I can compare the embarrassment of our London life, with its
multiplied solicitations and infinite stimulants to curiosity and
desire, only to that annual perplexity which used to beset us in our
childhood on thanksgiving day. Having been kept all the year within
the limits which prudence assigns to well-regulated children, came at
last the governor's proclamation, and a general saturnalia of dainties
for the little ones. For one day the gates of license were thrown
open, and we, plumped down into the midst of pie and pudding exceeding
all conception but that of a Yankee housekeeper, were left to struggle
our way out as best we might.
So here, beside all the living world of London, its scope and range of
persons and circles of thought, come its architecture, its arts, its
localities, historic, poetic, all that expresses its past, its
present, and its future. Every day and every hour brings its'
conflicting allurements, of persons to be seen, places to be visited,
things to be done, beyond all computation. Like Miss Edgeworth's
philosophic little Frank, we are obliged to make out our list of what
man _must_ want, and of what he _may_ want; and in our list
of the former we set down, in large and decisive characters, one quiet
day for the exploration and enjoyment of Windsor.
We were solicited, indeed, to go in another direction; a party was
formed to go down the Thames with the Right Hon. Sidney Herbert,
secretary at war, and visit an emigrant ship just starting for
Australia. I should say here, that since Mrs. Chisholm's labors have
awakened the attention of the English public to the wants and
condition of emigrants, the benevolent people of England take great
interest in the departing of emigrant ships. A society has been formed
called the Family Colonization Loan Society, and a fund raised by
which money can be loaned to those desiring to emigrate. This society
makes it an object to cultivate acquaintance and intimacy among those
about going out by uniting them into groups, and, as far as possible,
placing orphan children and single females under the protection of
families. Any one, by subscribing six guineas towards the loan, can
secure one passage. Each individual becomes responsible for refunding
his own fare, and, furthermore, to pay a certain assessment in case
any individual of the group fails to make up the passage money. The
sailing of emigrant ships, therefore, has become a scene of great
interest. Those departing do not leave their native shore without
substantial proofs of the interest and care of the land they are
leaving.
In the party who were going down to-day were Mr. and Mrs. Binney, Mr.
Sherman, and a number of distinguished names; among whom I recollect
to have heard the names of Lady Hatherton, and Lady Byron, widow of
the poet. This would have been an exceedingly interesting scene to us,
but being already worn with company and excitement, we preferred a
quiet day at Windsor.
For if we took Warwick as the representative feudal estate, we took
Windsor as the representative palace, that which imbodies the English
idea of royalty. Apart from this, Windsor has been immortalized by the
Merry Wives; it has still standing in its park the Herne oak, where
the mischievous fairies played their pranks upon old Falstaff.
And the castle still has about it the charm of the poet's
invocation:--
"Search Windsor Castle, elves, within, without,
Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room,
That it may stand till the perpetual doom
In state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit,
Worthy the owner, and the owner it.
The several chairs of order, look you, scour
With juice of balm and every precious flower,
Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,
With loyal blazon evermore be blest.
And nightly, meadow fairies, look you, sing
Like to the garter's compass, in a ring.
The expressure that it bears, green let it be,
More fertile, fresh, than all the field to see,
And Honi soit qui mal y pense, write
In emerald tufts, flowers, purple, blue, and white,
Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery,
Fairies use flowers for their charactery."
As if for the loyal purpose of recommending old Windsor, the English
skies had cleared up into brightness. About nine o'clock we found
ourselves in the cars, riding through a perpetual garden of blooming
trees and blossoming hedges; birds in a perfect fury of delight. Our
spirits were all elated. Good, honest, cackling Mrs. Quickly herself
was not more disposed to make the best of every thing and every body
than were we. Mr. S., in particular, was so joyous that I was afraid
he would break out into song, after the fashion of Sir Hugh Evans,--
"Melodious birds sung madrigals:
Whenas I sat in Babylon," &c.
By the by, the fishing ground of Izaak Walton is one of the localities
connected with Windsor.
The ride was done all too soon. One should not whirl through such a
choice bit of England in the cars; one should rather wish to amble
over the way after a sleepy, contemplative old horse, as we used to
make rural excursions in New England ere yet railroads were. However,
all that's bright must fade, and this among the rest.
About eleven o'clock we found ourselves going up the old stone steps
to the castle. It was the last day of a fair which had been holden in
this part of the country, and crowds of the common people were
flocking to the castle, men, women, and children pattering up the
stairs before and after us.
We went first through the state apartments. The principal thing that
interested me was the ball room, which was a perfect gallery of
Vandyke's paintings. Here was certainly an opportunity to know what
Vandyke is. I should call him a true court painter--a master of
splendid conventionalities, whose portraits of kings are the most
powerful arguments for the divine right I know of. Nevertheless,
beyond conventionality and outward magnificence, his ideas have no
range. He suggests nothing to the moral and ideal part of us. Here
again was the picture of King Charles on horseback, which had
interested me at Warwick. It had, however, a peculiar and romantic
charm from its position at the end of that long, dim corridor,
vis-a-vis with the masque of Cromwell, which did not accompany it
here, where it was but one among a set of pictures.
There was another, presenting the front side and three quarters face
of the same sovereign, painted by Vandyke for Benini to make a bust
from. There were no less than five portraits of his wife, Henrietta
Maria, in different dresses and attitudes, and two pictures of their
children. No sovereign is so profusely and perseveringly represented.
The queen's audience chamber is hung with tapestry representing scenes
from the book of Esther. This tapestry made a very great impression
upon me. A knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome in the
material part of painting is undoubtedly an unsuspected element of
much of the pleasure we derive from it; and for this reason, probably,
this tapestry appeared to us better than paintings executed with equal
spirit in oils. We admired it exceedingly, entirely careless what
critics might think of us if they knew it.
Another room was hung with Gobelin tapestry representing the whole of
the tragedy of Medea. First you have Jason cutting down the golden
fleece, while the dragon lies slain, and Medea is looking on in
admiration. In another he pledges his love to Medea. In a third, the
men sprung from the dragon's teeth are seen contending with each
other. In another the unfaithful lover espouses Creusa. In the next
Creusa is seen burning in the poisoned shirt, given her by Medea. In
another Medea is seen in a car drawn by dragons, bearing her two
children by Jason, whom she has stabbed in revenge for his desertion.
Nothing can exceed the ghastly reality of death, as shown in the
stiffened limbs and sharpened features of those dead children. The
whole drawing and grouping is exceedingly spirited and lifelike, and
has great power of impression.
I was charmed also by nine landscapes of Zuccarelli, which adorn the
state drawing room. Zuccarelli was a follower of Claude, and these
pictures far exceed in effect any of Claude's I have yet seen. The
charm of them does not lie merely in the atmospheric tints and
effects, as those of Cuyp, but in the rich and fanciful combination of
objects. In this respect they perform in painting what the first part
of the Castle of Indolence, or Tennyson's Lotus Eaters, do in poetry--
evoke a fairyland. There was something peculiar about their charm for
me.
Who can decide how much in a picture belongs to the idiosyncrasies and
associations of the person who looks upon it. Artists undoubtedly
powerful and fine may have nothing in them which touches the nervous
sympathies and tastes of some persons: who, therefore, shall establish
any authoritative canon of taste? who shall say that Claude is finer
than Zuccarelli, or Zuccarelli than Claude? A man might as well say
that the woman who enchants him is the only true Venus for the world.
Then, again, how much in painting or in poetry depends upon the frame
of mind in which we see or hear! Whoever looks on these pictures, or
reads the Lotus Eaters or Castle of Indolence, at a time when soul and
body are weary, and longing for retirement and rest, will receive an
impression from them such as could never be made on the strong nerves
of our more healthful and hilarious seasons.
Certainly no emotions so rigidly reject critical restraints, and
disdain to be bound by rule, as those excited by the fine arts. A man
unimpressible and incapable of moods and tenses, is for that reason an
incompetent critic; and the sensitive, excitable man, how can he know
that he does not impose his peculiar mood as a general rule?
From the state rooms we were taken to the top of the Hound Tower,
where we gained a magnificent view of the Park of Windsor, with its
regal avenue, miles in length, of ancient oaks; its sweeps of
greensward; clumps of trees; its old Herne oak, of classic memory; in
short, all that constitutes the idea of a perfect English landscape.
The English tree is shorter and stouter than ours; its foliage dense
and deep, lying with a full, rounding outline against the sky. Every
thing here conveys the idea of concentrated vitality, but without that
rank luxuriance seen in our American growth. Having unfortunately
exhausted the English language on the subject of grass, I will not
repeat any ecstasies upon that topic.
After descending from the tower we filed off to the proper quarter, to
show our orders for the private rooms. The state apartments, which we
had been looking at, are open at all times, but the private apartments
can only be seen in the queen's absence, and by a special permission,
which had been procured for us on this occasion by the kindness of the
Duchess of Sutherland.
One of the first objects that attracted my attention when entering the
vestibule was a baby's wicker wagon, standing in one corner; it was
much such a carriage as all mothers are familiar with; such as figures
largely in the history of almost every family. It had neat curtains
and cushions of green merino, and was not royal, only maternal. I
mused over the little thing with a good deal of interest. It is to my
mind one of the providential signs of our times, that, at this stormy
and most critical period of the world's history, the sovereignty of
the most powerful nation on earth is represented by a woman and a
mother. How many humanizing, gentle, and pacific influences constantly
emanate from this centre!
One of the most interesting apartments was a long corridor, hung with
paintings and garnished along the sides with objects of art and _virtu_.
Here C. and I renewed a dispute which had for some time been pending,
in respect to Canaletto's paintings. This Canaletto was a Venetian
painter, who was born about 1697, and died in London in 1768, and was
greatly in vogue with the upper circles in those days. He delighted in
architectural paintings, which he represents with the accuracy of a
daguerreotype, and a management of perspective, chiaro oscuro, and all
the other mysteries of art, such as make his paintings amount to about
the same as the reality.
Well, here, in this corridor, we had him in full force. Here was
Venice served up to order--its streets, palaces, churches, bridges,
canals, and gondolas made as real to our eye as if we were looking at
them out of a window. I admired them very warmly, but I could not go
into the raptures that C. did, who kept calling me from every thing
else that I wanted to see to come and look at this Canaletto. "Well, I
see it," said I; "it is good--it is perfect--it cannot be bettered;
but what then? There is the same difference between these and a
landscape of Zuccarelli as there is between a neatly-arranged
statistical treatise and a poem. The latter suggests a thousand
images, the former gives you only information."
We were quite interested in a series of paintings which represented
the various events of the present queen's history. There was the
coronation in Westminster Abbey--that national romance which, for once
in our prosaic world, nearly turned the heads of all the sensible
people on earth. Think of vesting the sovereignty of so much of the
world in a fair young girl of seventeen! The picture is a very pretty
one, and is taken at the very moment she is kneeling at the feet of
the Archbishop of Canterbury to receive her crown. She is represented
as a fair-haired, interesting girl, the simplicity of her air
contrasting strangely with the pomp and gorgeous display around. The
painter has done justice to a train of charming young ladies who
surround her; among the faces I recognized the blue eyes and noble
forehead of the Duchess of Sutherland.
Then followed, in due order, the baptism of children, the reception of
poor old Louis Philippe in his exile, and various other matters of the
sort which go to make up royal pictures.
In the family breakfast room we saw some fine Gobelin tapestry,
representing the classical story of Meleager. In one of the rooms, on
a pedestal, stood a gigantic china vase, a present from the Emperor of
Russia, and in the state rooms before we had seen a large malachite
vase from the same donor. The toning of this room, with regard to
color, was like that of the room I described in Stafford House--the
carpet of green ground, with the same little leaf upon it, the walls,
chairs, and sofas covered with green damask. Around the walls of the
room, in some places, were arranged cases of books about three feet
high. I liked this arrangement particularly, because it gives you the
companionship of books in an apartment without occupying that space of
the wall which is advantageous for pictures. Moreover, books placed
high against the walls of a room give a gloomy appearance to the
apartment.
The whole air of these rooms was very charming, suggestive of refined
taste and domestic habits. The idea of home, which pervades every
thing in England, from the cottage to the palace, was as much
suggested here as in any apartments I have seen. The walls of the
different rooms were decorated with portraits of the members of the
royal family, and those of other European princes.
After this we went through the kitchen department--saw the silver and
gold plate of the table; among the latter were some designs which I
thought particularly graceful. To conclude all, we went through the
stables. The man who showed them told us that several of the queen's
favorite horses were taken to Osborne; but there were many beautiful
creatures left, which I regarded with great complacency. The stables
and stalls were perfectly clean, and neatly kept; and one, in short,
derives from the whole view of the economics of Windsor that
satisfaction which results from seeing a thing thoroughly done in the
best conceivable manner.
The management of the estate of Windsor is, I am told, a model for all
landholders in the kingdom. A society has been formed there, within a
few years, under the patronage of the queen, Prince Albert, and the
Duchess of Kent, in which the clergy and gentry of the principal
parishes in this vicinity are interested, for improving the condition
of the laboring classes in this region. The queen and Prince Albert
have taken much interest in the planning and arranging of model houses
for the laboring people, which combine cheapness, neatness,
ventilation, and all the facilities for the formation of good personal
habits. There is a school kept on the estate at Windsor, in which the
queen takes a very practical interest, regulating the books and
studies, and paying frequent visits to it during the time of her
sojourn here. The young girls are instructed in fine needlework; but
the queen discourages embroidery and ornamental work, meaning to make
practical, efficient wives for laboring men. These particulars, with
regard to this school, were related to me by a lady living in the
vicinity of Windsor.
We went into St. George's Chapel, and there we were all exceedingly
interested and enchained in view of the marble monument to the
Princess Charlotte. It consists of two groups, and is designed to
express, in one view, both the celestial and the terrestrial aspect of
death--the visible and the invisible part of dying. For the visible
part, you have the body of the princess in all the desolation and
abandonment of death. The attitude of the figure is as if she had
thrown herself over in a convulsion, and died. The body is lying
listless, simply covered with a sheet, through every fold of which you
can see the utter relaxation of that moment when vitality departs, but
the limbs have not yet stiffened. Her hand and a part of the arm are
hanging down, exposed to view beneath the sheet.
Four figures, with bowed heads, covered with drapery, are represented
as sitting around in mute despair. The idea meant to be conveyed by
the whole group is that of utter desolation and abandonment. All is
over; there is not even heart enough left in the mourners to
straighten the corpse for the burial. The mute marble says, as plainly
as marble can speak, "Let all go; 'tis no matter now; there is no more
use in living--nothing to be done, nothing to be hoped!"
Above this group rises the form of the princess, springing buoyant and
elastic, on angel wings, a smile of triumph and aspiration lighting up
her countenance. Her drapery floats behind her as she rises. Two
angels, one carrying her infant child and the other with clasped hands
of exultant joy, are rising with her, in serene and solemn triumph.
Now, I simply put it to you, or to any one who can judge of poetry, if
this is not a poetical conception. I ask any one who has a heart, if
there is not pathos in it. Is there not a high poetic merit in the
mere conception of these two scenes, thus presented? And had we seen
it rudely chipped and chiselled out by some artist of the middle ages,
whose hand had not yet been practised to do justice to his
conceptions, should we not have said this sculptor had a glorious
thought within him? But the chiselling of this piece is not unworthy
the conception. Nothing can be more exquisite than the turn of the
head, neck, and shoulders; nothing more finely wrought than the
triumphant smile of the angel princess; nothing could be more artistic
than the representation of death in all its hopelessness, in the lower
figure. The poor, dead hand, that shows itself beneath the sheet, has
an unutterable pathos and beauty in it. As to the working of the
drapery,--an inferior consideration, of course,--I see no reason why
it should not compare advantageously with any in the British Museum.
Well, you will ask, why are you going on in this argumentative style?
Who doubts you? Let me tell you, then, a little fragment of my
experience. We saw this group of statuary the last thing before
dinner, after a most fatiguing forenoon of sightseeing, when we were
both tired and hungry,--a most unpropitious time, certainly,--and yet
it enchanted our whole company; what is more, it made us all cry--a
fact of which I am not ashamed, yet. But, only the next day, when I
was expressing my admiration to an artist, who is one of the
authorities, and knows all that is proper to be admired, I was met
with,--
"O, you have seen that, have you? Shocking thing! Miserable
taste--miserable!"
"Dear me," said I, with apprehension, "what is the matter with it?"
"0," said he, "melodramatic, melodramatic--terribly so!"
I was so appalled by this word, of whose meaning I had not a very
clear idea, that I dropped the defence at once, and determined to
reconsider my tears. To have been actually made to cry by a thing that
was melodramatic, was a distressing consideration. Seriously, however,
on reconsidering the objection, I see no sense in it. A thing may be
melodramatic, or any other _atic_ that a man pleases; so that it
be strongly suggestive, poetic, pathetic, it has a right to its own
peculiar place in the world of art. If artists had had their way in
the creation of this world, there would have been only two or three
kinds of things in it; the first three or four things that God created
would have been enacted into fixed rules for making all the rest.
But they let the works of nature alone, because they know there is no
hope for them, and content themselves with enacting rules in
literature and art, which make all the perfection and grace of the
past so many impassable barriers to progress in future. Because the
ancients kept to unity of idea in their groups, and attained to most
beautiful results by doing so, shall no modern make an antithesis in
marble? And why has not a man a right to dramatize in marble as well
as on canvas, if he can produce a powerful and effective result by so
doing? And even if by being melodramatic, as the terrible word is, he
can shadow forth a grand and comforting religious idea--if he can
unveil to those who have seen only the desolation of death, its glory,
and its triumph--who shall say that he may not do so because he
violates the lines of some old Greek artist? Where would Shakspeare's
dramas have been, had he studied the old dramatic unities?
So, you see, like an obstinate republican, as I am, I defend my right
to have my own opinion about this monument, albeit the guide book,
with its usual diplomatic caution, says, "It is in very questionable
taste."
We went for our dinner to the White Hart, the very inn which
Shakspeare celebrates in his Merry Wives, and had a most overflowing,
merry time of it. The fact is, we had not seen each other for so long
that to be in each other's company for a whole day was quite a
stimulant.
After dinner we had a beautiful drive, passing the colleges at Eton,
and seeing the boys out playing cricket; had an excellent opportunity
to think how true Gray's poem on the Prospect of Eton is to boy-nature
then, now, and forever. We were bent upon looking up the church which
gave rise to his Elegy in a Country Churchyard, intending, when we got
there, to have a little scene over it; Mr. S., in all the conscious
importance of having been there before, assuring us that he knew
exactly where it was. So, after some difficulty with our coachman, and
being stopped at one church which would not answer our purpose in any
respect, we were at last set down by one which looked authentic;
embowered in mossy elms, with a most ancient and goblin yew tree, an
ivy-mantled tower, all perfect as could be.
There had been a sprinkle of rain,--an ornament which few English days
want,--and the westering beams of the sun twinkled through innumerable
drops. In fact, it was a pretty place; and I felt such "dispositions
to melancholies," as Sir Hugh Evans would have it, that I half
resented Mr. S.'s suggestion that the cars were waiting. However, as
he was engaged to speak at a peace meeting in London, it was agreed he
should leave us there to stroll, while he took the cars. So away he
went; and we, leaning on the old fence, repeated the Elegy, which
certainly applies here as beautifully as language could apply.
What a calm, shady, poetical nature is expressed in these lines! Gray
seems to have been sent into the world for nothing but to be a poem,
like some of those fabulous, shadowy beings which haunted the cool
grottoes on Grecian mountains; creatures that seem to have no
practical vitality--to be only a kind of voice, an echo, heard for a
little, and then lost in silence. He seemed to be in himself a kind of
elegy.
From thence we strolled along, enjoying the beautiful rural scenery.
Having had a kind invitation to visit Labouchère Park that day, which
we were obliged to decline for want of time, we were pleased to
discover that we had two more hours, in which we could easily
accomplish a stroll there. By a most singular infelicity, our party
became separated; and, misunderstanding each other, we remained
waiting for W. till it was too late for us to go, while he, on the
other hand, supposing us to have walked before him, was redoubling his
speed all the while, hoping to overtake us. In consequence of this, he
accomplished the walk to Labouchère Park, and we waited in the dismal
depot till it was too late to wait any longer, and finally went into
London without him.
After all, imagine our chagrin on being informed that we had not been
to the genuine churchyard. The gentleman who wept over the scenes of
his early days on the wrong doorstep was not more grievously
disappointed. However, he and we could both console ourselves with the
reflection that the emotion was admirable, and wanted only the right
place to make it the most appropriate in the world. The genuine
country churchyard, however, was that at Stoke Pogis, which we should
have seen had not the fates forbidden our going to Labouchère Park.