that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was
in the time of George Eliot's father. I had never expected to find the
real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by
some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as
represented--except that Adam Bede's cottage has been enlarged and
repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where
Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower
and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the
village as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first
wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the
young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the
great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was
the original of the old squire in "Adam Bede." This fine old estate was
the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of
a visit. We found the fine old "hoaks" there, which Mr. Casson
mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion
of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone
terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the
place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much
to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained the
hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the
place from all the best points of view.
It has not been my intention to follow in detail the events of our
exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many
scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have
sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur
photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real
pleasure when the people one meets manifest a genuine interest and a
spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.
II
There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I
have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some
dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder.
There are surly butlers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we
encountered one of the species in the Lake District. I had called at
the country residence of Captain ----, a wealthy gentleman and a member
of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is
described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His
High-and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of
the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening of the muscles of the back and
shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was "not
at 'ome." I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next
day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused
with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum.
"Captain ---- is ex-_treme_-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He's
_obliged_ to be in Lunnun to-day, sir, but he _towld_ me to _sai_ to
you, sir, that you're to _taik_ everythink in the 'ouse you _want_,
sir." And then the Important One gave me full possession while I
photographed the most interesting rooms, coming back occasionally to
inquire whether I wished him to move "hany harticles of furniture,"
afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the
sacred precincts of his own particular domain.
At another time, also in connection with Mrs. Ward's novels, I came
dangerously near to another break. It was down in Surrey, whither we had
gone to visit the scenery of "Robert Elsmere." I knocked at the door of
a little stone cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown into the
presence of a very old gentleman, who looked suspiciously, first at my
card, and then at me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. I
explained that I was an American and had come to take a picture of his
house. He looked puzzled, and after some further scrutiny of my face, my
clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, "Well, you people in America
must be crazy to come all the way over here to photograph this house. I
have always said it's the ugliest house in England, owned by the ugliest
landlord that ever lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the
parish." Fortunately he was not possessed of the Oriental delusion that
a photograph causes some of the virtue of an individual (or of a house)
to pass out into the picture, and upon further reflection concluded that
if a harmless lunatic wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, it
wouldn't matter much after all.
Not infrequently it happened that the keepers in charge of certain
places of public interest, while desiring to be courteous themselves,
were bound by strict instructions from their superiors. In the year when
we were exploring the length and breadth of England and Scotland in
search of the scenes of Sir Walter Scott's writings, we came one day to
a famous hall, generously thrown open to the public by the Duke of ----,
who owned it. Here we found a rule that the use of "stands" or tripods
would not be permitted in the building. Snap-shots with hand-cameras
were freely allowed, but these are always more or less dependent on
chance, and for interior views, requiring a long time-exposure, are
worthless. The duke, apparently, did not mind poor pictures, but was
afraid of good ones. I felt that I really must have views of the famous
rooms of that house, and we pleaded earnestly with the keeper. But
orders were orders and he remained inflexible, but always courteous. He
wanted to help, however, and finally conducted me to a cottage near by
where I was presented to his immediate superior, a good-looking and
good-natured woman. She, too, was willing and even anxious to oblige,
but the duke's orders were imperative. Finally a thought struck me. "You
say stands are forbidden--would it be an infraction of the rules if I
were to rest my camera on a table or chair?" "Oh, no, indeed!" she
quickly replied; then, calling to the keeper, said, "John, I want you to
do everything you can for this gentleman." John seemed pleased. He first
performed his duty to the duke by locking up the dangerous tripod where
it could do no harm. Then taking charge of us, he conducted us through
the well-worn rooms, meanwhile instructing his daughter to look after
other visitors and keep them out of our way. I rested my camera on
ancient chairs and tables so precious that the visitors were not
permitted to touch them, John kindly removing the protecting ropes. We
were taken to parts of the house and garden not usually shown to
visitors, so anxious was our guide to assist in our purpose. At last we
came to a great ballroom, with richly carved woodwork, but absolutely
bare of furniture. Here the forbidden "stand" was sorely needed. My
companion promptly came to the rescue. "I'll be the tripod," said she.
The hint was a good one, so, resting the camera upon her shoulder, I
soon had my picture composed and in focus. Then, placing the camera on a
convenient window-ledge just above my head, and making allowance for the
increased elevation, I gave the plate a long exposure and the result was
as good an "interior" as I ever made.
This is one of the best parts of the game--the overcoming of obstacles.
Without it, photography would be poor fun, something like the game of
checkers I once played with a village rustic. He swept off all my men in
half a dozen moves and then went away disgusted. I was too easy. A
picture that is not worth taking a little trouble to get is usually not
worth having. I have even been known to take pictures I really did not
need, just because some unexpected difficulties arose.
Another part of the pursuit, which I have always enjoyed, is the quiet
amusement one can often derive from unexpected situations. One day in
London, when the streets were pretty well crowded with Coronation
visitors, we decided to take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in
front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the precaution to secure a
permit, so, without asking any questions, proceeded to spread out my
tripod and compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate-holder, a
"Bobby," by which name the London policeman is generally known,
appeared, advancing with an air that plainly said, "I'll soon stop
_that_ game, my fine fellow!" I expressed my surprise and said I had a
permit, at the same time drawing the slide--an action which, not being a
photographer, he did not consider significant. He looked scornfully at
the permit, and said it was not good after 10 A.M. Here, again, the
assistant photographer of our expedition came to the rescue. She
exercised the woman's privilege of asking "Why?" and "Bobby" moved from
in front of the camera to explain. "Click" went the shutter, in went the
slide, out came the plate-holder, and into the case went the camera.
"Bobby" politely apologized for interfering, and expressed his deep
regret at being obliged to disappoint us. I solemnly assured him that it
was all right, that he had only done his duty and that I did not blame
him in the least! But I neglected to inform him that the Victoria
Monument was already mine.
[Illustration: THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS]
One of the pleasures of rambling with a camera is that it takes you
to so many out-of-the-way places, which you would not otherwise be
likely to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her "Recollections of a Tour in
Scotland" complains that all the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad.
Dorothy ought to have known, for she and William walked most of the way
to save their bones from dislocation by the jolting of their little
cart, and their limited resources compelled them to seek the shelter and
food of the poorest inns. The modern tourist, on the contrary, will find
excellent roads and for the most part hotel accommodations where he can
be fairly comfortable. It was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as
occasionally happened, we could find nothing but an inn of the kind that
flourished a century ago.
On a very rainy morning in May we alighted from the train at the little
village of Ecclefechan, known to the world only as the birthplace of
Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom we inquired the
location of a good hotel, answered in a Scotch dialect so broad that we
could not compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, and as it
afforded the only escape from the pouring rain, we stepped in and
trusted to luck. The vehicle presently drew up before the door of a very
ancient hotel, from which the landlady, whom we have ever since called
"Mrs. Ecclefechan," came out to meet us. She was a frail little woman,
well along in years, with thin features, sharp eyes, and a bald head,
the last of which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort of peaked
black bonnet, tied with strings beneath her chin, and suggesting the
rather curious spectacle of a bishop's miter above a female face. Her
dress was looped up by pinning the bottom of it around her waist,
exposing a gray-and-white striped petticoat that came down halfway
between the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a pair of coarse
woolen stockings and some heavy shoes. A burlap apron completed the
costume.
Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, clerk, porter, cook,
chambermaid, waitress, barmaid, and bootblack of the establishment, was
possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as comfortable as her limited
facilities would permit. We were taken into the public-room, a space
about twelve feet square, with a small open fire at one end, benches
around the walls and a table occupying nearly all the remaining space.
Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where the landlady baked her
oatmeal cake and served the regulars who came for a "penny'orth o' rum"
and a bit of gossip. In front was another tiny room where were served
fastidious guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. At noon we sat
down to a luncheon, which might have been worse, and at five were
summoned into the little room again. We thought it curious to serve hard
boiled eggs with afternoon tea, and thinking supper would soon be
ready, declined them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans with big,
healthy appetites, for the supper never came. The eggs were it.
We spent the evening in the public-room sitting near the fire. One by
one the villagers dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and spending
an hour or two over a very small glass. The evenings had been spent in
that way in that place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in the
atmosphere of "long ago." A middle-aged Scotchman, whose name was
pronounced, very broadly, "Fronk," seemed to feel the responsibility of
entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly I thought, a song by Lady Nairne,
"The Auld Hoose," and recited with fine appreciation the lines of
Burns's "Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn," "To a Mouse," "To a
Louse," and other poems. He related how Burns once helped a friend out
of a dilemma. Three women had been buried side by side. The son of one
of them wished to put an inscription on his mother's tombstone, but the
sexton could not remember which grave was hers. Burns solved the problem
by suggesting these lines:--
"Here, or there, or thereaboots,
Lies the body of Janet Coutts,
But here, or there, or whereaboots,
Nane can tell
Till Janet rises and tells hersel."
Our landlady assured us that Fronk "had the bluid o' Douglas in his
veins," but he was now only a poor "ne'er-do-weel," picking up "a bit
shillin'" now and then. But he loved Bobbie Burns.
After the evening's entertainment we were shown to a tiny bedroom. Over
the horrors upstairs I must draw the veil of charity, only remarking
that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I shall seek out a nice soft pile
of old scrap-iron for a couch, rather than risk another night on one of
those beds.
Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, which is now one of the
"restored" show places, and an interesting one. We also went to the
graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we were conducted by an old
woman, nearly ninety years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived
in the village all her days. We asked if she had ever seen Carlyle. "Oh,
yes," she replied, wearily, "I hae seen 'im. He was a coo-rious mon."
Then brightening she added, with a smile that revealed her heart of
hearts, "But we a' _love_ Bobbie Burns." And so we found it throughout
Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissipated wanderer shared with
the intelligent and cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love
for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably called, affectionately,
"Bobbie."
[Illustration: THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE]
It was not long after this that we had occasion to visit the land of
Burns, for a trip through Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for
the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would scarcely be possible
without many glimpses of the places made famous by the elder and less
cultured but not less beloved poet. Scott's intimacy with Adam Ferguson,
the son of the distinguished Dr. Adam Ferguson, was the means of his
introduction to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it was at
the house of the latter, that Scott, then a boy of fifteen, met Burns
for the first and only time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet
by promptly naming the author of a poem which Burns had quoted, when no
one else in the room could give the information. It is a far cry from
the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the tavern in the Canongate
where the "Crochallan Fencibles" used to meet, but here the lines
crossed again, for to this resort for convivial souls Burns came to
enjoy the bacchanalian revels known as "High Jinks," in the same way as
did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott's fictitious Paulus Pleydell.
We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a number of places described
by Scott in "Guy Mannering," "Redgauntlet," and other novels, and found
ourselves in the very heart of the Burns country. In the center of High
Street stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which the original Effie
Deans, whose real name was Isabel Walker, was tried for child murder.
Here the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save her sister's
life, afterward walking to London to secure her pardon. Almost around
the corner is the house where Burns's Jean lived, and where "Bobbie"
died. In the same town is the churchyard of St. Michaels where Burns
lies buried in a handsome "muselum," as one of the natives informed us.
Out on the road toward the old church of Kirkpatrick Irongray, where
Scott erected a monument to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie Deans,
is a small remnant of the house once occupied by that heroine. In the
same general direction but a little farther to the north, on the banks
of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns attempted to manage a farm,
attend to the duties of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at the
same time. Out of the last came "Tam o' Shanter," but the other two
"attempts" were failures.
We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast of Carrick and what is
left of the ancestral home of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero
landed, with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graphically related
by Scott in "The Lord of the Isles." Here again we were in Burns's own
country. In the city of Ayr we saw the "Twa Brigs" and the very tavern
which Tam o' Shanter may be supposed to have frequented,--
"And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie."
Of course we drove to Burns's birthplace, about three miles to the
south, a long, narrow cottage with a thatched roof, one end of which was
dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was built by the poet's
father, with his own hands, and when Robert was born there in the winter
of 1759 probably looked a great deal less respectable than it does now.
Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway Kirk for a view of the old
church where Tam o' Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the
witches and started on his famous ride. The keeper felt personally
aggrieved because I preferred to utilize my limited time to make a
picture of the church, rather than listen to his repetition of a tale
which I already knew by heart. We traveled over Tam's route and soon had
a fine view of the old "Brig o' Doon," where Tam at length escaped the
witches at the expense of his poor nag's tail. I have made few pictures
that pleased me more than that of the "auld brig," which I was able to
get by placing my camera on the new bridge near by. Here the memory of
Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memorial, in the form of a
Grecian temple and very similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh,
but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded by a garden of
well-trimmed yews, shrubbery of various kinds, and a wealth of brightly
blooming flowers, and best of all, stands well above the "banks and
braes o' bonnie Doon," where the poet himself would have been happy to
stand and look upon his beloved river.
[Illustration: THE BRIG O' DOON, AYRSHIRE]
Whatever may have been "Bobbie's" faults, and, poor fellow, they were
many and grievous, there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle of
love beneath which they have been concealed and forgotten. He touched
the hearts of his countrymen as none other ever did, and out of the
sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung beautiful flowers, laid out
along well-ordered and graceful paths, a delight and solace to his
fellow-men, like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the lovely garden
at the base of his memorial overlooking the Doon.
III
A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY
III
A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY
Our arrival on Saturday evening at the village of Windermere was like
the sudden and unexpected realization of a dream. On many a winter
night, under the light of our library lamp at home, we had talked of
that vague, distant "sometime" when we should visit the English Lakes.
And now--by what curious combination of circumstances we did not try to
analyze--here we were with the whole beautiful panorama, in all its
evening splendors, spread out before us. Through our minds passed, as in
a vision, the whole company of poets who are inseparably associated with
these scenes: Wordsworth, whose abiding influence upon the spirit of
poetry will endure as long as the mountains and vales which taught him
to love and reverence nature; Southey, who, himself without the
appreciation of nature, was the first to recognize Wordsworth's rare
power of interpreting her true meaning; Coleridge, the most intimate
friend of the greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be the most
wonderful man he ever met, and who, in spite of those shortcomings which
caused his life to end in worldly failure, nevertheless possessed a
native eloquence and alluring personality.
Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent twenty of the happiest years
of his life at Dove Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. His
most intimate companion was the famous Professor Wilson of Edinburgh,
known to all readers of "Blackwood's Magazine" as "Christopher North."
Attracted partly by the beauty of the Lake Country, but more by his
desire to cultivate the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius he greatly
admired, Professor Wilson bought a pretty place in Cumberland, where he
lived for several years. He enjoyed the companionship of the friendly
group of poets, but, we are told, occasionally sought a different kind
of pleasure in measuring his strength with some of the native wrestlers,
one of the most famous of whom has testified that he found him "a very
bad un to lick."
At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found himself drawn to the Lakes by
the same double attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox How on
the River Rothay, where his youngest daughter still resides. He wrote in
1832: "Our intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the brightest
spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost
daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten."
It was not alone the beauty of the Westmoreland scenery that had
attracted this group of famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland
and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. But Wordsworth was here, in
the midst of those charming displays of Nature in her most cheerful as
well as most soothing moods. Nature's best interpreter and Nature
herself could be seen together. For a hundred years this same influence
has continued to exercise its spell upon travelers, and we are bound to
recognize the fact that this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from
our prearranged path, that we might enjoy the pleasure of a Sunday in
the country of Wordsworth.
The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, suggesting that splendid day
when Wordsworth, then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed of an
irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry:
"Magnificent
The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
Glorious as e'er I had beheld--in front,
The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn--
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds,
And laborers going forth to till the fields.
Ah! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim
My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated spirit."
We resolved that the whole of this beautiful day should be devoted to
catching something of that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills
which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and through him taught the love of
Nature to countless thousands. A few steps took us away from the town,
the inn, and the other tourists, into a quiet woodland path leading
toward the lake, at the end of which we stood
"On long Winander's eastern shore."
"Winander" is the old form of Windermere. The lake was the scene of many
of Wordsworth's boyhood experiences.