_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._
My dear Sir,
The kind and benevolent feelings which you are so wont to discover, and
the sparkling good-humour and sympathy which characterize your
_Every-Day Book_, encourage me to describe to you “My holiday!” I
approach you with familiarity, being well known as your _constant
reader_. You also know me to be a _provincial_ cockney--a transplant.
Oh! why then do you so often paint nature in her enchanting loveliness?
What cruelty! You know my destiny is foreign to my desires: I cannot now
seek the shade of a retired grove, carelessly throw myself on the bank
of a “babbling brook,” there muse and angle, as I was wont to do, and,
as my old friend Izaak Walton bade me,--
“watch the sun to rise and set,
There meditate my time away,
And beg to have a quiet passage to a welcome grave.”
But, I have had a holiday! The desk was forsaken for eight-and-forty
hours! Think of that! I have experienced what Leigh Hunt desires every
christian to experience--that there is a green and gay world, as well as
a brick and mortar one. Months previous was the spot fixed upon which
was to receive my choice, happy spirit. Dulwich was the place. It was an
easy distance from town; moreover, it was a “rustic” spot; moreover, it
had a picture-gallery; in a word, it was just the sort of place for me.
The happy morning dawned. I could say with Horace, with the like
feelings of enraptured delight--
“Insanire juvat. Sparge rosas.”
Such was the disposition of my mind.
We met (for I was accompanied) at that general rendezvous for carts,
stages, waggons, and sociables, the Elephant and Castle. There were the
honest, valiant, laughter-loving J--; the pensive, kindly-hearted G--;
and the sanguine, romantic, speculative M--. A conveyance was soon
sought. It was a square, covered vehicle, set on two wheels, drawn by
one horse, which was a noble creature, creditable to its humane master,
who has my best wishes, as I presume he will never have cause to answer
under Mr. Martin’s Act. Thus equipaged and curtained in, we merrily
trotted by the Montpelier Gardens, and soon _overtook_ the
“Fox-under-the-Hill.” To this “Fox” I was an entire stranger, having
never hunted in that part of the country before. The beautiful hill
which brought us to the heights of Camberwell being gained, we sharply
turned to the left, which gave us the view of Dulwich and its adjoining
domains in the distance. Oh, ecstacy of thought! Gentle hills, dark
valleys, far-spreading groves, luxuriant corn-fields, magnificent
prospects, then sparkled before me. The rich carpet of nature decked
with Flora’s choicest flowers, and wafting perfumes of odoriferous herbs
floating on the breezes, expanded and made my heart replete with joy.
What kind-heartedness then beamed in our countenances! We talked, and
joked, and prattled; and so fast did our transports impulse, that to
expect an answer to _one_ of my eager inquiries as to “who lives here or
there?” was out of the question. Our hearts were redolent of joy. It was
our holiday!
By the side of the neat, grassy, picturesque burying-ground we alighted,
in front of Dulwich-college. Now for the picture-gallery. Some demur
took place as to the safety of the “ticket.” After a few moments’
intense anxiety, it appeared. How important was that square bit of
card!--it was the key to our hopes--“Admit Mr. R--and friends to view
the Bourgeois Gallery.” We entered by the gate which conducts into the
clean, neat, and well-paved courtyard contiguous to the gallery. In the
lodge, which is situate at the end of this paved footpath, you see a
comely, urbane personage. With a polite bend of the head, and a gentle
smile of good-nature on his countenance on the production of the
“ticket,” he bids you welcome. The small folding doors on your right
hand are then opened, and this magnificent gallery is before you. This
collection is extremely rich in the works of the old masters,
particularly Poussin, Teniers, Vandyke, Claude, Rubens, Cuype, Murillo,
Velasquez, Annibal Caracci, Vandervelt, Vanderwerf, and Vanhuysem. Here
I luxuriated. With my catalogue in hand, and the eye steadily fixed upon
the subject, I gazed, and although neither connoisseur nor student, felt
that calmness, devotion, and serenity of soul, which the admiration of
either the works of a poet, or the “sweet harmony” of sound, or form,
alone work upon my heart. I love nature, and _here_ she was imitated in
her simplest and truest colourings. The gallery, or rather the five
elegant rooms, are well designed, and the pictures admirably arranged.
We entered by a door about midway in the gallery, on the left, and were
particularly pleased with the mausoleum. The design is clever and
ingenious, and highly creditable to the talents of Mr. Soane. Here lie
sir Francis Bourgeois, and Mr. and Mrs. Desenfans, surrounded by these
exquisite pictures. The masterly painting of the _Death of Cardinal
Beaufort_ is observed nearly over this entrance-door. But, time
hastens--and after noticing yonder picture which hangs at the farther
extremity of the gallery, I will retire. It is the _Martyrdom of St.
Sebastian_, by Annibal Caracci. Upon this sublime painting I could
meditate away an age. It is full of power, of _real_ feeling and poetry.
Mark that countenance--the uplifted eye “with holy fervour bright!”--the
resignation, calmness, and holy serenity, which speak of truth and
magnanimity, contrasted with the physical sufferings and agonies of a
horrid death. I was lost--my mind was slumbering on this ocean of
sublimity!
The lover of rural sights will return from Dulwich-college by the
retired footpath that strikes off to the right by the “cage” and
“stocks” opposite the burying-ground. On ascending the verdant hill
which leads to Camberwell Grove, the rising objects that gradually open
to the view are most beautifully picturesque and enchanting. We reached
the summit of the _Five Fields_:--
“Heav’ns! what a goodly prospect spread around
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams.”
This is a fairy region. The ravished eye glances from villa to grove,
turret, pleasure-ground, hill, dale; and “figured streams in waves of
silver” roll. Here are seen Norwood, Shooter’s-hill, Seven Droog Castle,
Peckham, Walworth, Greenwich, Deptford, and bounding the horizon, the
vast gloom of Epping Forest. What a holiday! What a feast for the mind,
the eye, and the heart! A few paces from us we suddenly discerned a
humble, aged, wintry object, sitting as if in mockery of the golden
sunbeam which played across his furrowed cheek. The philanthropy of the
good and gentle Elia inspired our hearts on viewing this “dim speck,”
this monument of days gone by. Love is charity, and it was charitable
thus to love. The good old patriarch asked not, but received alms with
humility and gratitude. His poverty was honourable: his character was
noble and elevated in lowliness. He gracelessly doffed his many-coloured
cap in thanks (for hat he had none), and the snowy locks floating on the
breeze rendered him an object as interesting as he was venerable. Could
we have made _all_ sad hearts gay, we should but have realized the
essayings of our souls. Our imaginings were of gladness and of joy. It
was our holiday!
* * * * *
Now, my holiday is past! Hope, like a glimmering star, appears to me
through the dark waves of time, and is ominous of future days like
these. We are now “at home,” homely in use as occupation. I am hugging
the desk, and calculating. I can now only request others who have
leisure and opportunity to take a “holiday,” and make it a “holiday”
similar to this. Health will be improved, the heart delighted, and the
mind strengthened. The grovelling sensualist, who sees pleasure only in
confusion, never can know pleasures comparable with these. There is a
moral to every circumstance of life. One may be traced in the events of
“My holiday!”