remain in town to see the ruins by moonlight. Aware that the moon did
not send its rays upon the old building every night in the year, I asked
the keeper what he did on dark nights. He replied that he had a large
lantern, which he put upon the end of a long pole, and with this he
succeeded in lighting up the ruins. This good man laboured hard to
convince me that his invention was nearly, if not quite as good, as
Nature's own moon. But having no need of an application of his invention
to the Abbey, I had no opportunity of judging of its effect. I thought,
however, that he had made a moon to some purpose, when he informed me
that some nights, with his pole and lantern, he earned his four or five
shillings. Not being content with a view by "moonlight alone," I was up
the next morning before the sun, and paid my respects to the Abbey. I
was too early for the keeper, and he handed me the key through the
window, and I entered the rooms alone. It is one labyrinth of gigantic
arches and dilapidated halls, the ivy growing and clinging wherever it
can fasten its roots, and the whole as fine a picture of decay as
imagination could create. This was the favourite resort of Sir Walter
Scott, and furnished him much matter for the "Lay of the Last Minstrel."
He could not have selected a more fitting place for solitary thought
than this ancient abode of monks and priests. In passing through the
cloisters, I could not but remark the carvings of leaves and flowers,
wrought in stone in the most exquisite manner, looking as fresh as if
they were just from the hands of the artist. The lapse of centuries
seems not to have made any impression upon them, or changed their
appearance in the least. I sat down among the ruins of the Abbey. The
ground about was piled up with magnificent fragments of stone,
representing various texts of Scripture, and the quaint ideas of the
priests and monks of that age. Scene after scene swept through my fancy
as I looked upon the surrounding objects. I could almost imagine I saw
the bearded monks going from hall to hall, and from cell to cell. In
visiting these dark cells, the mind becomes oppressed by a sense of the
utter helplessness of the victims who once passed over the thresholds
and entered these religious prisons. There was no help or hope but in
the will that ordered their fate. How painful it is to gaze upon these
walls, and to think how many tears have been shed by their inmates, when
this old Monastery was in its glory. I ascended to the top of the ruin
by a circuitous stairway, whose stone steps were worn deep from use by
many who, like myself, had visited them to gratify a curiosity. From the
top of the Abbey, I had a splendid view of the surrounding hills and
the beautiful valley through which flows the Gala Water and Tweed. This
is unquestionably the most splendid specimen of Gothic architectural
ruin in Scotland. But any description of mine conveys but a poor idea to
the fancy. To be realized, it must be seen.
During the day, we paid a visit to Abbotsford, the splendid mansion of
the late Sir Walter Scott, Bart. This beautiful seat is situated on the
banks of the Tweed, just below its junction with the Gala Water. It is a
dreary looking spot, and the house from the opposite side of the river
has the appearance of a small, low castle. In a single day's ride
through England, one may see half a dozen cottages larger than
Abbotsford House. I was much disappointed in finding the premises
undergoing repairs and alterations, and that all the trees between the
house and the river had been cut down. This is to be regretted the more,
because they were planted, nearly every one of them, by the same hand
that waved its wand of enchantment over the world. The fountain had been
removed from where it had been placed by the hands of the Poet to the
centre of the yard; and even a small stone that had been placed over the
favourite dog "Percy," had been taken up and thrown among some loose
stones. One visits Abbotsford because of the genius of the man that once
presided over it. Everything connected with the great Poet is of
interest to his admirers, and anything altered or removed, tends to
diminish that interest. We entered the house, and were conducted through
the great Hall, which is hung all round with massive armour of all
descriptions, and other memorials of ancient times. The floor is of
white and black marble. In passing through the hall, we entered a narrow
arched room, stretching quite across the building, having a window at
each end. This little or rather narrow room is filled with all kinds of
armour, which is arranged with great taste. We were next shown into the
Dining-room, whose roof is of black oak, richly carved. In this room is
a painting of the head of Queen Mary, in a charger, taken the day after
the execution. Many other interesting portraits grace the walls of this
room. But by far the finest apartment in the building is the
Drawing-room, with a lofty ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony
furniture. After passing through the Library, with its twenty thousand
volumes, we found ourselves in the Study, and I sat down in the same
chair where once sat the Poet; while before me was the table upon which
was written the "Lady of the Lake," "Waverley," and other productions of
this gifted writer. The clothes last worn by the Poet were shown to us.
There was the broad skirted blue coat, with its large buttons, the plaid
trousers, the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat. These were all
in a glass case, and all looked the poet and novelist. But the inside of
the buildings had undergone alterations as well as the outside. In
passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter of the Poet. She was
from London, and was only on a visit of a few days. She looked pale and
dejected, and seemed as if she longed to leave this secluded spot and
return to the metropolis. She looked for all the world like a hothouse
plant. I don't think the Scotch could do better than to purchase
Abbotsford, while it has some imprint of the great magician, and secure
its preservation; for I am sure that, a hundred years hence, no place
will be more frequently visited in Scotland than the home of the late
Sir Walter Scott. After sauntering three hours about the premises, I
left, but not without feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble
in visiting Abbotsford.
In the afternoon of the same day, in company with the Crafts, I took a
drive to Dryburgh Abbey. It is a ruin of little interest, except as
being the burial place of Scott. The poet lies buried in St. Mary's
Aisle. His grave is in the left transept of the cross, and close to
where the high altar formerly stood. Sir Walter Scott chose his own
grave, and he could not have selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed
the wide world over. A shaded window breaks the sun as it falls upon his
grave. The ivy is creeping and clinging wherever it can, as if it would
shelter the poet's grave from the weather. The author lies between his
wife and eldest son, and there is only room enough for one grave more,
and the son's wife has the choice of being buried here.
The four o'clock train took us to Hawick; and after a pleasant visit in
this place, and the people registering their names against American
Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set out for Carlisle,
passing through the antique town of Langholm. After leaving the latter
place, we had to travel by coach. But no matter how one travels here, he
travels at a more rapid rate than in America. The distance from Langholm
to Carlisle, twenty miles, occupied only two and a-half hours in the
journey. It was a cold day and I had to ride on the outside, as the
inside had been taken up. We changed horses, and took in and put out
passengers with a rapidity which seems almost incredible. The road was
as smooth as a mirror.
We bid farewell to Scotland, as we reached the little town of Gretna
Green. This town being on the line between England and Scotland, is
noted as the place where a little cross-eyed, red-faced blacksmith, by
the name of Priestly, first set up his own altar to Hymen, and married
all who came to him, without regard to rank or station, and at prices to
suit all. It was worth a ride through this part of the country, if for
no other purpose than to see the town where more clandestine marriages
have taken place than in any other part in the world. A ride of eight or
nine miles brought us in sight of the Eden, winding its way slowly
through a beautiful valley, with farms on either side, covered with
sheep and cattle. Four very tall chimneys, sending forth dense columns
of black smoke, announced to us that we were near Carlisle. I was really
glad of this, for Ulysses was never more tired of the shores of Ilion
than I of the top of that coach.
We remained over night at Carlisle, partaking of the hospitality of the
prince of bakers, and left the next day for the Lakes, where we had a
standing invitation to pay a visit to a distinguished literary lady. A
cold ride of about fifty miles brought us to the foot of Lake
Windermere, a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded by mountains that
seemed to vie with each other which should approach nearest the sky. The
margin of the lake is carved out and built up into terrace above
terrace, until the slopes and windings are lost in the snow-capped peaks
of the mountains. It is not surprising that such men as Southey,
Coleridge, Wordsworth, and others, resorted to this region for
inspiration. After a coach ride of five miles (passing on our journey
the "Dove's Nest," home of the late Mrs. Hemans), we were put down at
the door of the Salutation Hotel, Ambleside, and a few minutes after
found ourselves under the roof of the authoress of "Society in America."
I know not how it is with others, but for my own part, I always form an
opinion of the appearance of an author whose writings I am at all
familiar with, or a statesman whose speeches I have read. I had pictured
in my own mind a tall, stately-looking lady of about sixty years, as the
authoress of "Travels in the East," and for once I was right, with the
single exception that I had added on too many years by twelve. The
evening was spent in talking about the United States; and William Craft
had to go through the narrative of his escape from slavery. When I
retired for the night, I found it almost impossible to sleep. The idea
that I was under the roof of the authoress of "The Hour and the Man,"
and that I was on the banks of the sweetest lake in Great Britain,
within half a mile of the residence of the late poet Wordsworth, drove
sleep from my pillow. But I must leave an account of my visit to the
Lakes for a future letter.
When I look around and see the happiness here, even among the poorer
classes, and that too in a country where the soil is not at all to be
compared with our own, I mourn for our down-trodden countrymen, who are
plundered, oppressed, and made chattels of, to enable an ostentatious
aristocracy to vie with each other in splendid extravagance.
LETTER XVI.
_Miss Martineau--"The Knoll"--"Ridal Mount"--"The Dove's Nest"--Grave of
William Wordsworth, Esq.--The English Peasant._
_May 30, 1851_.
A series of public meetings, one pressing close upon the heel of
another, must be an apology for my six or eight weeks' silence. But I
hope that no temporary suspense on my part will be construed into a want
of interest in our cause, or a wish to desist from giving occasionally a
scrap (such as it is) to the _North Star_.
My last letter left me under the hospitable roof of Harriet Martineau. I
had long had an invitation to visit this distinguished friend of our
race, and as the invitation was renewed during my tour through the
North, I did not feel disposed to decline it, and thereby lose so
favourable an opportunity of meeting with one who had written so much in
behalf of the oppressed of our land. About a mile from the head of Lake
Windermere, and immediately under Wonsfell, and encircled by mountains
on all sides, except the south-west, lies the picturesque little town of
Ambleside, and the brightest spot in the place is "The Knoll," the
residence of Miss Martineau.
We reached "The Knoll" a little after nightfall, and a cordial shake of
the hand by Miss M., who was waiting for us, soon assured us that we had
met with a warm friend.
It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of domestic life at "The
Knoll," nor to describe the social parties of which my friends and I
were partakers during our sojourn within the hospitable walls of this
distinguished writer; but the name of Miss M. is so intimately connected
with the Anti-slavery movement, by her early writings, and those have
been so much admired by the friends of the slave in the United States,
that I deem it not at all out of place for me to give the readers of the
_North Star_ some idea of the authoress of "Political Economy," "Travels
in the East," "The Hour and the Man," &c.
The dwelling is a cottage of moderate size, built after Miss M.'s own
plan, upon a rise of land from which it derives the name of "The Knoll."
The Library is the largest room in the building, and upon the walls of
it were hung some beautiful engravings and a continental map. On a long
table which occupied the centre of the room, were the busts of
Shakspere, Newton, Milton, and a few other literary characters of the
past. One side of the room was taken up with a large case, filled with a
choice collection of books, and everything indicated that it was the
home of genius and of taste.
The room usually occupied by Miss M., and where we found her on the
evening of our arrival, is rather small and lighted by two large
windows. The walls of this room were also decorated with prints and
pictures, and on the mantle-shelf were some models in _terra cottia_ of
Italian groups. On a circular table lay casts, medallions, and some very
choice water-colour drawings. Under the south window stood a small table
covered with newly opened letters, a portfolio and several new books,
with here and there a page turned down, and one with a paper knife
between its leaves as if it had only been half read. I took up the last
mentioned, and it proved to be the "Life and Poetry of Hartly
Coleridge," son of S.T. Coleridge. It was just from the press, and had,
a day or two before, been forwarded to her by the publisher. Miss M. is
very deaf and always carries in her left hand a trumpet; and I was not a
little surprised on learning from her that she had never enjoyed the
sense of smell, and only on one occasion the sense of taste, and that
for a single moment. Miss M. is loved with a sort of idolatry by the
people of Ambleside, and especially the poor, to whom she gives a
course of lectures every winter gratuitously. She finished her last
course the day before our arrival. She was much pleased with Ellen
Craft, and appeared delighted with the story of herself and husband's
escape from slavery, as related by the latter--during the recital of
which I several times saw the silent tear stealing down her cheek, and
which she tried in vain to hide from us.
When Craft had finished, she exclaimed, "I would that every woman in the
British Empire, could hear that tale as I have, so that they might know
how their own sex was treated in that boasted land of liberty." It seems
strange to the people of this county, that one so white and so lady-like
as Mrs. Craft, should have been a slave and forced to leave the land of
her nativity and seek an asylum in a foreign country. The morning after
our arrival, I took a stroll by a circuitous pathway to the top of
Loughrigg Fell. At the foot of the mount I met a peasant, who very
kindly offered to lend me his donkey, upon which to ascend the mountain.
Never having been upon the back of one of these long eared animals, I
felt some hesitation about trusting myself upon so diminutive looking a
creature. But being assured that if I would only resign myself to his
care and let him have his own way, I would be perfectly safe, I mounted,
and off we set. We had, however, scarcely gone fifty rods, when, in
passing over a narrow part of the path and overlooking a deep chasm, one
of the hind feet of the donkey slipped, and with an involuntary shudder,
I shut my eyes to meet my expected doom; but fortunately the little
fellow gained his foothold, and in all probability saved us both from a
premature death. After we had passed over this dangerous place, I
dismounted, and as soon as my feet had once more gained _terra firma_, I
resolved that I would never again yield my own judgment to that of any
one, not even to a donkey.
It seems as if Nature has amused herself in throwing these mountains
together. From the top of the Loughrigg Fell, the eye loses its power in
gazing upon the objects below. On our left, lay Rydal Mount, the
beautiful seat of the late poet Wordsworth. While to the right, and away
in the dim distance, almost hidden by the native trees, was the cottage
where once resided Mrs. Hemans. And below us lay Windermere, looking
more like a river than a lake, and which, if placed by the side of our
own Ontario, Erie or Huron, would be lost in the fog. But here it looks
beautiful in the extreme, surrounded as it is by a range of mountains
that have no parallel in the United States for beauty. Amid a sun of
uncommon splendour, dazzling the eye with the reflection upon the water
below, we descended into the valley, and I was soon again seated by the
fireside of our hospitable hostess. In the afternoon of the same day, we
took a drive to the "Dove's Nest," the home of the late Mrs. Hemans.
We did not see the inside of the house, on account of its being occupied
by a very eccentric man, who will not permit a woman to enter the house,
and it is said that he has been known to run when a female had
unconsciously intruded herself upon his premises. And as our company was
in part composed of ladies, we had to share their fate, and therefore
were prevented from seeing the interior of the Dove's Nest. The
exhibitor of such a man would be almost sure of a prize at the great
Exhibition.
At the head of Grassmere Lake, and surrounded by a few cottages, stands
an old gray, antique-looking Parish Church, venerable with the lapse of
centuries, and the walls partly covered with ivy, and in the rear of
which is the parish burial-ground. After leaving the Dove's Nest, and
having a pleasant ride over the hills and between the mountains, and
just as the sun was disappearing behind them, we arrived at the gate of
Grassmere Church; and alighting and following Miss M., we soon found
ourselves standing over a grave, marked by a single stone, and that,
too, very plain, with a name deeply cut. This announced to us that we
were standing over the grave of William Wordsworth. He chose his own
grave, and often visited the spot before his death. He lies in the most
sequestered spot in the whole grounds, and the simplicity and beauty of
the place was enough to make one in love with it, to be laid so far from
the bustle of the world, and in so sweet a place. The more one becomes
acquainted with the literature of the old world, the more he must love
her poets. Among the teachers of men, none are more worthy of study than
the poets; and, as teachers, they should receive far more credit than is
yielded to them. No one can look back upon the lives of Dante,
Shakspere, Milton, Goethe, Cowper, and many others that we might name,
without being reminded of the sacrifices which they made for mankind,
and which were not appreciated until long after their deaths. We need
look no farther than our own country to find men and women wielding the
pen practically and powerfully for the right. It is acknowledged on all
hands in this country, that England has the greatest dead poets, and
America the greatest living ones. The poet and the true Christian have
alike a hidden life. Worship is the vital element of each. Poetry has in
it that kind of utility which good men find in their Bible, rather than
such convenience as bad men often profess to draw from it. It ennobles
the sentiments, enlarges the affections, kindles the imagination, and
gives to us the enjoyment of a life in the past, and in the future, as
well as in the present. Under its light and warmth, we wake from our
torpidity and coldness, to a sense of our capabilities. This impulse
once given, a great object is gained. Schiller has truly said, "Poetry
can be to a man, what love is to a hero. It can neither counsel him nor
smite him, nor perform any labour for him, but it can bring him up to be
a hero, can summon him to deeds, and arm him with strength for all he
ought to be." I have often read with pleasure the sweet poetry of our
own Whitfield of Buffalo, which has appeared from time to time in the
columns of the _North Star_. I have always felt ashamed of the fact that
he should be compelled to wield the razor instead of the pen for a
living. Meaner poets than James M. Whitfield, are now living by their
compositions; and were he a white man he would occupy a different
position.
After remaining a short time, and reading the epitaphs of the departed,
we again returned to "The Knoll." Nothing can be more imposing than the
beauty of English park scenery, and especially in the vicinity of the
lakes. Magnificent lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with
here and there a sprinkling of fine trees, heaping up rich piles of
foliage, and then the forests with the hare, the deer, and the rabbit,
bounding away to the covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the
wing--the artificial stream, the brook taught to wind in natural
meanderings, or expand into the glassy lake, with the yellow leaf
sleeping upon its bright waters, and occasionally a rustic temple or
sylvan statue grown green and dark with age, give an air of sanctity and
picturesque beauty to English scenery that is unknown in the United
States. The very labourer with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of
ground-plot before the door, the little flower-bed, the woodbine trimmed
against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the windows, and the
peasant seen trudging home at nightfall with the avails of the toil of
the day upon his back--all this tells us of the happiness both of rich
and poor in this country. And yet there are those who would have the
world believe that the labourer of England is in a far worse condition
than the slaves of America. Such persons know nothing of the real
condition of the working classes of this country. At any rate, the poor
here, as well as the rich, are upon a level, as far as the laws of the
country are concerned. The more one becomes acquainted with the English
people, the more one has to admire them. They are so different from the
people of our own country. Hospitality, frankness, and good humour, are
always to be found in an Englishman. After a ramble of three days about
the lakes, we mounted the coach, bidding Miss Martineau farewell, and
quitted the lake district.
LETTER XVII.
_A Day in the Crystal Palace._
LONDON, _June 27th, 1851_.
Presuming that you will expect from me some account of the great World's
Fair, I take my pen to give you my own impressions, although I am afraid
that anything which I may say about this "Lion of the day," will fall
far short of a description. On Monday last, I quitted my lodgings at an
early hour, and started for the Crystal Palace. This day was fine, such
as we seldom experience in London, with a clear sky, and invigorating
air, whose vitality was as rousing to the spirits as a blast from the
"horn of Astolpho." Although it was not yet 10 o'clock when I entered
Piccadilly, every omnibus was full, inside and out, and the street was
lined with one living stream, as far as the eye could reach, all wending
their way to the "Glass-House." No metropolis in the world presents such
facilities as London for the reception of the Great Exhibition, now
collected within its walls. Throughout its myriads of veins, the stream
of industry and toil pulses with sleepless energy. Every one seems to
feel that this great Capital of the world, is the fittest place wherein
they might offer homage to the dignity of toil. I had already begun to
feel fatigued by my pedestrian excursion as I passed "Apsley House," the
residence of the Duke of Wellington, and emerged into Hyde Park.