We landed at seven A.M. Were detained but a short time at the
Custom-house. The ordeal of examining luggage there, proved much less
than we expected; one pleasant official, remarking that he did not wish
to disturb my nicely packed bags, would pass them over if I would swear
that I had no tobacco or cigars. Hasty good-bys, cards and kisses
exchanged, and we were soon whirled to our hotel--the Adelphi. What a
transition! We have nice rooms, and a pretty maid, with a demi-trained
white cambric dress on, to wait upon us, looking as fresh as a daisy.
After breakfast, we went to drive about the city, the largest seaport in
the world. The docks are many miles in length. We visited the museum,
St. George’s Hall, and looked into one or two churches. The city looks
solid and business-like, but not attractive. The suburbs are more so,
and have fine trees. No more horse-cars for us, but trams, with seats on
top, which we very much like. After luncheon, we crossed the Mersey in a
ferry, to Birkenhead, and there took steam cars for Chester, thirty
miles away. Chester! old, odd, quaint, red-walled Chester! We hurried to
the Cathedral, to be in time for service, which proved to be a choral
one, of great beauty and sacredness, and the first words that greeted us
were sweetly sung, and impressed us in a stronger way than ever did the
same words before:--
‘Jesus shall reign where’er the sun
Doth his successive journeys run;
His kingdom stretch from shore to shore,
Till moons shall wax and wane no more.’
Of this cathedral you have read many descriptions, and yet one can have
but little idea of it without seeing it. As I sat in the chancel, and
looked about me, I felt as if I belonged to the past. There seemed to be
a spirit of antique rest and repose pervading the whole interior. After
service, we peeped into the nooks and corners of the old church, and
then out into the rich balmy air of this perfect day in June, and walked
on the old wall which was built to protect the town. We looked from the
windows of the tower, where Charles I. stood and saw his army defeated
by Cromwell. How many reminiscences of our lessons in history at school
these old towns bring up! An open carriage stood near us, into which we
jumped, and were driven through the grounds and to the home of the Duke
of Westminster, who is, I believe, the richest man in England. As it was
Sunday, we could not be admitted to the palace, but enjoyed the drive
through the perfect grounds immensely. The town contains a beautiful
park, in which is a fine statue of the father of the present duke. The
narrow streets and the odd-looking old houses in the oldest part of the
town were intensely attractive to me, so, leaving the rest of my party
to wander in the park, I strolled off alone. I pulled the latch-string
of a little house, and a kindly faced old lady appeared. I asked for
some water, and she urged me to come in and rest, and I lingered a long
time, so interesting to me were her tales of Chester, where she had all
her life lived, not even having been so far away as ‘Lunnon town.’ The
custom of ringing what used to be the ‘curfew bell’ is still kept up. A
bell rings at nine P.M., and if maids are out alone after that hour they
may be arrested. ‘A good custom it is,’ said the old lady; ‘God made the
night to sleep, and not for gadding.’ Back to Liverpool, and good-by to
E. He remains here, and we go to-morrow to Leamington Spa.
_June 18._--At seven A.M. we left Liverpool. The morning was a perfect
one, and our train ran slowly, perhaps purposely that we might see
beautiful old England. And beautiful it is! Such green fields, such
magnificent trees, such hedges, ivy, hawthorn, and a tangled mass of
sweetbrier and wild rose. Houses covered with ivy and roses. Roses in
bloom everywhere, little plots of ground around the stations filled with
roses--red, white, and yellow, their sweet fragrance pouring into the
windows of our car. The flocks of sheep, the herds of cattle in the
fields and meadows, resting, or cooling their feet in silver streams. O
how beautiful this all is! The blue sky of to-day seems so near us.
Glimpses of cathedrals and palatial homes greet us. The fields of wild
poppies and wheat add brilliancy to it all. Surely we must be in the
highly cultivated, most beautiful part of England! But no, it is all the
same. There are no rough spots in England, no stony pastures, no broken
fences: it is all a beautiful garden from one end to the other. F. says
almost too ‘spick and span;’ but to me, perfection. Our first stop was
at Rugby. Ascertaining that we must remain there two or three hours, and
remembering ‘Tom Brown,’ we set out to see the world-renowned school.
Its buildings are large and castle-like. Any man who has resided in the
county two years is entitled to send his sons to the school, to be
educated free of expense. There is a pretty chapel here, and in the
transept a monument to the revered Dr. Thomas Arnold. One of the
stained-glass windows is also in memory of him, and the words beneath it
seemed to me particularly touching and appropriate:--
‘And Jesus said unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me thou
hast believed: blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have
believed.’
The name of Arnold seems to be revered by every one in Rugby, and his
best monument is the school for which he did so much. He buried creeds
and lived by the Golden Rule.
Our next halt was at Leamington, and here we are, feeling quite like
citizens. The town is crowded with visitors, and we were most fortunate
in finding rooms at a small hotel which had just been vacated by
Americans. This town is a health resort and a fashionable and popular
one. There are four medicinal springs, each one different from the
others in remedial properties. The streets of the town are broad, shaded
by grand old trees that form perfect arches for long distances. The
residences are immense and very handsome, some quite palatial; but
seeing ‘To Let’ on many of them, we came to the conclusion that they
were too expensive for the owners to live in, but were afterwards told
that the richest and most cultivated people of the place rent their
houses for almost fabulous sums, for the months of May and June, and
take that time to travel themselves, on the Continent. Near the royal
pump-room, at the beautiful Jephson Gardens, on the banks of the river
Leam, in the little parks, in the streets, and everywhere else here, we
see bath-chairs on wheels--people of all ages, from infants to aged men
and women, being drawn in them by their servants. I thought at first
they must all be invalids from some cause, but it seems not: many are
being trolled about in this manner for enjoyment. The drives in the town
and about its suburbs are of unrivalled beauty. We stood under the shade
of a large oak tree, said to be in the very centre of England. From here
we made an excursion to Stratford, which town has, if possible, an older
look than Chester. We asked a little girl to direct us to the church
where Shakespeare was buried. She looked somewhat frightened, and
answered, ‘He is not buried; he keeps store down that way.’ It was
evident the little tot was not Stratford-born. We sauntered along, and
soon met a gentleman who gave us the desired information. Walking
through a beautiful avenue of lime trees, we soon reached the church.
In the chancel is the tomb of Shakespeare. A bust of the great poet is
on the wall, and there is a flagstone bearing the inscription familiar
to all:--
‘Good friend, for Jesvs sake forbeare
To digg the dvst encloased heare:
Bleste be ye man that spares thes stones.
And curst be he that moves my bones.’
The church is very old,--a cruciform, with central tower and spire; and
some portions of the old carvings attracted our attention. I was much
disappointed with the expression of the face of the bust: it looked as
if the great man felt nauseated, and the atmosphere of the church made
me feel intensely so, so close and musty was it; so out into the air we
gladly went. We strolled about in the churchyard for a while, looking at
the old stones and reading the queer epitaphs. On one were these words,
after the name of a wife, her age, and time of decease: ‘The Lord has
done great things for us, whereof we are exceeding glad.’ I doubt that
widowed husband being able to win wife number two. The house where the
poet was born is a little old structure of wood and plaster, but well
preserved. The walls of several of the rooms are entirely covered with
names written by the sight-seers who have visited them. How strange but
how true it is, that real genius nearly always springs from homes of
poverty! Everything in the town has a Shakespearian flavor. The fine
fountain presented by our own countryman, George W. Childs, is a
beautiful offering. The Shakespeare Memorial Buildings, in the form of a
theatre, are very elegant, and contain some fine pictures. F. left me to
enjoy the interior of this new edifice, saying to ‘look for her on the
banks of the Avon,’ and when I did so, found her sleeping in a boat, on
the immortalized waters, with the willow trees on the banks throwing
their shadows over her. One can scarcely help feeling tinges of romance
and sentiment here, this river has been so sweetly sung of; and yet it
is a very unpretentious, quiet, narrow stream; but memories of the Bard
of Avon linger in every spot.
We were shown, at the Red Horse Hotel, the rooms which were occupied by
our own Washington Irving during his visit here, and in the parlor was
the ‘Sexton’s Clock’ which he refers to in the ‘Sketch Book.’ We have
seen the oddest names in England, for inns and boarding-houses,
imaginable, such as the Pied Bull, The Elephant and the Castle, The
Turtle and the Lamb, The Pig and the Whistle, The Hole in the Wall, and
The Struggling Man. Now the English are not wise in the selection of
such names. For my part, I should look farther for a stopping place. I
would not care to try to rest in The Hole in the Wall, or to be
protected by The Struggling Man.
We visited New Place, Shakespeare’s home, and the Guild Chapel close by,
and ended the day by taking a short drive through some of the quaint
streets and the green lanes of this reposeful, historical, and
beautifully situated Stratford, whose whole atmosphere seems to be that
conducive to pure, high thoughts, spiritual exaltation, rest, and peace.
We returned to Leamington in time for a pleasant evening drive, after a
fair dinner.
_June 19th._--We slept well, and took an early breakfast, then started
for Kenilworth Castle. It was a glorious morning. Where are the clouds
and fogs of England? We have yet seen none, and the road we were driven
over was beautiful. The pastoral scenes, made up of pretty homes,
cultivated fields, and flowers and ivy everywhere before and around us,
made us eagerly drink all in as a sweet nectar. And, more than all, the
entire way was clothed with historic interest. We could easily imagine
Queen Elizabeth and her lords and ladies dashing along over this very
ground in regal splendor. The castle is a ruin, but a grand one. It
stands on a high hill surrounded by a wall and moat, the former now down
in many places and the moat dry. The walls of the castle, sixteen feet
through, are now covered with a luxuriant growth of ivy, so thick that
the length of my long-handled parasol was lost in the mass of dark-green
leaves. When I look at this ivy and think of my little one at home, that
I have carefully tended for years, and yet it is no thicker now than a
jellyfish, I do not think much of English ivy torn from its mother soil.
The numerous turrets and towers are also covered with the same vine,
and are homes for hundreds of ravens. It is owing to the works of Scott
that this old castle is of such famous interest. As we wandered from
cells to banquet halls, we recalled the revellings and grandeur in the
latter, and the groans in the former that could not reach the ear of
mortals. In the ball-room we thought of the Earl of Leicester, who
ordered all clocks stopped that Elizabeth should take no note of time.
And at the entrance of the deep, dark dungeon we sighed for the
suffering Amy. But, had we stayed in the ruins much longer, ruined
financially should I have been, for the several ‘gentlemen,’ who seemed
to be looking at the same objects and with the same interest as myself,
and of whom I asked questions, proved to be guides or informers, and
expected their shillings. ‘How could I have known it?’ I exclaimed as F.
advised me not to talk so much. Well, I fear it is true that in this
country, if we ask a question, we must generally pay for the answer.
‘Pity ’tis ’tis true.’
Adieu to Kenilworth, and on to Warwick, which is of itself a village of
considerable size. Warwick Castle is the finest baronial residence in
all England. The approach to it is charming. We passed under the arched
and massive gateways into a winding avenue cut out of solid, unbroken
rock, and on which the castle itself is built; each side the rocks tower
far above our heads and are covered with ivy and other vines, and oh so
cool and beautiful it looks; so refreshing to us. All at once, and at an
unexpected turn, the magnificent castle is in sight. The lawn in front
of it, with its rare plants and parterres of gorgeous blossoms, the
sparkling fountains, and the many peacocks strutting about on the velvet
sward, with their gay plumage spread to its utmost extent, as if for our
especial admiration, almost dazzled us. We paused to take in the scene
before us, exhausting our vocabulary of adjectives in expressions of
delight. Every feature of the aspect was bright, winning, and
delightful. Some aristocratic terriers were grouped under the shade of a
white lilac, as if holding council. Dignified swans were lazily swimming
in the lake, and the red and gold uniformed Guards seemed perfectly
satisfied to spend the rest of their lives in slowly pacing up and down
the gravelled walks. The castle is in complete preservation, and its
long list of halls, libraries, and drawing-rooms are filled with rare
objects of beauty and interest, of great value. The guide who showed us
through the rooms carried himself in a most stately manner: his backbone
was surely made of iron, and ran up to the top of his head to hold on
his bushy wig, for he could not bend his body or turn his neck. Not
hearing one of his explanations in regard to a mosaic table, formerly
owned by Queen Elizabeth, I asked him what he said. This ‘Grand Mogul’
slowly whirled his entire breadth toward me, and articulated in a
monotone these words, ‘The explanation I have once rendered.’ I said, ‘I
am sorry I did not comprehend it, but, as you are here for the purpose
of explaining, will you please tell me the story of the table again.’ F.
was dazed, but the man changed his superior attitude, and from that on
through the entire castle he gave me his devoted attention. In one of
the halls is a wonderful table, entirely formed of precious stones,
which once belonged to the ill-fated Queen Marie Antoinette. Statues
and original busts of many old warriors and kings are here. There is a
red, a gilt, and a cedar drawing-room, all filled with really
magnificent paintings. I took great interest in studying the portraits
of Queen Elizabeth, the Earl of Leicester, and others who participated
in the gay life led near this spot.
In the grounds are Guy’s and Cæsar’s Towers, and in one of the
greenhouses we saw the celebrated Warwick Vase, which was found in the
bottom of a lake in Rome, as long ago as 1770, I think. The Earl and
family live here a part of the year, but are now in London. This estate
must bring the Earl quite a revenue, as from fifty to one hundred
persons visit it every day, and each one leaves a shilling or more.
Near the castle gate is the house where Walter Savage Landor was born,
and this whole Warwickshire is rich in the genius it has given to the
world. Green and Drayton opened their eyes on its illustrious soil, and
George Eliot, whose talent has enriched this age, here first saw light.
How can one feel like a common mortal, or lead an everyday life in a
country like this, so hallowed with historic and artistic associations.
‘Step out of the past now into the present,’ said F., ‘and I will tell
you a story of Queen Elizabeth and Queen Mary. Did I ever tell it to
you?’
‘I do not recollect any such story that you ever told. Was it a good
one?’
‘O yes!’
‘Then you never told it.’ I did not get the story.
Not far from the castle is a cathedral of considerable pretensions,
after visiting which, we were driven back to Leamington, having spent a
most delightful day. Finding that an express train would get us to
London to-night, we paid our bills, took our bags, bade good-by to the
pretty Spa and our pleasant landlady, and were soon off.
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