floor, and with the busts of the great men of Trinity ranged around the
walls. The wood-carvings of Grinling Gibbons that adorn this room, of
flowers, fruit, wheat, grasshoppers, birds, are of singular beauty, and
make the hard oak fairly blossom and live. This library contains the
most complete collection of the various editions of Shakespeare's Works
which exists. Thorwaldsen's statue of Byron, who was a student of this
college, stands at the south end of the room. It represents him in the
bloom of youth, attired as a pilgrim, with pencil in hand and a broken
Grecian column at his feet....
The next neighbor to Trinity on the north, and the next in point of size
and importance in the University, is St. John's College. It has four
courts, one opening into the other. It also is jealously surrounded by
high walls, and its entrance is by a ponderous old tower, having a
statue of St. John the Evangelist over the gateway. Through a covered
bridge, not unlike "the Bridge of Sighs," one passes over the stream to
a group of modern majestic castellated buildings of yellow stone
belonging to this college. The grounds, walks, and thick groves
connected with this building form an elegant academic shade, and tempt
to a life of exclusive study and scholarly accumulation, of growing fat
in learning, without perhaps growing muscular in the effort to
use it....
King's College, founded by Henry VII., from whom it takes its name,
comes next in order. Its wealthy founder, who, like his son, loved
architectural pomp, had great designs in regard to this institution,
which were cut off by his death, but the massive unfinished gateway of
the old building stands as a regal specimen of what the whole plan would
have been had it been carried out. Henry VIII., however, perfected some
of his father's designs on a scale of true magnificence. King's College
Chapel, the glory of Cambridge and England, is in the perpendicular
style of English Gothic. It is three hundred and sixteen feet long,
eighty-four feet broad, its sides ninety feet, and its tower one hundred
and forty-six feet high. Its lofty interior stone roof in the
fan-tracery form of groined ceiling has the appearance of being composed
of immense white scallop-shells, with heavy corbels of rich flowers and
bunches of grapes suspended at their points of junction. The ornamental
emblem of the Tudor rose and portcullis is carved in every conceivable
spot and nook. Twenty-four stately and richly painted windows, divided
into the strong vertical lines of the Perpendicular style, and crossed
at right angles by lighter transoms and more delicate circular moldings,
with the great east and west windows flashing in the most vivid and
superb colors, make it a gorgeous vision of light and glory....
On the same street, and nearly opposite St. Peter's, is Pembroke
College, a most interesting and venerable pile, with a quaint gable
front. Its buildings are small, and it is said, for some greatly needed
city improvement, will probably be soon torn down; on hearing which, I
thought, would that some genius like Aladdin's, or some angel who bore
through the air the chapel of the "Lady of Loretto," might bear these
old buildings bodily to our land and set them down on the Yale grounds,
so that we might exchange their picturesque antiquity for the present
college buildings, which, tho endeared to us by many associations, are
like a row of respectable brick factories.
Edmund Spenser and William Pitt belonged to Pembroke; and Gray, the
poet, driven from St. Peter's by the pranks and persecutions of his
fellow students, spent the remainder of his university life here. Some
of the cruel, practical jokes inflicted upon the timid and delicate
nature sound like the modern days of "hazing freshmen." Among his other
fancies and fears, Gray was known to be especially afraid of fire, and
kept always coiled up in his room a rope-ladder, in case of emergency.
By a preconcerted signal, on a dark winter night, a tremendous cry of
fire was raised in the court below, which caused the young poet to leap
out of bed and to hastily descend his rope-ladder into a mighty tub of
ice-cold water, set for that purpose....
Sidney Sussex and Imanuel Colleges were called by Archbishop Laud "the
nurseries of Puritanism." The college-book of Sidney Sussex contains
this record: "Oliver Cromwell of Huntingdon was admitted as an associate
on the 26th day of April, 1616. Tutor Richard Howlet." He had just
completed his seventeenth year. Cromwell's father dying the next year,
and leaving but a small estate, the young "Protector" was obliged to
leave college for more practical pursuits. "But some Latin," Bishop
Burnett said, "stuck to him." An oriel window looking upon Bridge
Street, is pointed out as marking his room; and in the master's lodge is
a likeness of Cromwell in his later years, said to be the best extant.
The gray hair is parted in the middle of the forehead, and hangs down
long upon the shoulders, like that of Milton. The forehead is high and
swelling, with a deep line sunk between the eyes. The eyes are gray. The
complexion is florid and mottled, and all the features rugged and large.
Heavy, corrugated furrows of decision and resolute will are plowed about
the mouth, and the lips are shut like a vice. Otherwise, the face has a
calm and benevolent look, not unlike that of Benjamin Franklin.
In Sidney Sussex, Cromwell's College, and in two or three other colleges
of Cambridge University, we find the head-sources of English Puritanism,
which, in its best form, was no wild and unenlightened enthusiasm, but
the product of thoughtful and educated minds. We shall come soon upon
the name of Milton. John Robinson, our national father, and the Moses of
our national exodus, as well as Elder Brewster, John Cotton and many
others of the principal Puritan leaders and divines, were educated at
Cambridge. Sir Henry Vane, the younger, whom Macintosh regarded as not
inferior to Bacon in depth of intellect, and to whom Milton addrest the
sonnet, who was chosen Governor of Massachusetts, and who infused much
of his own thoughtful and profound spirit into Puritan institutions at
home and in America, was a student of Magdalen College, Oxford.
A little further on to the south of Sidney Sussex, upon St. Andrew's
Street, is Christ's College. The front and gate are old; the other
buildings are after a design by Inigo Jones. In the garden stands the
famous mulberry-tree said to have been planted by Milton. It is still
vigorous, tho carefully propt up and mounded around, and its aged trunk
is sheathed with lead. The martyr Latimer, John Howe, the prince of
theological writers, and Archdeacon Paley, belonged to this college; but
its most brilliant name is that of John Milton. He entered in 1624; took
the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1628, and that of Master of Arts in
1632. This is the entry in the college record: "John Milton of London,
son of John Milton, was entered as a student in the elements of letters
under Master Hill of the Pauline School, February 12, 1624...." Milton
has indignantly defended himself against the slander of his political
enemies, that he left college in disgrace, and calls it "a
commodious lie." ...
It is noticeable that Cambridge has produced all the great poets;
Oxford, with her yearnings and strivings, none. Milton were glory
enough; but Spenser, Gray, Byron, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Tennyson (a
Lincolnshire man), may be thrown in. It might be said of Cambridge, as
Dr. Johnson said of Pembroke College, "We are a nest of singing birds
here." Milton, from the extreme elegance of his person and his mind,
rather than from any effeminateness of character, was called while in
the University, "the lady of Christ's College." The young poet could not
have been inspired by outward Nature in his own room; for the miniature
dormer-windows are too high to look out of at all. It is a small attic
chamber, with very steep narrow stairs leading up to it. The name of
"Milton" (so it is said to be, tho hard to make out) is cut in the old
oaken door.
CHESTER [Footnote: From "English Note-Books." By special arrangement
with, and by permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co.
Copyright, 1870-1898.]
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
I went with Mr. Ticknor to Chester by railway. It is quite an
indescribable old town, and I feel as if I had had a glimpse of old
England. The wall encloses a large space within the town, but there are
numerous houses and streets not included within its precincts. Some of
the principal streets pass under the ancient gateways; and at the side
there are flights of steps, giving access to the summit. Around the top
of the whole wall, a circuit of about two miles, there runs a walk, well
paved with flagstones, and broad enough for three persons to walk
abreast....
The most utterly indescribable feature of Chester is the Rows, which
every traveler has attempted to describe. At the height of several feet
above some of the oldest streets, a walk runs through the front of the
houses, which project over it. Back of the walk there are shops; on the
outer side is a space of two or three yards, where the shopmen place
their tables, and stands, and show-cases; overhead, just high enough for
persons to stand erect, a ceiling. At frequent intervals little narrow
passages go winding in among the houses, which all along are closely
conjoined, and seem to have no access or exit, except through the shops,
or into these narrow passages, where you can touch each side with your
elbows, and the top with your hand. We penetrated into one or two of
them, and they smelt anciently and disagreeably.
At one of the doors stood a pale-looking, but cheerful and good-natured
woman, who told us that she had come to that house when first married,
21 years before, and had lived there ever since; and that she felt as if
she had been buried through the best years of her life. She allowed us
to peep into her kitchen and parlor--small, dingy, dismal, but yet not
wholly destitute of a home look. She said she had seen two or three
coffins in a day, during cholera times, carried out of that narrow
passage into which her door opened. These avenues put me in mind of
those which run through ant-hills, or those which a mole makes
underground. This fashion of Rows does not appear to be going out; and,
for aught I can see, it may last hundreds of years longer. When a house
becomes so old as to be untenantable, it is rebuilt, and the new one is
fashioned like the old, so far as regards the walk running through its
front. Many of the shops are very good, and even elegant, and these Rows
are the favorite places of business in Chester. Indeed, they have many
advantages, the passengers being sheltered from the rain, and there
being within the shops that dimmer light by which tradesmen like to
exhibit their wares.
A large proportion of the edifices in the Rows must be comparatively
modern; but there are some very ancient ones, with oaken frames visible
on the exterior. The Row, passing through these houses, is railed with
oak, so old that it has turned black, and grown to be as hard as stone,
which it might be mistaken for, if one did not see where names and
initials have been cut into it with knives at some bygone period.
Overhead, cross-beams project through the ceiling so low as almost to
hit the head. On the front of one of these buildings was the
inscription, "God's Providence is mine Inheritance," said to have been
put there by the occupant of the house two hundred years ago, when the
plague spared this one house only in the whole city. Not improbably the
inscription has operated as a safeguard to prevent the demolition of the
house hitherto; but a shopman of an adjacent dwelling told us that it
was soon to be taken down. Here and there, about some of the streets
through which the Rows do not run, we saw houses of very aged aspect,
with steep, peaked gables. The front gable-end was supported on stone
pillars, and the sidewalk passed beneath. Most of these old houses
seemed to be taverns,--the Black Bear, the Green Dragon, and such names.
We thought of dining at one of them, but, on inspection, they looked
rather too dingy and close, and of questionable neatness. So we went to
the Royal Hotel, where we probably fared just as badly at much more
expense, and where there was a particularly gruff and crabbed old
waiter, who, I suppose, thought himself free to display his surliness
because we arrived at the hotel on foot. For my part, I love to see John
Bull show himself. I must go again and again and again to Chester, for
I suppose there is not a more curious place in the world.
EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE [Footnote: From "Lightships and Lighthouses."
Courtesy of J. B. Lippincott Co., the publishers.]
BY FREDERICK A. TALBOT.
It is doubtful whether the name of any lighthouse is so familiar
throughout the English-speaking world as the "Eddystone." Certainly no
other "pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day," can offer so romantic
a story of dogged engineering perseverance, of heartrending
disappointments, disaster, blasted hopes, and brilliant success.
Standing out in the English Channel, about sixty miles east of the
Lizard, is a straggling ridge of rocks which stretches for hundreds of
yards across the marine thoroughfare, and also obstructs the western
approach to Plymouth Harbor. But at a point some nine and a half miles
south of Rame Head on the mainland the reef rises somewhat abruptly to
the surface, so that at low-water two or three ugly granite knots are
bared, which tell only too poignantly the complete destruction they
could wreak upon a vessel which had the temerity or the ill luck to
scrape over them at high-tide. Even in the calmest weather the sea curls
and eddies viciously around these stones; hence the name "Eddystone," is
derived....
As British overseas traffic expanded, the idea of indicating the spot
for the benefit of vessels was discust. The first practical suggestion
was put forward about the year 1664, but thirty-two years elapsed before
any attempt was made to reduce theory to practise. Then an eccentric
English country gentleman, Henry Winstanley, who dabbled in mechanical
engineering upon unorthodox lines, came forward and offered to build a
lighthouse upon the terrible rocks. Those who knew this ambitious
amateur were dubious of his success, and wondered what manifestation his
eccentricity would assume on this occasion. Nor was their scepticism
entirely misplaced. Winstanley raised the most fantastic lighthouse
which has ever been known, and which would have been more at home in a
Chinese cemetery than in the English Channel. It was wrought in wood and
most lavishly embellished with carvings and gilding.
Four years were occupied in its construction, and the tower was anchored
to the rock by means of long, heavy irons. The light, merely a flicker,
flashed out from this tower in 1699, and for the first time the
proximity of the Eddystones was indicated all around the horizon by
night. Winstanley's critics were rather free in expressing their opinion
that the tower would come down with the first sou'wester, but the
eccentric builder was so intensely proud of his invention as to venture
the statement that it would resist the fiercest gale that ever blew,
and, when such did occur, he hoped that he might be in the tower at
the time.
Fate gratified his wish, for while he was on the rock in the year 1703
one of the most terrible tempests that ever have assailed the coasts of
Britain gript the structure, tore it up by the roots, and hurled it into
the Channel, where it was battered to pieces, its designer and five
keepers going down with the wreck. When the inhabitants of Plymouth,
having vainly scanned the horizon for a sign of the tower on the
following morning, put off to the rock to investigate, they found only
the bent and twisted iron rods by which the tower had been held in
position projecting mournfully into the air from the rock-face.
Shortly after the demolition of the tower, the reef, as if enraged at
having been denied a number of victims owing to the existence of the
warning light, trapt the "Winchelsea" as she was swinging up Channel,
and smashed her to atoms, with enormous loss of life.
Altho the first attempt to conquer the Eddystone had terminated so
disastrously, it was not long before another effort was made to mark the
reef. The builder this time was a Cornish laborer's son, John Rudyerd,
who had established himself in business on Ludgate Hill as a silk
mercer. In his youth he had studied civil engineering, but his friends
had small opinion of his abilities in this craft. However, he attacked
the problem boldly, and, altho his tower was a plain, business-looking
structure, it would have been impossible to conceive a design capable of
meeting the peculiar requirements of the situation more efficiently. It
"was a cone, wrought in timber, built upon a stone and wood foundation
anchored to the rock, and of great weight and strength. The top of the
cone was cut off to permit the lantern to be set in position. The result
was that externally the tower resembled the trunk of an oak tree, and
appeared to be just about as strong. It offered the minimum of
resistance to the waves, which, tumbling upon the ledge, rose and curled
around the tapering form without starting a timber.
For forty years Rudyerd's structure defied the elements, and probably
would have been standing to this day had it not possest one weak point.
It was built of wood instead of stone. Consequently, when a fire broke
out in the lantern on December 4, 1755, the flames, fanned by the
breeze, rapidly made their way downward.
No time was lost in erecting another tower on the rock, for now it was
more imperative than ever that the reef should be lighted adequately.
The third engineer was John Smeaton, who first landed on the rock to
make the surveys on April 5, 1756. He was able to stay there for only
two and a quarter hours before the rising tide drove him off, but in
that brief period he had completed the work necessary to the preparation
of his design. Wood had succumbed to the attacks of tempest and of
fire in turn.
Smeaton would use material which would defy both--Portland stone. He
also introduced a slight change in the design for such structures, and
one which has been universally copied, producing the graceful form of
lighthouse with which everyone is so familiar. Instead of causing the
sides to slope upward in the straight lines of a cone, such as Rudyerd
adopted, Smeaton preferred a slightly concave curve, so that the tower
was given a waist about half its height. He also selected the oak tree
as his guide, but one having an extensive spread of branches, wherein
will be found a shape in the trunk, so far as the broad lines are
concerned, which coincides with the form of Smeaton's lighthouse. He
chose a foundation where the rock shelved gradually to its highest
point, and dropt vertically into the water upon the opposite side. The
face of the rock was roughly trimmed to permit the foundation stones of
the tower to be laid. The base of the building was perfectly solid to
the entrance level, and each stone was dovetailed securely into
its neighbor.
From the entrance, which was about 15 feet above high water, a central
well, some five feet in diameter, containing a staircase, led to the
storeroom, nearly 30 feet above high water. Above this was a second
storeroom, a living-room as the third floor, and the bedroom beneath the
lantern. The light was placed about 72 feet above high water, and
comprised a candelabra having two rings, one smaller than and placed
within the other, but raised about a foot above its level, the two being
held firmly in position by means of chains suspended from the roof and
secured to the floor. The rings were adapted to receive twenty-four
lights, each candle weighing about two and three-quarter ounces. Even
candle manufacture was in its infancy in those days, and periodically
the keepers had to enter the lantern to snuff the wicks. In order to
keep the watchers of the lights on the alert, Smeaton installed a clock
of the grandfather pattern in the tower, and fitted it with a gong,
which struck every half hour to apprise the men of these duties. This
clock is now one of the most interesting relics in the museum at Trinity
House.... [Footnote: Trinity House, an association founded in London in
1512-1514, is "empowered by charter to examine, license and regulate
pilots, to erect beacons and lighthouses, and to place buoys in channels
and rivers."]
The lighthouse had been standing for 120 years when ominous reports were
received by the Trinity Brethren concerning the stability of the tower.
The keepers stated that during severe storms the building shook
alarmingly. A minute inspection of the structure was made, and it was
found that, altho the work of Smeaton's masons was above reproach, time
and weather had left their mark. The tower itself was becoming decrepit.
The binding cement had decayed, and the air imprisoned and comprest
within the interstices by the waves was disintegrating the structure
slowly but surely.
Under these circumstances it was decided to build a new tower on another
convenient ledge, forming part of the main reef, about 120 feet distant.
Sir James Douglass, the engineer-in-chief to Trinity House, completed
the designs and personally superintended their execution. The Smeaton
lines were taken as a basis, with one important exception. Instead of a
curve commencing at the foundation, the latter comprized a perfect
cylindrical monolith of masonry 22 feet in height by 44 feet in
diameter. From this basis the tower springs to a height which brings the
local plane 130 feet above the highest spring tides. The top of the base
is 30 inches above high water, and, the tower's diameter being less than
that of its plinth, the set-off forms an excellent landing-stage when
the weather permits.
The site selected for the Douglass tower being lower than that chosen by
Smeaton, the initial work was more exacting, as the duration of the
working period was reduced. The rock, being gneiss, was extremely tough,
and the preliminary quarrying operations for the foundation stones which
had to be sunk into the rock were tedious and difficult, especially as
the working area was limited. Each stone was dovetailed, not only to its
neighbor on either side, but below and above as well. The foundation
stones were dovetailed into the reef and were secured still further by
the aid of tow bolts, each one and a half inches in diameter, which were
passed through the stone and sunk deeply into the rock below....
The tower has eight floors, exclusive of the entrance; there are two oil
rooms, one above the other, holding 4,300 gallons of oil, above which is
a coal and store room, followed by a second storeroom. Outside the tower
at this level is a crane, by which supplies are hoisted, and which also
facilitates the landing and embarkation of the keepers, who are swung
through the air in a stirrup attached to the crane rope. Then, in turn,
come the living-room, the "low light" room, bedroom, service room, and
finally the lantern. For the erection of the tower, 2,171 blocks of
granite, which were previously fitted temporarily in their respective
positions on shore and none of which weighed less than two tons, were
used. When the work was commenced, the engineer estimated that the task
would occupy five years, but on May 18, 1882, the lamp was lighted by
the Duke of Edinburgh, the Master of Trinity House at the time, the
enterprise having occupied only four years. Some idea may thus be
obtained of the energy with which the labor was prest forward, once the
most trying sections were overcome....