instruments of torture, whose names I did not learn, grace the walls of
this room. The block on which the Earl of Essex and Anne Boleyn were
beheaded, was shown among other objects of interest. A view of the
"Queen's Jewels" closed our visit to the Tower. The Gold Staff of St.
Edward, and the Baptismal Font used at the Royal christenings, made of
solid silver, and more than four feet high, were among the jewels here
exhibited. The Sword of Justice was there, as if to watch the rest of
the valuables. However, this was not the sword that Peter used. Our
acquaintance with De Foe, Sir Walter Raleigh, Chaucer, and James
Montgomery, through their writings, and the knowledge that they had been
incarcerated within the walls of the bastile that we were just leaving,
caused us to look back again and again upon its dark grey turrets.
I closed the day with a look at the interior of St. Paul's Cathedral. A
service was just over, and we met a crowd coming out as we entered the
great building. "Service is over, and two pence for all that wants to
stay," was the first sound that caught our ears. In the Burlesque of
"Esmeralda," a man is met in the belfry of the Notre Dame at Paris, and
being asked for money by one of the vergers says:--
"I paid three pence at the door,
And since I came in a great deal more:
Upon my honour you have emptied my purse,
St. Paul's Cathedral could not do worse."
I felt inclined to join in this sentiment before I left the church. A
fine statue of "Surly Sam" Johnson was one of the first things that
caught our eyes on looking around. A statue of Sir Edward Packenham,
who fell at the Battle of New Orleans, was on the opposite side of the
great hall. As we had walked over the ground where this General fell, we
viewed his statue with more than ordinary interest. We were taken from
one scene of interest to another, until we found ourselves in the
"Whispering Gallery." From the dome we had a splendid view of the
Metropolis of the world. A scaffold was erected up here to enable an
artist to take sketches from which a panorama of London was painted. The
artist was three years at work. The painting is now exhibited at the
Colosseum; but the brain of the artist was turned, and he died insane!
Indeed, one can scarcely conceive how it could be otherwise. You in
America have no idea of the immensity of this building. Pile together
half-a-dozen of the largest churches in New York or Boston, and you will
have but a faint representation of St. Paul's Cathedral.
* * * * *
I have just returned from a stroll of two hours through Westminster
Abbey. We entered the building at a door near Poets' Corner, and,
naturally enough, looked around for the monuments of the men whose
imaginative powers have contributed so much to instruct and amuse
mankind. I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw. In almost any
church-yard you may see monuments and tombs far superior to anything in
the Poets' Corner. A few only have monuments. Shakspere, who wrote of
man to man, and for man to the end of time, is honoured with one.
Addison's monument is also there; but the greater number have nothing
more erected to their memories than busts or medallions. Poets' Corner
is not splendid in appearance, yet I observed visiters lingering about
it, as if they were tied to the spot by love and veneration for some
departed friend. All seemed to regard it as classic ground. No sound
louder than a whisper was heard during the whole time, except the verger
treading over the marble floor with a light step. There is great
pleasure in sauntering about the tombs of those with whom we are
familiar through their writings; and we tear ourselves from their ashes,
as we would from those of a bosom friend. The genius of these men
spreads itself over the whole panorama of Nature, giving us one vast and
varied picture, the colour of which will endure to the end of time. None
can portray like the poet the passions of the human soul. The statue of
Addison, clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of Shakspere.
He looks as if he had just left the study, after finishing some chosen
paper for the _Spectator_. This memento of a great man, was the work of
the British public. Such a mark of national respect was but justice to
one who has contributed more to purify and raise the standard of English
literature, than any man of his day. We next visited the other end of
the same transept, near the northern door. Here lie Mansfield, Chatham,
Fox, the second William Pitt, Grattan, Wilberforce, and a few other
statesmen. But, above all, is the stately monument to the Earl of
Chatham. In no other place so small, do so many great men lie together.
To these men, whose graves strangers from all parts of the world wish to
view, the British public are in a great measure indebted for England's
fame. The high pre-eminence which England has so long enjoyed and
maintained in the scale of empire, has constantly been the boast and
pride of the English people. The warm panegyrics that have been lavished
on her constitution and laws--the songs chaunted to celebrate her
glory--the lustre of her arms, as the glowing theme of her warriors--the
thunder of her artillery in proclaiming her moral prowess, her flag
being unfurled to every breeze and ocean, rolling to her shores the
tribute of a thousand realms--show England to be the greatest nation in
the world, and speak volumes for the great departed, as well as for
those of the living present. One requires no company, no amusements, no
books in such a place as this. Time and death have placed within those
walls sufficient to occupy the mind, if one should stay here a week.
On my return, I spent an hour very pleasantly in the National Academy,
in the same building as the National Gallery. Many of the paintings here
are of a fine order. Oliver Cromwell looking upon the headless corpse of
King Charles I., appeared to draw the greatest number of spectators. A
scene from "As You Like it," was one of the best executed pieces we saw.
This was "Rosalind, Celia, and Orlando." The artist did himself and the
subject great credit. Kemble, in Hamlet, with that ever memorable skull
in his hand, was one of the pieces which we viewed with no little
interest. It is strange that Hamlet is always represented as a thin,
lean man, when the Hamlet of Shakspere was a fat, John Bull-kind of a
man. But the best piece in the Gallery was "Dante meditating the episode
of Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta, S'Inferno, Canto V." Our
first interest for the great Italian poet was created by reading Lord
Byron's poem, "The Lament of Dante." From that hour we felt like
examining everything connected with the great Italian poet. The history
of poets, as well as painters, is written in their works. The best
written life of Goldsmith is to be found in his poem of "The Traveller,"
and his novel of "The Vicar of Wakefield." Boswell could not have
written a better life of himself than he has done in giving the
Biography of Dr. Johnson. It seems clear that no one can be a great poet
without having been sometime during life a lover, and having lost the
object of his affection in some mysterious way. Burns had his Highland
Mary, Byron his Mary, and Dante was not without his Beatrice. Whether
there ever lived such a person as Beatrice seems to be a question upon
which neither of his biographers have thrown much light. However, a
Beatrice existed in the poet's mind, if not on earth. His attachment to
Beatrice Portinari, and the linking of her name with the immortality of
his great poem, left an indelible impression upon his future character.
The marriage of the object of his affections to another, and her
subsequent death, and the poet's exile from his beloved Florence,
together with his death amongst strangers--all give an interest to the
poet's writings, which could not be heightened by romance itself. When
exiled and in poverty, Dante found a friend in the father of Francesca.
And here, under the roof of his protector, he wrote his great poem. The
time the painter has chosen is evening. Day and night meet in mid-air:
one star is alone visible. Sailing in vacancy are the shadows of the
lovers. The countenance of Francesca is expressive of hopeless agony.
The delineations are sublime, the conception is of the highest order,
and the execution admirable. Dante is seated in a marble vestibule, in a
meditating attitude, the face partly concealed by the right hand upon
which it is resting. On the whole, it is an excellently painted piece,
and causes one to go back with a fresh relish to the Italian's
celebrated poem. In coming out, we stopped a short while in the upper
room of the Gallery, and spent a few minutes over a painting
representing Mrs. Siddons in one of Shakspere's characters. This is by
Sir Joshua Reynolds, and is only one of the many pieces that we have
seen of this great artist. His genius was vast, and powerful in its
grasp. His fancy fertile, and his inventive faculty inexhaustible in its
resources. He displayed the very highest powers of genius by the
thorough originality of his conceptions, and by the entirely new path
that he struck out in art. Well may Englishmen be proud of his name. And
as time shall step between his day and those that follow after him, the
more will his works be appreciated. We have since visited his grave,
and stood over his monument in St. Paul's.
LETTER XI.
_York Minster--The Great Organ--Newcastle-on-Tyne--The Labouring
Classes--The American Slave--Sheffield--James Montgomery._
_January, 1850_.
Some days since, I left the Metropolis to fulfil a few engagements to
visit provincial towns; and after a ride of nearly eight hours, we were
in sight of the ancient city of York. It was night, the moon was in her
zenith, and there seemed nothing between her and the earth but
glittering gold. The moon, the stars, and the innumerable gas-lights,
gave the city a panoramic appearance. Like a mountain starting out of a
plain, there stood the Cathedral in all its glory, looking down upon the
surrounding buildings, with all the appearance of a Gulliver standing
over the Lilliputians. Night gave us no opportunity to view the
Minster. However, we were up the next morning before the sun, and
walking round the Cathedral with a degree of curiosity seldom excited
within us. It is thought that a building of the same dimensions would
take fifty years to complete it at the present time, even with all the
improvements of the nineteenth century, and would cost no less than the
enormous sum of two millions of pounds sterling. From what I had heard
of this famous Cathedral, my expectations were raised to the highest
point; but it surpassed all the idea that I had formed of it. On
entering the building, we lost all thought of the external appearance by
the matchless beauty of the interior. The echo produced by the tread of
our feet upon the floor as we entered, resounding through the aisles,
seemed to say "Put off your shoes, for the place whereon you tread is
holy ground." We stood with hat in hand, and gazed with wonder and
astonishment down the incomparable vista of more than five hundred feet.
The organ, which stands near the centre of the building, is said to be
one of the finest in the world. A wall, in front of which is a screen
of the most gorgeous and florid architecture and executed in solid
stone, separates the nave from the service choir. The beautiful
workmanship of this makes it appear so perfect, as almost to produce the
belief that it is tracery work of wood. We ascended the rough stone
steps through a winding stair to the turrets, where we had such a view
of the surrounding country, as can be obtained from no other place. On
the top of the centre and highest turret, is a grotesque figure of a
fiddler; rather a strange looking object, we thought, to occupy the most
elevated pinnacle on the house of God. All dwellings in the
neighbourhood appear like so many dwarfs couching at the feet of the
Minster; while its own vastness and beauty impress the observer with
feelings of awe and sublimity. As we stood upon the top of this
stupendous mountain of ecclesiastical architecture, and surveyed the
picturesque hills and valleys around, imagination recalled the tumult of
the sanguinary battles fought in sight of the edifice. The rebellion of
Octavius near three thousand years ago, his defeat and flight to the
Scots, his return and triumph over the Romans, and being crowned king
of all Britain; the assassination of Oswald king of the Northumbrians;
the flaying alive of Osbert; the crowning of Richard III; the siege by
William the Conqueror; the siege by Cromwell, and the pomp and splendour
with which the different monarchs had been received in York, all
appeared to be vividly before me. While we were thus calling to our aid
our knowledge of history, a sweet peal from the lungs of the ponderous
organ below cut short our stay among the turrets, and we descended to
have our organ of tune gratified, as well as to finish the inspection of
the interior.
I have heard the sublime melodies of Handel, Hayden, and Mozart,
performed by the most skilful musicians; I have listened with delight
and awe to the soul-moving compositions of those masters, as they have
been chaunted in the most magnificent churches; but never did I hear
such music, and played upon such an instrument, as that sent forth by
the great organ in the Cathedral of York. The verger took much delight
in showing us the Horn that was once mounted with gold, but is now
garnished with brass. We viewed the monuments and tombs of the departed,
and then spent an hour before the great north window. The designs on the
painted glass, which tradition states was given to the church by five
virgin sisters, is the finest thing of the kind in Great Britain. I felt
a relief on once more coming into the open air and again beholding
Nature's own sun-light. The splendid ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, with its
eight beautiful light gothic windows, next attracted our attention. A
visit to the Castle finished our stay in York; and as we were leaving
the old city we almost imagined that we heard the chiming of the bells
for the celebration of the first Christian Sabbath, with Prince Arthur
as the presiding genius.
* * * * *
England stands pre-eminently the first government in the world for
freedom of speech and of the press. Not even in our own beloved America,
can the man who feels himself oppressed speak as he can in Great
Britain. In some parts of England, however, the freedom of thought is
tolerated to a greater extent than in others; and of the places
favourable to reforms of all kinds, calculated to elevate and benefit
mankind, Newcastle-on-Tyne doubtless takes the lead. Surrounded by
innumerable coal mines, it furnishes employment for a large labouring
population, many of whom take a deep interest in the passing events of
the day, and, consequently, are a reading class. The public debater or
speaker, no matter what may be his subject, who fails to get an audience
in other towns, is sure of a gathering in the Music Hall, or Lecture
Room in Newcastle. Here I first had an opportunity of coming in contact
with a portion of the labouring people of Britain. I have addressed
large and influential meetings in Newcastle and the neighbouring towns,
and the more I see and learn of the condition of the working-classes of
England the more I am satisfied of the utter fallacy of the statements
often made that their condition approximates to that of the slaves of
America. Whatever may be the disadvantages that the British peasant
labours under, he is free; and if he is not satisfied with his employer
he can make choice of another. He also has the right to educate his
children; and he is the equal of the most wealthy person before an
English Court of Justice. But how is it with the American Slave? He has
no right to himself, no right to protect his wife, his child, or his own
person. He is nothing more than a living tool. Beyond his field or
workshop he knows nothing. There is no amount of ignorance he is not
capable of. He has not the least idea of the face of this earth, nor of
the history or constitution of the country in which he dwells. To him
the literature, science, and art--the progressive history, and the
accumulated discoveries of bygone ages, are as if they had never been.
The past is to him as yesterday, and the future scarcely more than
to-morrow. Ancestral monuments, he has none; written documents fraught
with cogitations of other times, he has none; and any instrumentality
calculated to awaken and expound the intellectual activity and
comprehension of a present or approaching generation, he has none. His
condition is that of the leopard of his own native Africa. It lives, it
propagates its kind; but never does it indicate a movement towards that
all but angelic intelligence of man. The slave eats, drinks, and
sleeps--all for the benefit of the man who claims his body as his
property. Before the tribunals of his country he has no voice. He has no
higher appeal than the mere will of his owner. He knows nothing of the
inspired Apostles through their writings. He has no Sabbath, no Church,
no Bible, no means of grace,--and yet we are told that he is as well off
as the labouring classes of England. It is not enough that the people of
my country should point to their Declaration of Independence which
declares that "all men are created equal." It is not enough that they
should laud to the skies a constitution containing boasting declarations
in favour of freedom. It is not enough that they should extol the genius
of Washington, the patriotism of Henry, or the enthusiasm of Otis. The
time has come when nations are judged by the acts of the present instead
of the past. And so it must be with America. In no place in the United
Kingdom has the American Slave warmer friends than in Newcastle.
* * * * *
I am now in Sheffield, and have just returned from a visit to James
Montgomery, the poet. In company with James Wall, Esq., I proceeded to
The Mount, the residence of Mr. Montgomery; and our names being sent in,
we were soon in the presence of the "Christian Poet." He held in his
left hand the _Eclectic Review_ for the month, and with the right gave
me a hearty shake, and bade me "Welcome to old England." He was anything
but like the portraits I had seen of him, and the man I had in my mind's
eye. I had just been reading his "Pelican Island," and I eyed the poet
with no little interest. He is under the middle size, his forehead high
and well formed, the top of which was a little bald; his hair of a
yellowish colour, his eyes rather small and deep set, the nose long and
slightly aquiline, his mouth rather small, and not at all pretty. He was
dressed in black, and a large white cravat entirely hid his neck and
chin: his having been afflicted from childhood with salt-rhum, was
doubtless the cause of his chin being so completely buried in the
neckcloth. Upon the whole, he looked more like one of our American
Methodist parsons, than any one I have seen in this country. He entered
freely into conversation with us. He said he should be glad to attend my
lecture that evening, but that he had long since quit going out at
night. He mentioned having heard William Lloyd Garrison some years
before, and with whom he was well pleased. He said it had long been a
puzzle to him, how Americans could hold slaves and still retain their
membership in the churches. When we rose to leave, the old man took my
hand between his two, and with tears in his eyes said, "Go on your
Christian mission, and may the Lord protect and prosper you. Your
enslaved countrymen have my sympathy, and shall have my prayers." Thus
ended our visit to the Bard of Sheffield. Long after I had quitted the
presence of the poet, the following lines of his were ringing in my
ears:--
"Wanderer, whither dost thou roam?
Weary wanderer, old and grey,
Wherefore has thou left thine home,
In the sunset of thy day.
Welcome wanderer as thou art,
All my blessings to partake;
Yet thrice welcome to my heart,
For thine injured people's sake.
Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?
To what region far away?
Bend thy steps to find a home,
In the twilight of thy day.
Where a tyrant never trod,
Where a slave was never known--
But where Nature worships God
In the wilderness alone."
Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations
on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted,
is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the
fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost
amounting to superstition, for the poet who deals with nature. And who
is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has
better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than
Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle
weaknesses of Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact
intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of
Freedom, than our own Whittier?
LETTER XII.
_Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of
Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord
Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern
Abbey--Redcliffe Church._
_January 29_.
In passing through Yorkshire, we could not resist the temptation it
offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of
Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale,
about three miles from Leeds. A pleasant drive over a smooth road,
brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and pensive
beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral
luxuriance, and amidst the touching associations of seven centuries, is
almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it.
After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty
arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls
frowning with age. At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen
gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has
left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur. We
could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:--
"Beautiful fabric! even in decay
And desolation, beauty still is thine;
As the rich sunset of an autumn day,
When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine
To render homage to its slow decline,
Is more majestic in its parting hour:
Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine
Possesses now a more subduing power,
Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower."
The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is supposed, and not without
foundation, to be connected with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the name
of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or
pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher. The
anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it.
It, however, is briefly this:--