in the lightly arched gallery of the triforium, in the mellow
cross-lights of the side windows, in the sombre carvings of the choir,
and above all in the marvellous glass of the chapel, it was the very
perfection of a worshipful church.
It was too nearly dark to examine the details of the decoration, and we
wandered down the aisles, remarking here and there the bruised statues
of the tombs, and halting before the sleeping children of Chantrey to
marvel how much somnolent repose can be cut in chiselled stone.
"But come," said the gentle Brother, "we have only light enough left
for the storied glass which alone of all the richness of the old church
outlived its desecration, and, as by a miracle, was preserved to tell
these later generations of the higher art our forefathers' sons forgot."
As he spoke, we stood within the charmed light of the nine windows of
the apse,--windows which have perhaps no remaining equals in the world,
and before which one can only bow in admiration and regret for an art
that seems forever lost. Holding me fast by the arm, he went on:--
"In the restoration of the church, the spandrels of the old windows
were rebuilt, and the frames were set with plain glass, to the sad
defacement of the edifice; and so they stood for nigh two hundred
years, no art being equal to their worthy replacement, and no ancient
store to the supplying of so large a demand.
"But listen, now, how the hand of Heaven sheltered its own, and how
true servants of the Church are ever guided to reclaim its lost
splendor.
"A few years ago, a canon of the cathedral, travelling in Flanders,
wishing to contribute to the renewed work of restoration, visited the
dismantled convent of Herkenrode in the ancient bishopric of Liege.
Here he sought among the rubbish of the lumber-room for wood-carvings
which might be used in the rebuilding of the prebendal stalls. His
search discovered many boxes of colored glass, the origin of which no
one knew, and whose existence even had been forgotten. Thinking to
embellish some of the curious triangular windows above the triforium,
he purchased the whole store for two hundred pounds of our money, and
presented it to the dean and chapter as a tribute of affectionate
devotion to the cathedral. There was more than he had supposed, and the
large figures of some of the fragments indicated a coherent design.
"This chapel was fenced off from the aisles, and here the canon's wife
and daughter, devoting themselves to the solution of the puzzle, slowly
pieced out the varying connections. They worked patiently for weeks,
with a steadily increasing excitement of success, until [and here his
grasp grew tremulous and close], lying collated on this pavement where
we stand, only a bit wanting here and there, marking the exact sizes
of the varied openings, the grand old Lichfield windows, perfect as
you see them now in this softened moonlight, had come back to enrich
forevermore the dear old church to whose glory they had shone in the
bygone centuries, and whose sore trials their absence had so long
recalled.
"Kind stranger," said he, "this is a true tale. Sceptics have
questioned it, but it is true! true! And I thank Heaven that it has
been permitted to me, who have grown old in the love of this sacred
pile, to live to see, in this crowning act of its restoration, the
higher help the hand of man has had in performing its holy work."
His upturned blue eyes were moistened with tears, and his voice
trembled with emotion. I led him gently away and to the doorstep of
the Hospital of St. John the Baptist, where we parted in silence, and
forever.
Supping at the Swan Inn, I took the late train for Liverpool and home,
bringing with me an ideal Lichfield, to which it would perhaps have
been rash to hold the light of a Lichfield day.
FOX-HUNTING IN ENGLAND.
On entering the Regent Hotel at Leamington the first object that
attracts attention, after the stuffy old porter who hobbles about
to see some one else handle the luggage, is a small frame, over the
smoking coal-fire, which contains the following notice, decorated with
an old cut of a fox's mask:--
MERRY & CO.'S HUNTING APPOINTMENTS, AND GUIDE TO THE DIFFERENT COVERTS.
December 30, 1872.
WARWICKSHIRE,--at 10.45.
_Days._ _Meet at_ _Miles._ _To go through_
M. Goldicote House. 11. Wellerbourne and Loxley.
Tu. Radway Grange. 12. Tachbrook and Kineton.
W. Snitterfield. 7. Warwick and Stratford Road.
Th. Red Hill. 13. Warwick and Snitterfield.
F. Pebworth. 16. Warwick and Stratford.
NORTH WARWICKSHIRE,--at 11.
M. Solihull. 14. Warwick and Hatton.
Tu. Cubbington Gate. 2. Lillington.
Th. Stoneleigh Abbey. 4. On Kenilworth Road.
F. Tile Hill. 9. By Kenilworth Castle.
PYTCHLEY,--at 10.45.
M. Naseby. 26. Princethorpe and Rugby.
Tu. Hazlebeach. 31. Dunchurch and Crick.
W. Dingley. 33. Rugby and Swinford.
F. Cransley. 36. Maidwell.
S. Swinford. 19. Princethorpe and Rugby.
ATHERSTONE,--at 11.
M. Coombe. 12. Bubbenhall and Wolston.
W. Harrow Inn Gate. 20. Coventry and Nuneaton.
F. Brinklow Station. 12. Bubbenhall and Wolston.
S. Corley. 14. Stoneleigh and Coventry.
BICESTER,--at 10.45.
M. Fenny Compton. 12. Radford and Ladbrook.
Tu. Trafford Bridge. 19. Southam and Wormleighton.
Th. Hellidon. 14. Southam and Priory Marston.
S. Steeple Claydon. 40. Gaydon and Banbury.
Twenty-two meets in the week, all within easy reach, by road or
rail. Let us dine and decide. At table we will leave the _menu_ to
the waiter; but let him bring for consideration during the meal the
list of _meets_. "Brinklow Station, twelve miles"; that seems the most
feasible thing in the catalogue for the morrow, and who has not heard
that the Atherstone is a capital pack? But then the Pytchley is even
better known, and the train reaches Rugby in time for the meet. Let
the choice be decided with the help of coffee and cigars and possible
advice, during the soothing digestive half-hour in the smoking-room.
Dinner over, wander away through the tortuous, dim passage that leads
to the sombre hall where alone in English inns the twin crimes of
billiards and smoking are permitted, and, while writhing under the
furtive glances of the staid and middle-aged East-Indian who evidently
knows you for an American, and who is your only companion, decide,
with your nation's ability to reach conclusions without premises,
whether it shall be Pytchley or Atherstone. Don't ask your neighbor:
he is an Englishman, and have we not been told that Englishmen are
gruff, reticent men, who wear thick shells, and whose warm hearts can
be reached only with the knife of a regular introduction? However, you
must make up your mind what to do, and you need help which neither
the waiter nor the porter can give; the "gentlemanly clerk" does not
exist in England (thank Heaven!) and you have not yet learned what an
invaluable mine of information "Boots" is,--faithful, useful, helpful,
and serviceable to the last degree. I salute him with gratitude for
all he has done to make life in English hotels almost easier and more
home-like than in one's own house. It is safe to advise all travellers
to make him an early ally, to depend on him, to use him, almost to
abuse him, and, finally, on leaving, to "remember" him. Not yet having
come to know the Boots, I determined to throw myself on the tender
mercies of my stern, silent companion, and I very simply stated my
case. My stern, silent companion was an exception to the rule, and he
told me all I wanted to know (and more than I knew I needed to know)
with a cordiality and frankness not always to be found among the genial
smokers of our own hotels. His voice was in favor of the Atherstone as
being the most acceptable thing for the next day.
Ford, the veterinary surgeon of Leamington, had, on several
occasions, done good service for friends who had gone before me over
the hedges of North Warwickshire, and I went to him for advice about a
mount. Here I found that I had made a mistake in not engaging horses in
advance. To get a "hunter" for the next day would be impossible, but
he would do what he could for a few days hence. All he could promise
for the morning would be to lend me a horse of his own, a thoroughbred
mare, not up to my weight, but tough and wiry, and good for any amount
of road-work. He kindly volunteered to arrange for our going by the
first train to Coventry, only a couple of miles from Brinklow (it
turned out to be nine miles), so that we should arrive fresh on the
ground. At seven o'clock in the morning he came to my room to say
that everything was arranged, and that I should find the mare at the
station in an hour. Swallowing a glass of milk as a stay-stomach,--my
usual habit,--I put myself, for the first time since the war ended,
into breeches and boots, and drove to the station. On a turn-out stood
a "horse-box," one of the institutions of England,--a three-stabled
freight-car for the transportation of horses. Paying five shillings for
a horse-ticket to Coventry (only twice the cost of my own seat), I saw
the mare snugly packed into one of the narrow stalls and made fast for
the journey. Passing through a beautiful farming country, we came in
due time to the quaint old town of Coventry, where several horse-boxes,
coming from Birmingham and other stations, were discharging their
freight of well-bred hunters. As we rode from this station another
hard-shelled Englishman in brown top-boots and spotless white leather
breeches accosted me pleasantly, reminding me that we had come from
London together the day before, and asking, as he had recognized me for
an American, if he could be of service to me.
"Pray how did you know that I am from America?"
"Only by your asking if you should change 'cars' at Rugby. An
Englishman would have said 'carriages.'"
"Very well; I am glad my ear-mark was no greater. Can you direct me to
a hotel where I can get a bite before I go on?"
"Certainly: you will find the Angel very comfortable; take the next
street to the right, and you will soon reach it. Good morning; it is
nine miles to the meet, and I will move on slowly. Command me if I can
help you when you come up."
I did find the Angel comfortable, (as what English inn is not?) and
soon fortified myself with cold pheasant and sherry,--a compact
and little-burdensome repast to ride upon,--served in a cosey old
coffee-room by the neatest and most obliging of handmaidens.
On the road I fell in with straggling groups of horsemen, in red coats
and black coats, leather breeches and cords, white tops and black;
all neat and jaunty, and all wearing the canonical stove-pipe hat. My
little mare was brisk, and I had no hard riding to save her for, so I
passed a dozen or more of the party, getting from each one some form or
other of pleasant recognition, and finally from a handsome young fellow
on a very spicy mount, "Excuse me, are you going to Brinklow? You must
turn to the right."
Confound these Englishmen, thought I, where is their traditional
coldness and reserve? And I reined up for a chat.
My companion came from the vicinity of Birmingham. Like so many of
his class, he devotes three days a week to systematic hunting, and
he was as enthusiastic as an American boy could have been in telling
me all I wanted to know about the sport. To get hold of a grown man
who had never seen a foxhound seemed an event for him, and my first
instructions were very agreeably taken. Our road ran past the beautiful
deer-stocked park of Coombe Abbey, where the green grass of a moist
December and the thick clustering growth of all-embracing ivy carried
the fresh hues of our summer over the wide lawn and to the very tops
of the trees about the grand old house. The few villages on our way
were neither interesting nor pleasant, but the thatched farm-houses and
cottages, and the wonderful ivy, and the charming fields and hedges
were all that could have been asked.
And then the roadsides! and the stiles and the foot-paths, and the
look of age and the richness of the well-kept farms; and again and
everywhere the ivy clinging fast to each naked thing, and clothing it
with luxuriant beauty!
There is in all our hearts an inherited chord that thrills in the
presence of this dear old home of our race. Not this spot and not these
scenes, but the air, the tone, the spirit of it all,--these are as
familiar to our instincts as water to the hen-brooded duckling.
Brinklow Station has the modern hideousness and newness of railroad
stations everywhere in country neighborhoods, and it was pleasant to
leave it behind and follow the gay crowd down a sloping and winding
road into the real country again, and into a handsome and well-kept
park, beyond which there stood a fine old house of some pretension, and
well set about with terraced lawn and shrubbery,--a charming English
country-seat.
Here my eyes were greeted with the glory of my first "meet," and a
glory it was indeed! Pictures and descriptions had suggested it, but
they had only suggested it. This was the reality, and it far exceeded
my anticipation. The grounds were fairly alive with a brilliant
company of men and women,--happy and hearty, and just gathered for the
day's sport. Red coats, white breeches, and top-boots were plenty,
and the neat holiday air of the whole company was refreshing and
delightful. Scattered about singly and in groups, mounted, on foot,
and in carriages, were a couple of hundred people of all ages and of
all conditions. Chatting from the saddle and over carriage-doors,
lounging up and down the Drive, or looking over the hounds, the
company were leisurely awaiting the opening of the ball. They had
come from a circuit of twenty miles around, and they appeared to be
mainly people who habitually congregate at the cover-side throughout
the hunting-season, and to be generally more or less acquainted with
each other. The element of coquetry was not absent; but coquetry is
apparently not a natural product of the English soil, and that sort
of intercourse was not conspicuous. The same number of handsome young
men and women would be more demonstrative at a similar gathering
in America. A similar gathering, however, would not be possible in
America. We have no occasion on which people of all sorts come so
freely and so naturally together, interested in a traditional and
national sport, which is alike open to rich and poor, and meeting,
not for the single occasion only, but several times a week, winter
after winter, often for many years. Noblemen, gentlemen, farmers,
manufacturers, professional men, snobs, cads, errand-boys,--everybody,
in short, who cared to come seemed to have the right to come, and, so
far as the hunt was concerned, seemed to be on an equal footing. Of
course the poorer element was comparatively small, and mainly from the
immediate neighborhood. The _habitués_ of a hunt are seldom below the
grade of well-to-do farmers. Servants from the house were distributing
refreshments, riders were mounting their hunters, grooms were adjusting
saddle-girths, too fiery animals were being quieted, and there was
generally an air of preparation about the whole assemblage.
A little at one side, kept well together by the huntsman and a couple
of whippers-in, were the hounds (the Atherstone pack), about forty of
them, or, technically, "twenty couples," strong-limbed, large-eared,
party-colored, wholesome-looking fellows. They attracted much attention
and elicited frequent commendation, for they were said to be the very
finest pack in England,--as was also each of the three other packs that
I saw. To the unskilled eye, and simply viewed as dogs, they were not
remarkable; but it was a case in which the judgment of an unskilled
person could have no value.
The horses appealed to me much more strongly. Certainly I had never
before seen together the same number of the same average excellence;
and some of them were fit to drive one wild with envy. There was, on
the whole, less of the "blood" look than would be expected by a man who
had got his ideas of the hunting-field from Leech's drawings, but there
was a good deal of it, nevertheless, and in its perfection too; and
where it was wanting there was plenty of bone to make up for it.
At eleven the hounds were led out to the cover, and the whole field
followed slowly and irregularly and at some distance. There were about
one hundred and fifty mounted for the hunt. Perhaps one third of these
wore scarlet coats, white breeches, and top-boots; another third had
black coats and some of them black boots; and the remainder of the
field was made up of half a dozen ladies, a few stout old gentlemen of
seventy or so on stout old cobs of discreet age, little boys on smart
ponies, farmers and tradesmen and their clerks mounted on whatever they
could get, and men of every intermediate grade, and with all sorts of
horses. A certain amount of riff-raff, not mounted at all, but good
on their pins and ready for a run, were hanging about for a chance to
pick up a whip or a hat, or to catch a horse, or brush a muddy coat, or
turn an honest shilling in any way that might offer in the chances of
the day. Some of these fellows, rigged out with the cast-off clothing
of their betters, sported red coats, black velvet caps, and leather
leggings. One added to all this gorgeousness the refinement of bare
feet.
The hounds were taken into the cover, a brambly, tangled wood near by,
which had probably been planted and made a little wilderness to serve
as a cover for foxes.
They soon found a fox, drove him to the open, and followed him out of
the wood with a whimpering sort of cry which was disappointing after
the notion that the "full cry" of the books had given, and which is
heard in the very different fox-hunting of our Southern woods. The run
lay up a steepish hill, several fields wide and across an open country.
One bold rider (not a light one), mounted on a staving black horse,
went to the right of the cover, and made a splendid leap up hill,
over a stiff-looking hedge, and landed at the tail of the pack. The
"master" and his assistants had got away with the hounds. The rest of
the field went to the left, waiting their turns, through a farm-gate.
Once through, some twenty of them dashed up the hill, cleared a clever
hedge, and kept the pack in sight. The rest took an easier place,
where a farm laborer had pulled away the stakes by which a gap had
been filled. Here there was much very light jumping, and much more of
waiting until predecessors had made it lighter. In the mean time other
gaps were found, and it was not many minutes before all were through;
but during these minutes the fox, the hounds, and the harder riding men
were putting a wide space between themselves and us, who were at the
tail of the field. Yet there were some in the party who did not look
like laggards, and whose horses were good enough for any work such a
country could give them.
Even when across the gap, these men went with the rest of us, by
gates and lanes, toward a point to which it was thought by the knowing
ones that the fox would double,--and the knowing ones were right.
Gradually, as their judgment indicated, they left the roads and took to
the fields. This course was taken by three well-mounted young ladies.
I followed the gate-openers for about half an hour, when, coming out
on a high-road, I concluded that, with seventeen miles to ride home,
it was only just to my little mare to give the thing up and head for
Leamington. The hounds were far away on my right and quite out of sight.
Having come to look on and learn, I had probably seen and heard all
that day had in store for me,--surely enough for one's first day at
fox-hunting. When I had ridden for a few minutes I saw, far across
the fields, that the hounds had turned to the left and were making
for my road. Pressing forward, I came up in time to see them cross to
the front, and go scurrying away over the grass, nosing out the scent
as they ran. There had been a check, and "the field" was well up. The
road was lower than the fields, and was bordered by a ditch at each
side. From this the ground rose a little, and on each bank stood a
three-and-a-half-foot thorn hedge. Neither leap was difficult, but the
one out of the road was not easy. Here I sat and saw fully a hundred
horsemen, dressed in the gay colors of the hunting-field and mounted
as men rarely are mounted out of England, all, horses as well as men,
eager and excited in the chase, flying over hedge and ditch into the
carriage-way and over ditch and hedge into the higher field, beyond
and away, headlong after the hounds, every man for himself, and every
man for the front, and on they went over another hedge, and out of
sight. In the thick of the flight were two ladies, riding as well and
as boldly as the men, and two men were brushing their hats in the road,
their empty saddles keeping well up with the run. More than satisfied
with this climax of my first day's experience, I trotted out for home.
The result of the run I never heard, and I leave its description where
I lost sight of it. A mile farther on I did see a fagged-looking fox
making his rapid way across my road again, and sneaking off under the
hedge toward a thicket, and I halted to listen to what sounded like the
horn of a huntsman at check over the hill to the left; but possibly the
conclusion I drew was not a correct one.
I wish that words could give an idea of the life and action of the
headlong flight I had just seen; but the inadequacy of all I had read
to convey it to me makes it seem useless to try. Photography and
description may, in a measure, supply the place of travel; but he who
would realize the most thrilling intensity of eager horsemanship must
stand in a hedge-bound English lane, and see with his own eyes, and
for the first time in his life, a hundred gayly dressed and splendidly
mounted fox-hunters flashing at full speed across his path; and it is
worth the while to see.
Rain never fell on a more lovely country than that part of Warwickshire
through which my wet way lay. For ten miles of the seventeen it rained,
gently as it rains with us in April; nor is our grass more green in
April than this was in Christmas week. The all-prevailing ivy was
filled with berries, and the laurustinus was already in bloom.
No born Englishman could have cared less for the soaking rain; and,
wet to the skin, tired to the bone, and stiff to the marrow, I have
rarely been more exuberant than when I gradually regained the use of my
legs in the half-mile walk to the hotel, resolving that not even the
glories of American citizenship should ever keep me away from England
in winter were I only able to afford the luxury of regular hunting. But
the exuberance was moral rather than physical. I had not been so tired
for years,--stiff as an old horse, after over thirty miles of really
hard riding (the last seventeen miles in two hours). The cure was a
hot bath and a dish of hot soup, followed by a log-like sleep of two
hours on a sofa before a blazing hot fire, a sharp half-hour's walk,
a very plain dinner, and a couple of hours' chat with my interested
East-Indiaman in the smoking-room: the cure was complete; and all that
was left of the day's sport was its brilliant recollection.
* * * * *