Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and Black
Letter text is denoted by =equals signs=.
OVER THE OCEAN;
OR,
SIGHTS AND SCENES
IN
FOREIGN LANDS.
BY
CURTIS GUILD,
EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COMMERCIAL BULLETIN.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
1871.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
BY LEE AND SHEPARD,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
No. 10 Spring Lane.
PREFACE.
The following pages are the record of the fruition of years of desire
and anticipation; probably the same that fills the hearts of many who
will read them--a tour in Europe.
The habits of observation, acquired by many years' constant occupation
as a journalist, were found by the author to have become almost second
nature, even when the duties of that profession were thrown aside for
simple gratification and enjoyment; consequently, during a journey of
nearly seven months, which was enjoyed with all the zest of a first
tour, the matter which composes this volume was prepared.
Its original form was in a series of sketches in the columns of the
Boston Commercial Bulletin. In these the writer attempted to give as
vivid and exact an idea of the sights and scenes which he witnessed as
could be conveyed to those who had never visited Europe.
Whether describing Westminster Abbey, or York Minster,
Stratford-on-Avon, or the streets of London; the wonders of the Louvre,
or the gayeties and glitter of Paris; the grandeur of the Alpine passes;
the quaintness of old continental cities; experiences of post
travelling; the romantic beauties of the Italian lakes; the underground
wonders of Adelsberg, or the aqueous highways of Venice,--the author
aimed to give many minute particulars, which foreign letter-writers deem
of too little importance to mention, but which, nevertheless, are of
great interest to the reader.
That the effort was, in some measure, successful, has been evinced by a
demand for the sketches in permanent form, sufficient to warrant the
publication of this volume.
In so presenting them, it is with the belief that it may be pleasant to
those who have visited the same scenes to revisit them in fancy with the
writer, and with a hope that the volume may, in some degree, serve as a
guide to those who intend to go "over the ocean," as well as an
agreeable entertainment to the stay-at-homes.
C. G.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Going Abroad.--What it costs.--Hints to Tourists.--Life
on board Ship.--Land Ho!--Examining Luggage.--The Emerald
Isle.--Blarney Castle.--Dublin.--Dublin Castle.--St.
Patrick's Cathedral.--Cheap John's Paradise.--Phoenix
Park.--Across the Irish Sea.--Railroad travelling in
England.--Guard _vs._ Conductor.--Word to the Wise.--
Railroad Stations.--An Old English City.--Chester
Cathedral.--The City Walls. 1-28
CHAPTER II.
Chester to Liverpool.--An English Breakfast.--A Trial of
Patience.--Liverpool Docks.--St. George's Hall.--Poverty
and Suffering.--The Lake District.--Home of the Poets.--
Keswick.--An English Church.--The Druids' Temple.--
Brougham Hall.--A Roadside Inn. 28-46
CHAPTER III.
Edinburgh.--Historic Streets.--Edinburgh Castle.--Bonnie
Dundee.--Rooms of Historic Story.--The Scottish Regalia.
--Curiosities of the Old City.--Holyrood Palace.--Relics
of the Past.--Holyrood Abbey.--Antiquarian Museum.--Scott
and Scotland.--Hawthornden.--Roslin Chapel.--Melrose
Abbey.--The Abbey Hotel.--Abbotsford.--Stirling Castle.--
The Tournament Field.--Field of Bannockburn.--Lady of the
Lake Scenes.--Scotch Lakes and Hills. 47-79
CHAPTER IV.
Glasgow Cathedral.--Vestiges of Vandalism.--Bible Stories
in Colored Glass.--The Actor's Epitaph.--Tam O'Shanter's
Ride.--Burns's Cottage.--Kirk Alloway.--A Reminder from
the Witches.--Bonnie Doon.--Newcastle-on-Tyne.--York.--
Beauties of York Minster.--Old Saxon Relics.--Sheffield.--
The Cutlery Works.--English Mechanics.--English Ale.--
Chatsworth.--Interior of the Palace.--Sculpture Gallery.--
Landscape Effects.--Grand Conservatory.--Haddon Hall. 80-115
CHAPTER V.
Kenilworth.--Stratford on Avon.--Interesting Mementos.--
Stratford Church.--Shakespeare's Safeguard.--Warwick
Castle.--Dungeon and Hall.--Warder's Horn and Warwick
Vase.--Leicester's Hospital.--Beauchamp Chapel.--Mugby
Junction.--Oxford.--The Mitre Tavern.--Bodleian Library.
--Literary Treasures.--Curiosities and Rarities.--Story
of an Old Portrait.--Queen Bess on Matrimony.--Addison's
Walk.--Boating on the Isis.--Martyr's Memorial. 116-151
CHAPTER VI.
London.--Feeing Servants.--Railway Porters.--London
Hotels.--Sights in London Streets.--Cabs and Cab-drivers.
--London Shops.--Hints to Buyers.--A London Banking-house.
--Routine _vs._ Courtesy.--Westminster Abbey.--Tombs of
Kings and Warriors.--Poets' Corner.--Tributes to Genius.
--Penny Steamboat Trip.--Kew Gardens.--The Star and
Garter. 152-185
CHAPTER VII.
The Original Wax Works.--London Theatres.--Full Dress at
the Opera.--Play Bills.--A Palace for the People.--Parks
of London.--Zoölogical Gardens.--The Tower of London.--The
Silver Key.--Site of the Scaffold.--Knights in Armor.--
Regalia of England.--St. Paul's.--The Whispering Gallery.
--Up into the Ball.--Down into the Crypt.--Gog and Magog.
--Bank of England.--Hampton Court Palace.--The Gardens and
People.--Windsor Castle.--Windsor Parks.--London
Newspapers.--The Times.--The British Museum.--
Bibliographical Curiosities.--Egyptian Galleries.--A
Wealth of Antiquities.--Original Magna Charta.--Priceless
Manuscripts. 185-246
CHAPTER VIII.
From London to Paris.--Grand Hotels.--The Arch of Triumph.
--Paris by Gaslight.--Site of the Guillotine.--
Improvements in Paris.--The Bastille.--The Old Guard.--The
Louvre.--Gallery of Masterpieces.--Relics of Napoleon I.
--Palais Royal.--Jewelry.--French Funeral.--Père La Chaise.
--Millions in Marble.--Tomb of Bonaparte.--Versailles.--
Halls of the Crusades.--Gallery of the Empire.--Gallery of
Battles.--Theatre in the Palace.--Fountains at Versailles.
--Notre Dame.--Sainte Chapelle.--The Madeleine.--The
Pantheon.--Les Champs Elysées.--Cafés Chantants.--The
Jardin Mabille.--The Luxembourg.--Palace of St. Cloud.--
Shops in Paris.--Bargains. 246-309
CHAPTER IX.
Good by to Paris.--Church of St. Gudule.--Field of
Waterloo.--Brussels Lace.--Antwerp.--The Cathedral Spire.
--Dusseldorf.--Cologne Cathedral.--Riches of the Church.
--Up the Rhine.--Bridge of Boats.--Coblentz and
Ehrenbreitstein.--Stolzenfels.--Legendary Castles.--Bingen
on the Rhine.--Roman Remains.--Mayence.--Wiesbaden.--
Gambling Halls.--Frankfort-on-the-Main.--Heidelberg Castle.
--The Great Tun.--The King's Seat.--Baden-Baden.--Sabbath
Amusement.--Satan's Snare baited.--Among the Gamblers.--
Scene at the Table.--Strasburg Cathedral.--Strasburg
Clock.--Clock at Basle.--Swiss Railways.--Travelling in
Switzerland.--Zurich and its Scenery. 309-375
CHAPTER X.
The Righi.--Guides and Alpenstocks.--Climbing the Alps.--
Night on the Mountain Top.--The Yodlyn.--Lucerne.--
Wonderful Organ Playing.--A Sail on Lake Lucerne.--Scene
of Tell's Archery.--The St. Gothard Pass.--The Devil's
Bridge.--The Brunig Pass.--A Valley of Beauty.--Interlaken.
--Staubbach Waterfall.--Glaciers and Avalanches.--An
Illuminated Waterfall.--Berne.--The Freiburg Organ.--Lake
Leman.--The Prison of Chillon.--Geneva.--Swiss Washerwomen.
--Glaciers by Moonlight.--Sunrise on Mont Blanc.--Valley of
Chamouny.--View from Flegère.--Climbing again.--Crossing
the Sea of Ice.--The Mauvais Pass.--Under a Glacier.--The
Tête Noir Pass.--Italian Post Drivers.--The Rhone Valley.
--Simplon Pass.--Gorge of Gondo.--Fressinone Waterfall.--
Domo d'Ossola.--An Italian Inn.--Lake Maggiore.--Milan
Cathedral.--A Wonderful Statue.--Death and Dross.--The La
Scala Theatre.--Lake Como.--Italian Monks.--Madesimo
Waterfall. 376-450
CHAPTER XI.
The Splügen Pass.--The Via Main.--Tamina Gorge.--Falls of
Schaffhausen.--Munich.--Galleries of Paintings.--Grecian
Sculpture restored.--A Bronze Giant.--Hall of the Colossi.
--The Palace.--Basilica of St. Boniface.--Salzburg.--
Aquarial Wonders.--Visiting Lilliput.--Vienna.--Judging by
Appearances.--Royal Regalia.--Cabinet of Minerals.--The
Ambras Museum. 450-475
CHAPTER XII.
Superb Mausoleum.--The Strauss Band.--Summer Palace.--
Imperial Gallery.--Vienna Leather Work.--Shops and Prices.
--The Cave of Adelsberg.--Underground Wonders.--Nature's
Imitation of Art. 476-487
CHAPTER XIII.
Venice.--Gondolas and Gondoliers.--Shylock.--The Rialto.--
The Giant's Staircase.--The Lion's Mouth.--Terrible
Dungeons.--Square of St. Mark.--The Bronze Horses.--Church
of St. Mark.--Titian's Monument.--Canova's Monument.--
Cathedrals and Pictures.--Florence.--Art in the Streets.--
The Uffizi Gallery.--Old Masters in Battalions.--Hall of
Niobe.--Cabinet of Gems.--Michael Angelo's House.--The
Duomo.--The Campanile.--Church of Santa Croce.--Michael
Angelo's Statuary.--Florentine Mosaics.--Medicean Chapel.
--Pitti Palace.--Halls of the Gods.--The Cascine.--Powers,
the Sculptor. 487-530
CHAPTER XIV.
Tower of Pisa.--The Duomo.--Galileo's Lamp.--The
Baptistery.--Campo Santo.--Over the Apennines.--Genoa.--
Streets of Genoa.--Pallavicini Gardens.--Water Jokes.--
Turin to Susa.--Mt. Cenis Pass.--Paris again.--Down in the
Sewers. 531-548
CHAPTER XV.
Sic transit.--English Rudeness.--Wonders of London.--
Looking towards Home.--Last Purchases.--English
Conservatism.--Reunion of Tourists.--All aboard.--Home
again. 549-558
OVER THE OCEAN.
CHAPTER I.
Do you remember, dear reader, when you were a youngster, and studied a
geography with pictures in it, or a "First" or "Second" Book of History,
and wondered, as you looked upon the wood-cuts in them, if you should
ever see St. Paul's Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, or London Bridge,
or go to the Tower of London, and into the very room in which the poor
little princes were smothered by the order of their cruel uncle Richard,
by the two rude fellows in a sort of undress armor suit, as depicted in
the Child's History of England, or should ever see the Paris you had
heard your elders talk so much of, or those curious old Rhine castles,
of which we read so many startling legends of robber knights, and fair
ladies, and tournaments, and gnomes, and enchanters? What a realm of
enchantment to us, story-book readers, was beyond the great blue ocean!
and how we resolved, when we grew to be a man, we would travel all over
the world, and see every thing, and buy ever so many curious things in
the countries where they grew or were made. Even that compound which
produced "the finest jet black ever beheld," was to us invested with a
sort of poetic interest in boyhood's day, for the very stone jug that we
held in our hand had come from London,--"97 High Holborn,"--and there
was the picture of the palatial-looking factory on the pink label.
LONDON! There was something sonorous in the sound, and something solid
in the very appearance of the word when written. When we were a man,
didn't we mean to go to London!
Years added to youth dissipated many of these air-built castles, and
other barriers besides the watery plain intervene between the goal of
one's wishes, and Europe looks further away than ever. "Going to Europe!
Everybody goes to Europe nowadays," says a friend. True, and in these
days of steam it is not so much of an event as formerly; indeed, one
would judge so from many of his countrymen that he meets abroad, who
make him blush to think how they misrepresent Americans.
The Great Expositions at London and Paris drew from our shores every
American who could by any manner of means or excuse leave business, and
obtain funds sufficient to get over and back, if only for a six weeks'
visit. The Exposition brought out to Paris and to Europe, among the
swarm of Americans who went over, many such, and some who had scarcely
visited beyond the confines of their native cities before crossing the
Atlantic. These people, by their utter inexperience as travellers, and
by their application of the precept inculcated in their minds that money
would answer for brains, was a substitute for experience, and the only
passport that would be required anywhere and for anything, became a
source of mortification to their countrymen, easy game for swindling
landlords and sharp shop-keepers, and rendered all the great routes of
travel more beset with extortions and annoyances than ever before.
But about "going to Europe." When one decides to start on a pleasure
trip to that country for the first time, how many very simple things he
wishes to know, that correspondents and people who write for the papers
have never said anything about. After having once or twice gone over in
a steamship, it never seems to occur to these writers that anybody else
will want to become acquainted with the little minutiæ of information
respecting life on board ship during the trip, and which most people do
not like to say they know nothing about; and novices, therefore, have to
clumsily learn by experience, and sometimes at four times the usual
cost.
Speaking of cost, let me say that this is a matter upon which hardly any
two tourists will agree. How much does it cost to go to Europe? Of
course the cost is varied by the style of living and the thoroughness
with which one sees sights; by thoroughness I mean, besides expenditure
of time, the use of extra shillings "_pour boires_," and the skilful
dispensation of extra funds, which will gain admission to many a
forbidden shrine, insure many an unexpected comfort, and shorten many a
weary journey.
There is one popular error which one quickly becomes disabused of, and
that is, that everything abroad is dirt cheap, and it costs a mere song
to live. Good articles always bring good prices. Many may be cheaper
than at home, it is true, but they are by no means thrown away, and good
living in Paris cannot be had, as some suppose, for three francs a day.
If one is going abroad for pleasure, and has a taste for travelling, let
him first decide what countries he wishes to visit, the routes and time
he will take, and then from experienced tourists ascertain about what it
would cost; after having learned this, add twenty per cent. to that
amount, and he will be safe.
Safe in the knowledge that you have enough; safe in being able to make
many little purchases that you will never dream of till you reach Regent
Street, the Boulevards, the "Piazza San Marco," the Florence mosaic
stores, or the Naples coral shops. Safe in making little side excursions
to noted places that you will find on your route, and safe from the
annoying reflection that you might have done so much better, and seen so
much more, if you had not limited the expenditure to that very amount
which your friend said would take you through.
These remarks of course apply only to those who feel that they can
afford but a fixed sum for the journey, and who ought always to wait
till they can allow a little margin to the fixed sum, the more
completely to enjoy the trip.
I have seen Americans in French restaurants actually calculating up the
price of a dinner, and figuring out the price of exchange, to see if
they should order a franc's worth more or less. We may judge how much
such men's enjoyment is abridged.
On the other hand, the class that I refer to, who imagine that money
will pass for everything, increase the cost of travel to all, by their
paying without abatement the demands of landlords and shopkeepers. The
latter class, on the continent, are so accustomed, as a matter of
course, to being "beaten down" in the price, that it has now come to be
a saying among them, that he who pays what is at first demanded must be
a fool or an American. In Paris, during the Exposition, green Englishmen
and freshly-arrived Americans were swindled without mercy. The jewelry
shops of the Rue de la Paix, the Grand Hotel, the shops of the Palais
Royal, and the very Boulevard cafés fleeced men unmercifully. The
entrance of an American into a French store was always the occasion of
adding from twenty to twenty-five per cent. to the regular price of the
goods. It was a rich harvest to the cringing crew, who, with smirks,
shrugs, bows, and _pardonnez moi's_ in the oiliest tones, swindled and
cheated without mercy, and then, over their half franc's worth of black
coffee at the restaurant, or glass of absinthe, compared notes with each
other, and boasted, not how much trade they had secured or business they
had done, but how much beyond the legitimate price they had got from the
foreign purchaser, whom they laughed at.
All the guide-books and many tourists exclaim against baggage, and urge
the travelling with a single small trunk, or, as they call it in
England, portmanteau. This is very well for a bachelor, travelling
entirely alone, and who expects to go into no company, and will save
much time and expense at railway stations; but there is some comfort in
having wardrobe enough and some space for small purchases, even if a
little extra has to be paid. It is the price of convenience in one
respect, although the continual weighing of and charging for baggage is
annoying to an American, who is unused to that sort of thing; and one
very curious circumstance is discovered in this weighing, no two scales
on the continent give the same weight of the same luggage.
Passage tickets from America to Europe it is, of course, always best to
secure some time in advance, and a previous visit to the steamer may aid
the fresh tourist in getting a state-room near the centre of the ship,
near the cabin stairs, and one having a dead-light, all of which are
desirable things.
Have some old clothes to wear on the voyage; remember it is cold
at sea even in summer; and carry, besides your overcoat and warm
under-clothing, some shawls and railway rugs, the latter to lie round on
deck with when you are seasick.
There is no cure for seasickness; keep on deck, and take as much
exercise as possible; hot drinks, and a hot water bottle at the feet are
reliefs.
People's appetites come to them, after seasickness, for the most
unaccountable things, and as soon as the patient 'hankers' for anything,
by all means let him get it, if it is to be had on board; for it is a
sure sign of returning vigor, and in nine cases out of ten, is the very
thing that will bring the sufferer relief. I have known a delicate young
lady, who had been unable to eat anything but gruel for three days,
suddenly have an intense longing for corned beef and cabbage, and, after
eating heartily of it, attend her meals regularly the remainder of the
voyage. Some make no effort to get well from port to port, and live in
their state-rooms on the various little messes they imagine may relieve
them, and which are promptly brought either by the stewardess or bedroom
steward of the section of state-rooms they occupy.
The tickets on the Cunard line express, or did express, that the amount
received includes "stewards' fees;" but any one who wants to be well
served on the trip will find that a sovereign to the table steward, and
one to the bedroom steward,--the first paid the last day before reaching
port, and the second by instalments of half to commence with, and half
just before leaving,--will have a marvellously good effect, and that it
is, in fact, an expected fee. If it is your first voyage, and you expect
to be sick, speak to the state-room steward, who has charge of the room
you occupy, or the stewardess, if you have a lady with you; tell him you
shall probably need his attention, and he must look out for you; hand
him half a sovereign and your card, with the number of your room, and
you will have occasion to experience most satisfactorily the value of
British gold before the voyage is over. If a _desirable_ seat at the
table is required in the dining-saloon--that is, an outside or end seat,
where one can get out and in easily,--or at the table at which the
captain sometimes presides, a similar interview with the saloon steward,
a day or two before sailing, may accomplish it.
Besides these stewards, there are others, who are known as deck
stewards, who wait upon seasick passengers, who lie about the decks in
various nooks, in pleasant weather, and who have their meals brought to
them by these attentive fellows from the cabin table. It is one phase of
seasickness that some of the sufferers get well enough to lie languidly
about in the fresh, bracing air, and can eat certain viands they may
fancy for the nonce, but upon entering the enclosed saloon, are at once,
from the confined air or the more perceptible motion of the ship,
afflicted with a most irrepressible and disagreeable nausea.
Well, the ticket for Liverpool is bought, your letter of credit
prepared, and you are all ready for your first trip across the water.
People that you know, who have been often, ask, in a _nonchalant_ style,
what "boat" you are going "over" in; you thought it was a steamer, and
the easy style with which they talk of running over for a few weeks, or
should have gone this month, if they hadn't been so busy, or they shall
probably see you in Vienna, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, causes you to
think that this, to you, tremendous undertaking of a first voyage over
the Atlantic is to be but an insignificant excursion, after all, and
that the entire romance of the affair and the realizing of your
imagination is to be dissolved like one of youth's castles in the air.
So it seems as you ride down to the steamer, get on board, pushing amid
the crowds of passengers and leave-taking friends; and not until a last,
and perhaps, tearful leave-taking, and when the vessel fairly swings out
into the stream, and you respond to the fluttering signal of dear ones
on shore, till rapid receding renders face and form indistinguishable,
do you realize that you are fairly launched on the great ocean, and
friends and home are left behind, as they never have been before.
One's first experience upon the great, awful Ocean is never to be
forgotten. My esteem for that great navigator, Christopher Columbus, has
risen one hundred per cent. since I have crossed it, to think of the
amount of courage, strength of mind, and faith it must have required to
sustain him in his venturesome voyage in the frail and imperfect crafts
which those of his day must have been.
Two days out, and the great broad sweep of the Atlantic makes its
influence felt upon all who are in any degree susceptible. To the
landsman, the steamship seems to have a regular gigantic see-saw motion,
very much like that of the toy ships that used to rise and fall on mimic
waves, moved by clock-work, on clocks that used to be displayed in the
store windows of jewellers and fancy dealers. Now the bows rise with a
grand sweep,--now they sink again as the vessel plunges into an
advancing wave,--up and down, up and down, and forging ahead to the
never-ceasing, tremulous jar of the machinery. In the calmest weather
there is always one vast swell, and when wind or storm prevails, it is
both grand and terrible.
The great, vast ocean is something so much beyond anything I ever
imagined,--the same vast expanse of dark-blue rolling waves as far as
the eye can reach,--day after day, day after day,--the great ship a mere
speck, an atom in the vast circle of water,--water everywhere. The very
wind sounds differently than on land; a cheerful breeze is like the
breath of a giant, and a playful wave will send a dozen hogsheads of
water over the lofty bulwarks.
But in a stiff breeze, when a great wave strikes like an iron avalanche
against the ship, she seems to pause and shudder, as it were, beneath
the blow; then, gathering strength from the unceasing throb of the
mighty power within, urges her way bravely on, while far as the eye can
reach, as the ship sinks in the watery valleys, you see the great black
tossing waves, all crested with spray and foam, like a huge squadron of
white-plumed giant cavalry. The spray sometimes flies high over the
smoke-stack, and a dash of saline drops, coming fiercely into the face,
feels like a handful of pebbles. A look around on the vast expanse, and
the ship which at the pier seemed so huge, so strong, so unyielding,
becomes an atom in comparison,--is tossed, like a mere feather, upon old
Ocean's bosom; and one realizes how little is between him and eternity.
There seem to be no places that to my mind bring man so sensibly into
the presence of Almighty God as in the midst of the ocean during a
storm, or amid the grand and lofty peaks of the Alps; all other feelings
are swallowed up in the mute acknowledgment of God's majesty and man's
insignificance.
If ever twelve days seem long to a man, it is during his first voyage
across the Atlantic; and the real beauty of green grass is best
appreciated by seeing it on the shores of Queenstown as the steamer
sails into Cork harbor.
Land again! How well we all are! A sea voyage,--it is nothing. Every one
who is going ashore here is in the bustle of preparation.
We agree to meet A and party in London; we will call on B in
Paris,--yes, we shall come across C in Switzerland. How glib we are
talking of the old country! for here it is,--no three thousand miles of
ocean to cross now. A clear, bright Sunday morning, and we are going
ashore in the little tug which we can see fuming down the harbor to meet
us.
We part with companions with a feeling of regret. Seated on the deck of
the little tug, the steamer again looms up, huge and gigantic, and we
wonder that the ocean could have so tossed her about. But the bell
rings, the ropes are cast off, the tug steams away, our late companions
give us three parting cheers, and we respond as the distance rapidly
widens between us.
Custom-house officials examine your luggage on the tug. American
tourists have but very little trouble, and the investigation is slight;
cigars and fire-arms not forming a prominent feature in your luggage,
but little, if any, inconvenience may be anticipated.
This ordeal of the custom-house constitutes one of the most terrible
bugbears of the inexperienced traveller. It is the common opinion that
an inspection of your baggage means a general and reckless overhauling
of the personal property in your trunks--a disclosure of the secrets of
the toilet, perhaps of the meagreness of your wardrobe, and a laying of
profane hands on things held especially sacred. Ladies naturally dread
this experience, and gentlemen, too, who have been foolish enough to
stow away some little articles that custom-house regulations have placed
under the ban. But the examination is really a very trifling affair; it
is conducted courteously and rapidly, and the traveller laughs to
himself about his unfounded apprehensions.
The tug is at the wharf; the very earth has a pleasant smell; let us get
on _terra firma_. Now, then, a landsman finds out, after his first
voyage, what "sea legs" on and sea legs off, that he has read of so much
in books, mean.
He cannot get used to the steadiness of the ground, or rather, get at
once rid of the unsteadiness of the ship. I found myself reeling from
side to side on the sidewalk, and on entering the Queen's Hotel, holding
on to a desk with one hand, to steady myself, while I wrote with the
other. The rolling motion of the ship, to which you have become
accustomed, is once more perceptible; and I knew one friend, who did not
have a sick day on board ship, who was taken landsick two hours after
stepping on shore, and had as thorough a casting up of accounts for an
hour as any of us experienced on the steamer at sea. The Cunard steamers
generally arrive at, or used to arrive at, Queenstown on Sunday
mornings, and all who land are eager to get breakfast ashore. We tried
the Queen's Hotel, where we got a very fair breakfast, and were charged
six or eight shillings for the privilege of the ladies sitting in a room
till the meal was ready for us--the first, and I think the only,
positive swindle I experienced in Ireland. After breakfast the first
ride on an English (or rather Irish) railway train took us to Cork. The
road was through a lovely country, and, although it was the first of
May, green with verdure as with us in June--no harsh New England east
winds; and one can easily see in this country how May-day came to be
celebrated with May-queens, dances, and May-poles.
To us, just landed from the close steamer, how grateful was the
fragrance of the fresh earth, the newly-blossomed trees, and the hedges
all alive with twittering sparrows! The country roads were smooth, hard,
and clear as a ball-room floor; the greensward, fresh and bright, rolled
up in luxuriant waves to the very foot of the great brown-trunked trees;
chapel bells were tolling, and we saw the Irish peasantry trudging along
to church, for all the world as though they had just stepped out of the
pictures in the story-books. There were the women with blue-gray cloaks,
with hoods at the back, and broad white caps, men in short corduroys,
brogues, bobtail coats, caubeens and shillalah; then there was an
occasional little tip-cart of the costermonger and his wife, drawn by a
donkey; the jaunting-car, with half a dozen merry occupants, all forming
the moving figures in the rich landscape of living green in herbage, and
the soft brown of the half moss-covered stone walls, or the corrugated
stems of the great trees.
We were on shore again; once more upon a footing that did not slide from
beneath the very step, and the never-ending broad expanse of heaving
blue was exchanged for the more grateful scene of pleasant fields and
waving trees; the sufferings of a first voyage had already begun to live
in remembrance only as a hideous nightmare.
A good hotel at Cork is the Imperial Hotel; the attendance prompt, the
chamber linen fresh and clean, the viands well prepared.
The scenery around Cork is very beautiful, especially on the eastern
side, on what is known as the upper and lower Glanmere roads, which
command fine views. The principal promenade is a fine raised avenue, or
walk, over a mile in length, extending through the meadows midway
between two branches of the River Lee, and shaded by a double row of
lofty and flourishing elms.
Our first walk in Ireland was from the Imperial Hotel to the Mardyke.
Fifteen minutes brought us to the River Lee; and now, with the city
proper behind us, did we enjoy the lovely scene spread out to view.
In the month of May one realizes why Ireland is called the Emerald
Isle--such lovely green turf, thick, luxurious, and velvety to the
tread, and so lively a green; fancy New England grass varnished and
polished, and you have it. The shade trees were all in full leaf, the
fruit trees in full flower; sheep and lambs gamboling upon the
greensward, birds piping in the hedges, and _such_ hedges, and
laburnums, and clambering ivy, and hawthorn, the air perfumed with
blossoms, the blue sky in the background pierced by the turrets of an
old edifice surrounded by tall trees, round which wheeled circles of
cawing rooks; the little cottages we passed, half shrouded in beautiful
clambering Irish ivy, that was peopled by the nests of the brisk little
sparrows, filling the air with their twitterings; the soft spring
breeze, and the beautiful reach of landscape--all seemed a realization
of some of those scenes that poets write of, and which we sometimes
fancy owe their existence to the luxuriance of imagination.
Returning, we passed through another portion of the city, which gave us
a somewhat different view; it was nearly a mile of Irish cabins. Of
course one prominent feature was dirt, and we witnessed Pat in all his
national glory. A newly-arrived American cannot help noticing the
deference paid to caste and position; we, who treat Irish servants and
laborers so well as we do, are surprised to see how much better _they_
treat their employers in Ireland, and how little kind treatment the
working class receive from those immediately above them.
The civil and deferential Pat who steps aside for a well-dressed couple
to pass, and touches his hat, in Cork, is vastly different from the
independent, voting Pat that elbows you off the sidewalk, or puffs his
fragrant pipe into your very face in America. In Ireland he accepts a
shilling with gratitude, and invocation of blessings on the donor; in
America he condescends to receive two dollars a day! A fellow-passenger
remarked that in the old country they were a race of Touch-hats, in the
new one of Go to ----. I found them here obliging and civil, ready to
earn an honest penny, and grateful for it, and much more inclined to
"blarney" a little extra from the traveller than to swindle it out of
him.
I made an arrangement with a lively driver to take us to the celebrated
Blarney Castle in a jaunting-car--a delightful vehicle to ride in of a
pleasant spring day, as it was on that of our excursion. The cars for
these rides are hung on springs, are nicely cushioned, and the four
passengers sit back to back, facing to the side; and there being no
cover or top to the vehicle, there is every opportunity of seeing the
passing landscape.
No American who has been interested in the beautiful descriptions of
English and Irish scenery by the British poets can realize their
truthfulness until he looks upon it, the characteristics of the scenery,
and the very climate, are so different from our own. The ride to Blarney
Castle is a delightfully romantic one, of about six miles; the road,
which is smooth, hard, and kept in excellent order, winds upon a side
hill of the River Lee, which you see continually flashing in and out in
its course through the valley below; every inch of ground appears to be
beautifully cultivated. The road is lined with old brown stone walls,
clad with ivy of every variety--dark-green, polished leaf, Irish ivy,
small leaf, heart leaf, broad leaf, and lance leaf, such as we see
cultivated in pots and green-houses at home, was here flourishing in
wild luxuriance.
The climate here is so moist that every rock and stone fence is clad
with some kind of verdure; the whole seems to satisfy the eye. The old
trees are circled round and round in the ivy clasp; the hedges are in
their light-green livery of spring; there are long reaches of pretty
rustic lanes, with fresh green turf underneath grand old trees, and
there are whole banks of violets and primroses--yes, whole banks of such
pretty, yellow primroses as we preserve singly in pots at home.
There are grand entrances to avenues leading up to stately estates,
pretty ivy-clad cottages, peasants' miserable, thatched cabins, great
sweeps of green meadow, and the fields and woods are perfectly musical
with singing birds, so unlike America: there are linnets, that pipe
beautifully; finches, thrushes, and others, that fill the air with their
warblings; skylarks, that rise in regular circles high into the air,
singing beautifully, till lost to vision; rooks, that caw solemnly, and
gather in conclaves on trees and roofs. Nature seems trying to cover the
poverty and squalor that disfigures the land with a mantle of her own
luxuriance and beauty.
Blarney Castle is a good specimen of an old ruin of that description for
the newly-arrived tourist to visit, as it will come up to his
expectation in many respects, in appearance, as to what he imagined a
ruined castle to be, from books and pictures. It is a fine old building,
clad inside and out with ivy, situated near a river of the same name,
and on a high limestone rock; it was built in the year 1300. In the
reign of Elizabeth it was the strongest fortress in Munster, and at
different periods has withstood regular sieges; it was demolished, all
but the central tower, in the year 1646.
The celebrated Blarney Stone is about two feet below the summit of the
tower, and held in its place by iron stanchions; and as one is obliged
to lie at full length, and stretch over the verge of the parapet, having
a friend to hold upon your lower limbs, for fear an accidental slip or
giddiness may send you a hundred feet below, it may be imagined that the
act of kissing the Blarney Stone is not without its perils. However,
that duty performed, and a charming view enjoyed of the rich undulating
country from the summit, and inspection made of some of the odd little
turret chambers of the tower, and loopholes for archery, we descended,
gratified the old woman who acts as key-bearer by crossing her palm with
silver, strolled amid the beautiful groves of Blarney for a brief
period, and finally rattled off again in our jaunting-cars over the
romantic road.
The Shelborne House, Dublin, is a hotel after the American style, a good
Fifth Avenue sort of affair, clean, and well kept, and opposite a
beautiful park (Stephens Green). Americans will find this to be a house
that will suit their tastes and desires as well, if not better, than any
other in Dublin. Sackville Street, in Dublin, is said to be one of the
finest streets in Europe. I cannot agree with the guide-books in this
opinion, although, standing on Carlisle Bridge, and looking down this
broad avenue, with the Nelson Monument, one hundred and ten feet in
height, in the centre, and its stately stores on each side, it certainly
has a very fine appearance. Here I first visited shops on the other side
of the water, and the very first thing that strikes an American is the
promptness with which he is served, the civility with which he is
treated, the immense assortment and variety of goods, and the effort of
the salesmen to do everything to accommodate the purchaser. They seem to
say, by their actions, "We are put here to attend to buyers' wants; to
serve them, to wait upon them, to make the goods and the establishment
attractive; to sell goods, and we want to sell goods." On the other
hand, in our own country the style and manner of the clerks is too often
that of "I'm just as good, and a little better, than you--buy, if you
want, or leave--we don't care whether we sell or not--it's a
condescension to inform you of our prices; don't expect any attention."
The variety of goods in the foreign shops is marvellous to an American;
one pattern or color not suiting, dozens of others are shown, or
anything will be made at a few hours' notice.
Here in Dublin are the great Irish poplin manufactures; and in these
days of high prices, hardly any American lady leaves Dublin without a
dress pattern, at least, of this elegant material, which can be
obtained in the original packages of the "Original Jacobs" of the trade,
Richard Atkinson, in College Green, whose front store is a gallery of
medals and appointments, as poplin manufacturer to members of royal
families for years and years. The ladies of my party were crazy with
delight over the exquisite hues, the splendid quality, the low
prices--forgetting, dear creatures, the difference of exchange, and the
then existing premium on gold, and sixty per cent. duty that had to be
added to the rate before the goods were paid for in America.
Notwithstanding the stock, the hue to match the pattern a lady had in
her pocket was not to be had.
"We can make you a dress, if you can wait, madam," said the polite
shopman, "of exactly the same color as your sample."
"How long will it take to make it?"
"We can deliver it to you in eight or ten days."
"O, I shall be in London then," said the lady.
"That makes no difference, madam. We will deliver it to you anywhere in
London, carriage free."
And so, indeed, it was delivered. The order was left, sent to the
factory by the shopman, and at the appointed time delivered in London,
the lady paying on delivery the same rate as charged for similar quality
of goods at the store in Dublin, and having the enviable satisfaction of
showing the double poplin that was "made expressly to her order"--one
dress pattern--"in Dublin."
I mention this transaction to show what pains are taken to suit the
purchaser, and how any one can get what he wants abroad, if he has the
means to pay.
This is owing chiefly to the different way of doing business, and also
to the sharper competition in the old countries. For instance, the
Pacific Mills, of Lawrence, Mass., would never think of opening a retail
store for the sale of their goods on Washington Street, Boston; and if
an English lady failed to find a piece of goods of the color that suited
her, of manufacturing sixteen or eighteen yards to her order, and then
sending it, free of express charge, to New York.
The quantity and variety of goods on hand are overwhelming; the prices,
in comparison with ours, so very low that I wanted to buy a ship-load.
Whole stores are devoted to specialities--the beautiful Irish linen in
every variety, Irish bog-wood carving in every conceivable form,
bracelets, rings, figures, necklaces, breast-pins, &c. I visited one
large establishment, where every species of dry goods, fancy goods,
haberdashery, and, I think, everything except eatables, were sold. Three
hundred and fifty salesmen were employed, the proprietors boarding and
lodging a large number of them on the premises.
The shops in Dublin are very fine, the prices lower than in London, and
the attendance excellent.
"But Dublin--are you going to describe Dublin?"
Not much, dear reader. Describing cities would only be copying the
guide-book, or doing what every newspaper correspondent thinks it
necessary to do. Now, if I can think of a few unconsidered trifles,
which correspondents do not write about, but which tourists, on their
first visit, always wish information about, I shall think it doing a
service to present them in these sketches.
The Nelson Monument, a Doric column of one hundred and ten feet high,
upon which is a statue eleven feet high of the hero of the Nile, always
attracts the attention of visitors. The great bridges over the Liffey,
and the quays, are splendid pieces of workmanship, and worth inspection,
and of course you will go to see Dublin Castle.
This castle was originally built by order of King John, about the year
1215. But little of it remains now, however, except what is known as the
Wardrobe Tower, all the present structure having been built since the
seventeenth century. Passing in through the great castle court-yard, a
ring at a side door brought a courteous English housekeeper, who showed
us through the state apartments. Among the most noteworthy of these was
the presence-chamber, in which is a richly-carved and ornamental throne,
frescoed ceilings, richly-upholstered furniture, &c., the whole most
strikingly reminding one of those scenes at the theatre, where the
"duke and attendants," or the "king and courtiers," come on. It is here
the lord lieutenant holds his receptions, and where individuals are
"presented" to him as the representative of royalty. The great ball-room
is magnificent. It is eighty-two feet long, and forty-one wide, and
thirty-eight in height, the ceiling being decorated with beautiful
paintings. One represents George III., supported by Liberty and Justice,
another the Conversion of the Irish by St. Patrick, and the third, a
very spirited one, Henry II. receiving the Submission of the Native
Irish Chiefs. Henry II. held his first court in Dublin in 1172.
The Chapel Royal, immediately adjoining, is a fine Gothic edifice, with
a most beautiful interior, the ceiling elegantly carved, and a beautiful
stained-glass window, with a representation of Christ before Pilate,
figures of the Evangelists, &c. Here, carved and displayed, are the
coats-of-arms of the different lord lieutenants from the year 1172 to
the present time. The throne of the lord lieutenant in one gallery, and
that for the archbishop opposite, are conspicuous. This edifice was
completed in 1814, and cost forty-two thousand pounds. It was the first
Church of England interior I had seen over the ocean, and its richness
and beauty were impressive at the time, but were almost bleached from
memory by the grander temples visited a few weeks after. The polite
housekeeper, whom, in my inexperience, I felt almost ashamed to hand a
shilling to, took it, nevertheless, very gratefully, and in a manner
that proved that her pride was not at all wounded by the action.
In obedience to the advice of an Emeralder, that we must not "lave
Dublin widout seein' St. Patrick's Church," we walked down to that
celebrated cathedral. The square which surrounds it is as much a
curiosity in its way as the cathedral itself. The whole neighborhood
seemed to consist of the dirtiest, quaintest tumble-down old houses in
Dublin, and swarmed with women and children.
Hundreds of these houses seemed to be devoted to the sale of old junk,
sixth-hand clothing, and fourth-hand articles of every description
one could name or think of--old tin pots and kettles, old rope,
blacking-jugs, old bottles, old boots, shoes, and clothing in every
style of dilapidation--till you could scarcely say where the article
ended being sold as a coat, and became rags--iron hoops, old furniture,
nails, old hats, bonnets, cracked and half-broken crockery. It verily
seemed as if this place was the rag fair and ash-heap of the whole
civilized world. The contents of six American ash-barrels would have
given any one of these Cheap John stores a stock that would have dazzled
the neighborhood with its magnificence.
You could go shopping here with two-pence. Costermongers' carts, with
their donkeys attached, stood at the curbstones, ragged and half-starved
children played in the gutters, great coarse women stood lazily talking
with each other, or were crouched over a heap of merchandise, smoking
short pipes, and waiting or chaffering with purchasers. Little filthy
shops on every hand dealt out Ireland's curse at two-pence a dram, and
"Gin," "Choice Spirits Sold Here," "Whiskey," "Spirits," were signs that
greeted the eye on their doorposts. The spring breeze was tainted with
foul odors, and there was a busy clatter of tongues from the seething
and crowded mass of humanity that surged round in every direction.
Upon the farther corner of the third side of the square, where the
neighborhood was somewhat better, we discovered the residence of the
sexton who had charge of the church--a strong Orangeman, bitterly
opposed to the Romish church, and with a strong liking for America,
increased by the fact of having a brother in the American Union army,
who rose from sergeant to colonel in one of the western regiments.
"Think o' that, sir! Ye might be as brave as Julyus Sayzer in the
English army, and sorra a rise would ye get, except ye'd be sated on a
powdher magazine whin it exploded."
The legend is, that this church was originally built by St. Patrick,
and the sexton took me into a little old crypt at the end of one of the
aisles of the nave--all that remains of that portion of the church,
which it is averred was built A. D. 540. This crypt was floored with
curious old tiles, over a thousand years old, put down and the fragments
matched together with great labor and expense, and the flooring worth
more money than a covering of an "aven layer o' guineas" upon it.
The old stone font, A. D. 1190, the old carved chest for vestments,
and the curious stone coffins, relics of the old church, were
interesting. Among the monuments in the church, Archbishop Whately's
magnificently-carved marble sarcophagus, surmounted by his full-length
effigy, was particularly noticeable; Swift's monument, Stella's tablet,
and the economical tablet put up in memory of Duke Schomberg by Swift.
Here in St. Patrick's Cathedral are displayed the stalls, arms, and
banners of the Knights of St. Patrick, the army "memorials" of the India
and China British regiments, with the flags they carried from 1852 to
1857 in their campaigns. Upon the wall was suspended the cannon shot
that killed Schomberg at the memorable battle of the Boyne in 1690, and
the spurs that he wore at the time. Schomberg's remains are interred at
Westminster Abbey.
My first ride in an old country park was in the Phoenix Park, Dublin
a--beautiful pleasure-ground of over eighteen hundred acres in extent. I
imagined how laughable it must have seemed to the Prince of Wales, when,
at the review he attended on Boston Common, he politely assented to the
remark of a militia officer, that "this great area" (the Common parade
ground) "was well adapted for displays of large bodies of troops," as I
sat looking at the parade ground of _this_ park, a clear, unbroken
greensward of six times the size.
Think of riding over drives or malls fifty feet wide, and from three to
five miles in length, lined with gas-lights to illuminate it at night,
herds of hundreds of deer sporting on the open sward, or under the
great, sturdy trees, which are grouped in twos, threes, or clusters, for
landscape effect, and the turf beneath them thick, green, and
luxuriant; and then, again, there are rustic, country-like roads, shady
dells, and rustic paths in the beautiful park; a great monument erected
to Wellington by his countrymen at a cost of one hundred thousand
pounds, will attract attention, and so will the numerous fashionable
turnouts that roll over the well-kept roads every pleasant spring
afternoon.
From Dublin to Kingston is a pleasant little ride by rail. Kingston is
on St. George's Channel, or the lower part of the Irish Sea, and
directly opposite Holyhead, Wales. At Kingston we took steamer for the
passage across. The steamers of this line carry the royal mail, are
built for strength and speed, and are splendid boats, of immense power,
said to be the strongest and swiftest in Great Britain, and run at
the rate of sixteen miles an hour. Fortunately, the passage was
comparatively a smooth one, and we disembarked in good condition upon
the opposite shore, where we took train for Chester. An English railway
carriage--its form is familiar to all from frequent description; but
think of the annoyance of having to look after your luggage, to see it
safely bestowed on the top of the car, or in a luggage van, and to be
obliged to look out that it is not removed by mistake at any of the
great stations you do not stop at, or that it _is_ removed when you _do_
stop.
A few words on railway travelling in England: it differs from ours
essentially. First, the cars on English roads are not so convenient,
comfortable, or even so private as the American car. In the English
first-class carriage, four persons must sit facing four persons;
consequently four must perforce ride backwards, and the four are placed
so as to stare directly at their opposite neighbors,--sometimes
unpleasant, if all are not acquainted, especially at lunch time, &c.
Then, in the English carriage, four persons only of the eight can get a
fair view of the scenery, and two of these are riding backwards. These
four "govern" the windows, and lower or close at their pleasure. I have
been nearly smothered, as well as thoroughly chilled, by happening to
have people of adverse temperaments get the window seats, till I
learned how to travel by rail in England, of which, hints anon.
There are no means of heating the English railway carriage, and they are
not tightly joined, especially the second-class ones. Hence the "railway
rugs," &c., one hears so much about. But then, it must be confessed, the
danger of the American stove renders it a rather unpopular affair. The
second-class car is a plain, substantial carriage, and the larger
portion of the passengers travel in it. The first-class car is more
luxurious, upholstered more plentifully, supplied with racks for light
baggage, and curtains at the windows. The English have not even reached
the improvement of the sliding blind, which we have in America, so
useful in excluding the sun's rays and admitting the air, the substitute
being a flapping silk curtain. The second-class car has no curtain or
shade to the window whatever. The absence of the signal rope is
noticeable, and no man nowadays will remain in an English railway
carriage, if one or two other men come in that he does not know. Is it
not singular that so simple an arrangement as the signal rope to the
engine driver should not have been applied, after all the murders, and
assaults, and casualties, that have occurred on English railway trains,
and proved its necessity?
Not at all. It is an American invention--a novelty. An Englishman does
not believe in novelties, in innovations, or in American inventions.
After he has tried every other thing he can think of as a substitute,
and finds he can get nothing so simple and effectual, he will adopt it;
and then it will be claimed as an English invention--invented by an
Englishman; just as they claim the invention of the revolver, steamboat,
and I don't know but the sewing-machine.
The English locomotives have no protection upon them for the
engine-driver and fireman. These men are exposed, without shelter, and
must have a rough time of it in bad weather. The "guard," who occupies
the place of the American conductor, but by no means fills it, is always
recognizable by his uniform; and at the stations, the numerous porters
which it is necessary for the company to employ to handle baggage, owing
to the absence of the check system, are also in uniform. These men are
invariably civil, ready to serve, and understand their position and
duties thoroughly.
On some of the English railroads that I travelled over, it seemed as
though the only duty the company thought they had to perform, was to
simply carry you over their road; and the ignorance of some of the under
employés was positively amazing. Seated in the carriage, you might ride
twenty miles past the station at which you wished to stop without
knowing it, if you chanced to be on the off side.
There was no conductor to pass and repass _through_ the train, to look
out that you debarked at the proper station; no list of towns on the
back of your railroad check; no shout of "Passengers for Chester!
Chester!" when the train stopped; and the guard knew nothing of any
other train except his own, or any other distance over the road, or of
how to connect with any other train.
The passenger is left to himself, and is never told by the guard to
"change cars here for ----." That, you have to know yourself, and look
out and have the railway porter get your luggage (not _baggage_) off, or
it will carried on, as they have no check system--another American
affair, which it won't do to adopt too readily.
Luggage is weighed, and, beyond a certain amount, charged for; but any
portmanteau one can get under the seat is free; and it is astonishing
what big valises some men carry. And in the absence of the check system,
this is, of course, the safest way.
Comparatively little luggage is lost or stolen. One reason why it is not
stolen is, that there is a law here which _punishes_ thieves, and does
not allow them liberty for a stipulated sum, known as _bail_ in America.
The price in the first-class carriage, on the fast or express trains, is
about a third higher than the second. A third class is still cheaper.
The parliamentary or slow trains have cheaper rates than the express.
The division of "classes" is, in many respects, an excellent
arrangement. It affords to him who desires better accommodations, and
has the means to pay for them, the opportunity of enjoying them; and it
does not force the poor man, the laborer or emigrant, to ride in a
richly upholstered carriage, where he feels he is out of place, when he
would prefer to save his money, and have less gilding and upholstery.
One very soon finds, in England, the deference paid to class and to
wealth, and nowhere sooner than on the railway train. It is presumed, on
the expensive routes, that those riding in first-class carriages are
"first-class" people, and the guard's manner to the passengers in the
different carriages is an index of English education in this matter. As
he appears at the window of the first-class carriage, he politely
touches his hat:--
"All are for London in this compartment? Thank you."
To the second-class: "Tickets, please."
To the third-class: "Now, then, tickets. Look alive here, will you?"
The first-class passenger finds that his wants are better attended to,
his questions answered deferentially; he is allowed to take almost any
amount of small luggage into the car with him, much of which would be
excluded from the second-class, if an attempt were made to carry it in.
And O, the potency of the English shilling!
Each car seats eight; but we will suppose that there are a party of four
travelling together, and desire no more passengers in the compartments.
Call the guard to the window, put your hand in your pocket, looking him
in the eye significantly. He will carelessly drop his own hand within
the window opening inside the car. You drop a shilling in the hand.
"This car is occupied."
"Quite so, sir."
Touching his hat, he locks the car door, and when other people come
trying the door, he is conveniently out of the way, or informs the
applicant, "Third carriage forward for London, sir," and by a dozen
ingenious subterfuges keeps you free from strangers, so much that you
betray yourself to him as an American by giving him another shilling at
your journey's end; and, although smoking "is strictly forbidden in
first-class carriages," a party of three or four smokers, by the
judicious use of a couple of shillings, may have one all to themselves
for that purpose.
The railway stations in England are very fine, and much superior to
those in America, although we are improving ours, especially in the
great cities. In the great English cities and towns, the stations are
vast iron, glass-roofed structures, kept in excellent order. The
waiting-rooms are divided into first, second, and third class, and the
door opening upon the platform is not opened until a certain time before
the train starts. Porters in uniform take the luggage to the train, and
the "guard" who acts as conductor knows nothing about any railway train
connections or line beyond his own. The passenger is supposed to know
all that sort of thing, and he who "wants to know, you know," is at once
recognized as an American.
The country stations are beautiful little rustic affairs, with gardens
of roses and sweetbrier, honeysuckles and flowering shrubs about them.
Some have the name of the station sown in dwarf flowers upon the bank
outside, presenting a very pretty appearance in spring and summer, and
contrasting very agreeably with the rude shanties we find in America,
with their tobacco-stained floors within, and bare expanse of yellow
sand outside.
We rattled through Wales in an express train, a romantic view of wild
Welsh mountains on one side, and the beating and heaving ocean dashing
up on the other, sometimes almost to the very railway track. We ran
through great tunnels, miles in length, whirled at the rate of fifty
miles an hour through the great slate-quarrying district and Bangor,
past the magnificent suspension bridge over Menai Straits, by the
romantic old castle of Conway, with its shattered battlements and
turrets looking down at the sea, which dashes up its foam-crested waves
ceaselessly at its rocky base, the old red sandstone walls worn and
corroded with time; on, past thatched huts, rustic cottages, and green
landscape, till the panting train halted at the great modern railway
station in that oldest of English cities, Chester.
This station is one of the longest in England, being ten hundred and
fifty feet long, and having wings, a kind of projecting arcades, with
iron roofs, to shelter vehicles waiting for trains. From this
magnificent modern-built station a cab carried us, in a few minutes, on
our route to the hotel (Grosvenor House), into an old street that looked
as though we had got into a set scene at the theatre, representing a
street in Windsor for Falstaff and the Merry Wives to appear in; houses
built in 1500, or years before, the street or sidewalks passing right
under some of them; quaint old oddities of architecture, with curious
inscriptions in abbreviated old English on their carved cross-beams, and
their gables sticking out in every direction; curious little windows
with diamond-shaped panes set in lead; and houses looking as though the
hand of time had squeezed them together, or extracted the juice from
them like sucked oranges, and left only the dried rind, half shrunken
from its original shape, remaining.
The great curiosity, however, in Chester, is the Chester Cathedral, and
the old walls that encompass the city. I never realized the force of the
expression "the corroding tooth of time" till I saw this magnificent old
cathedral: portions of it which were once sharply sculptured in various
designs are now worn almost smooth by age, the old red sandstone looking
as though time had sand-papered it with gritty hail and honeycombed its
stones with melting rains; but the whole was surrounded with a mellow,
softened beauty of groined arches, beautiful curves, dreamy old
cloisters, and quaint carving, that invested even the ruined portion
with a hallowed beauty. The stained-glass windows, both old and modern,
are glorious colored wonders; the chapel where the services are now held
is the same where, a thousand years ago, dreamy old monks told their
beads; and there are their stalls or seats, so contrived as to afford
but partial rest, so that if the sitter slumbered they fell forward with
his weight, and threw him to the floor.
The antique wood carving upon the seats and pews here, now blackened and
hardened almost to ebony in appearance, is very fine, excellently
executed, and well preserved. High above ran around the nuns' walk, with
occasional openings, whence the meek-eyed sisterhood could hear service
below without being seen themselves as they came from their quiet
cloisters near at hand, a quadrangle of one hundred and ten feet square,
in which were four covered walks looking upon the enclosed garden, now a
neglected greensward, where several forgotten old abbots slumber
peacefully beneath great stone slabs with obliterated inscriptions.
The curious grope into some of the old cells, and most of us go down
under the building in the crypt, where the massive Gothic pillars, that
support the pile, still in perfect preservation, bring vividly to mind
those canvas representations of prison scenes one sees upon the stage.
Inside the cathedral were numerous very old monuments and mementos of
the past; among others an immense tapestry wrought by nuns hundreds of
years ago, and representing Elymas struck with blindness. The enormous
size of these cathedrals strikes the "fresh" American tourist with
wonder. Fancy churches five times as large as ours, and the height
inside from sixty to one hundred feet from the stone floor to the arched
ceiling, lighted with glorious great windows of stained glass, upon
which the stories of the Bible are told in colored pictures, and south,
east, west, transepts, nave, and choir, crowded with relics of the past,
that you have read of in the story-books of youth, and again upon the
pages of history in maturer years; artistic sculptures, old monuments,
statues, carvings, and curious remains.
In the chapter-house connected with the cathedral, we were shown the
colors carried by the Cheshire regiment on the field of Waterloo; and it
was interesting for me to grasp with my sacrilegious American hand one
of the colors borne by a British regiment in America during the war of
the Revolution.
We also visited the ecclesiastical court-room in which the Bishop of
Chester, in 1554, tried a Protestant minister, George Marsh, and
sentenced him to be burned for heresy. The seats of the judges and chair
of the accused are still preserved and shown to the visitor, who
generally desires to sit in the martyr's seat, and finds it, even for a
few minutes, an uncomfortable one.
The Chester Cathedral is said to have been founded in the year 200, and
was used as a place of safety against the Danes in 800. It was well
kept, and ruled by abbots, and its history well preserved from the time
of King William Rufus, who was killed in New Forest, 1093, down to 1541.
The old walls of Chester are the great attraction of the city; in fact,
Chester is the only city in Great Britain that has preserved its old
walls entire: they enclose the city proper, and are about two miles in
circumference, affording a delightful promenade and prospect of the
surrounding country. The walls are squarely built of a soft red
freestone, something like that used for our "brown stone front" houses,
though apparently not so hard a material, and vary from twelve to forty
feet in height. A fresh tourist from a new country like our own begins
to feel he is communing with the past, as he walks over these old walls,
erected A. D. 61, and finds their chronology to read thus:--
A. D.
61--Walls built by Romans.
73--Marius, King of the Britons, extended the walls.
607--The Britons defeated under the walls.
907--The walls rebuilt by daughter of Alfred the Great.
1224--An assessment for repairing the walls.
1399--Henry of Lancaster mustered his troops under these walls.
1645--The Parliamentary forces made a breach in these walls.
So that it will be seen they have looked down upon some of the most
eventful scenes of history; and as we strolled along, thinking what a
feeble obstacle they would prove against the formidable engines of
modern warfare, we came to a tower called the Phoenix Tower; and an
inscription upon it informs the visitor that upon this tower King
Charles I. stood in 1645, and witnessed the defeat of his army on Rowton
Moor, four miles off, then a barren field, but now a smiling plain of
fields and cottages, looking very unlike a barren moor, or the scene of
a sanguinary combat. In this old tower a curious, antiquary sort of old
fellow keeps a motley collection of curiosities, among which were
Havelock's spurs, buckles of Queen Mary's time, bean from tree planted
by Washington (!), and a great, staring, size-of-life wood-cut of
Abraham Lincoln, besides coins, relics, &c., that were labelled to
interest, but whose genuineness might not stand the test of too close an
investigation.