Robert Evans, the novelist's father and the
prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young
manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The
first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a
jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of
Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera,
and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two
miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the
real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the
only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some
surprise at the pile of luggage.
In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only
way to reach Ellastone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy
road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to
carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning to
rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury
boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though we might be
obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the
good-natured agent, whose day's work was now done, and who was anxious
to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a
fire, at our disposal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to
Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent
thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for
us. A long wait of an hour ensued, during which we congratulated
ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, it
would at least be dryer than the platform. At last the boy returned with
the news that the inn was _not_ open, but that a carriage would be sent
for us! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the
welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived! It was
a butcher's cart. When the baggage was thrown in, there was but one seat
left--the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized
passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the
only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one
which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went,
twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only
visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces
from one direction and the rain from another, but happy in the hope and
expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the
hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night's lodging than a
country railway station.
In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson,
the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to "step in an' tek
somethink." We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord's
wife, who ushered us into the "best parlor," kindled a rousing fire in
the grate (English fires are not usually "rousing"), and asked what we
would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard
lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It
disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the
eyes of the cook--none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We
then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and
particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. "Oh, no, sir,
the inn is not open," explained our good Samaritan, "but we 're always
glad to make strangers comfortable." These words indicate the spirit of
the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady's
eyes, her smile, and her gestures. I cannot set down the exact words for
the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot's landlord of the
Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam: "They 're cur'ous talkers i' this
country; the gentry's hard work to hunderstand 'em; I was brought hup
among the gentry, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a
bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for 'hev n't you'?--the
gentry, you know, says, 'hev n't you'--well, the people about here says,
'hanna yey.' It's what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir."
[Illustration: THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS]