The national penny offering, consisting of a thousand golden sovereigns
on a magnificent silver salver, stood conspicuously in view of the
audience. It has been an unsolicited offering, given in the smallest
sums, often from the extreme poverty of the giver. The committee who
collected it in Edinburgh and Glasgow bore witness to the willingness
with which the very poorest contributed the offering of their sympathy.
In one cottage they found a blind woman, and said, "Here, at least, is
one who will feel no interest, as she cannot have read the book."
"Indeed," said the old lady, "if I cannot read, my son has read it to
me, and I've got my penny saved to give."
It is to my mind extremely touching to see how the poor, in their
poverty, can be moved to a generosity surpassing that of the rich. Nor
do I mourn that they took it from their slender store, because I know
that a penny given from a kindly impulse is a greater comfort and
blessing to the poorest giver than even a penny received.
As in the case of the other meeting, we came out long before the
speeches were ended. Well, of course, I did not sleep any all night. The
next day I felt quite miserable. Mrs. W. went with Mr. S. and myself for
a quiet drive in her carriage.
It was a beautiful, sunny day that we drove out to Craigmiller Castle,
formerly one of the royal residences. It was here that Mary retreated
after the murder of Rizzio, and where, the chronicler says, she was
often heard in those days wishing that she were in her grave. It seems
so strange to see it standing there all alone, in the midst of grassy
fields, so silent, and cold, and solitary. I got out of the carriage and
walked about it. The short, green grass was gemmed with daisies, and
sheep were peacefully feeding and resting, where was once all the life
and bustle of a court.
We had no one to open the inside of the castle for us, where there are
still some tolerably preserved rooms, but we strolled listlessly about,
looking through the old arches, and peeping through slits and loopholes
into the interior.
The last verse of Queen Mary's lamentation seemed to be sighing in the
air:--
"O, soon for me shall simmer's suns
Nae mair light up the morn;
Nae mair for me the autumn wind
Wave o'er the yellow corn.
But in the narrow house of death
Let winter round me rave,
And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave."
Only yesterday, it seemed, since that poor heart was yearning and
struggling, caught in the toils of this sorrowful life. How many times
she looked on this landscape through sad eyes! I suppose just such
little daisies grew here in the grass then, and perhaps she stooped and
picked them, wishing, just as I do, that the pink did not grow on the
under side of them, where it does not show. Do you know that this little
daisy is the _gowan_ of Scotch poetry? So I was told by a "charming
young Jessie" in Glasgow, one day when I was riding out there.
The view from Craigmiller is beautiful--Auld Reekie, Arthur's Seat,
Salisbury Crags, and far down the Frith of Forth, where we can just
dimly see the Bass Hock, celebrated as a prison, where the Covenanters
were immured.
It was this fortress that Habakkuk Mucklewrath speaks of in his ravings,
when he says, "Am not I Habakkuk Mucklewrath, whose name is changed to
Magor-Missabib, because I am made a terror unto myself, and unto all
that are around me? I heard it: when did I hear it? Was it not in the
tower of the Bass, that overhangeth the wide, wild sea? and it howled in
the winds, and it roared in the billows, and it screamed, and it
whistled, and it clanged, with the screams, and the clang, and the
whistle of the sea birds, as they floated, and flew, and dropped, and
dived, on the bosom of the waters."
These Salisbury Crags, which overlook Edinburgh, have a very peculiar
outline; they resemble an immense elephant crouching down. We passed
Mushats Cairn, where Jeanie Deans met Robertson; and saw Liberton, where
Reuben Butler was a schoolmaster. Nobody doubts, I hope, the historical
accuracy of these points.
Thursday, 21st. We took cars for Aberdeen. The appropriation of old
historical names to railroad stations often reminds me of Hood's
whimsical lines on a possible railroad in the Holy Land. Think of having
Bannockburn shouted by the station master, as the train runs whistling
up to a small station house. Nothing to be seen there but broad, silent
meadows, through which the burn wimples its way. Here was the very
Marathon of Scotland. I suppose we know more about it from the "Scots
wha ha' wi' Wallace bled," than we do from history; yet the real scene,
as narrated by the historian, has a moral grandeur in it.
The chronicler tells us, that when on this occasion the Scots formed
their line of battle, and a venerable abbot passed along, holding up the
cross before them, the whole army fell upon their knees.
"These Scots will not fight," said Edward, who was reconnoitring at a
distance. "See! they are all on their knees now to beg for mercy."
"They kneel," said a lord who stood by, "but it is to God alone; trust
me, those men will win or die."
The bold lyric of Burns is but an inspired kind of version of the real
address which Bruce is said to have made to his followers; and whoever
reads it will see that its power lies not in appeal to brute force, but
to the highest elements of our nature, the love of justice, the sense of
honor, and to disinterestedness, self-sacrifice, courage unto death.
These things will live and form high and imperishable elements of our
nature, when mankind have learned to develop them in other spheres than
that of physical force. Burns's lyric, therefore, has in it an element
which may rouse the heart to noble endurance and devotion, even when the
world shall learn war no more.
We passed through the town of Stirling, whose castle, magnificently
seated on a rocky throne, looks right worthy to have been the seat of
Scotland's court, as it was for many years. It brought to our minds all
the last scenes of the Lady of the Lake, which are laid here with a
minuteness of local description and allusion characteristic of Scott.
According to our guide book, one might find there the visible
counterpart of every thing which he has woven into his beautiful
fiction--"the Lady's Rock, which rang to the applause of the multitude;"
"the Franciscan steeple, which pealed the merry festival;" "the sad and
fatal mound," apostrophized by Douglas,--
"That oft has heard the death-axe sound
As on the noblest of the land,
Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand;"--
the room in the castle, where "a Douglas by his sovereign bled;" and not
far off the ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey. One could not but think of the
old days Scott has described.
"The castle gates were open flung,
The quivering drawbridge rocked and rung,
And echoed loud the flinty street
Beneath the coursers' clattering feet,
As slowly down the steep descent
Fair Scotland's king and nobles went,
While all along the crowded way
Was jubilee and loud huzza."
The place has been long deserted as a palace; but it is one of the four
fortresses, which, by the articles of union between Scotland and
England, are always to be kept in repair.
We passed by the town of Perth, the scene of the "Fair Maid's"
adventures. We had received an invitation to visit it, but for want of
time were obliged to defer it till our return to Scotland.
Somewhere along here Mr. S. was quite excited by our proximity to
Scone, the old crowning-place of the Scottish kings; however, the old
castle is entirely demolished, and superseded by a modern mansion, the
seat of the Earl of Mansfield.
Still farther on, surrounded by dark and solemn woods, stands Glamis
Castle, the scene of the tragedy in Macbeth. We could see but a glimpse
of it from the road, but the very sound of the name was enough to
stimulate our imagination. It is still an inhabited dwelling, though
much to the regret of antiquarians and lovers of the picturesque, the
characteristic outworks and defences of the feudal ages, which
surrounded it, have been levelled, and velvet lawns and gravel walks
carried to the very door. Scott, who passed a night there in 1793, while
it was yet in its pristine condition, comments on the change mournfully,
as undoubtedly a true lover of the past would. Albeit the grass plats
and the gravel walks, to the eye of sense, are undoubtedly much more
agreeable and convenient. Scott says in his Demonology, that he never
came any where near to being overcome with a superstitious feeling,
except twice in his life, and one was on the night when he slept in
Glamis Castle. The poetical and the practical elements in Scott's mind
ran together, side by side, without mixing, as evidently as the waters
of the Alleghany and Monongahela at Pittsburg. Scarcely ever a man had
so much relish for the supernatural, and so little faith in it. One must
confess, however, that the most sceptical might have been overcome at
Glamis Castle, for its appearance, by all accounts, is weird and
strange, and ghostly enough to start the dullest imagination.
On this occasion Scott says, "After a very hospitable reception from the
late Peter Proctor, seneschal of the castle, I was conducted to my
apartment in a distant part of the building. I must own, that when I
heard door after door shut, after my conductor had retired, I began to
consider myself as too far from the living, and somewhat too near the
dead. We had passed through what is called 'the King's Room,' a vaulted
apartment, garnished with stags' antlers and similar trophies of the
chase, and said by tradition to be the spot of Malcolm's murder, and I
had an idea of the vicinity of the castle chapel. In spite of the truth
of history, the whole night scene in Macbeth's castle rushed at once
upon my mind, and struck my imagination more forcibly than even when I
have seen its terrors represented by the late John Kemble and his
inimitable sister. In a word, I experienced sensations which, though not
remarkable either for timidity or superstition, did not fail to affect
me to the point of being disagreeable, while they were mingled at the
same time with a strange and indescribable kind of pleasure."
Externally, the building is quaint and singular enough; tall and gaunt,
crested with innumerable little pepper box turrets and conical towers,
like an old French chateau.
Besides the tragedy of Macbeth, another story of still more melancholy
interest is connected with it, which a pen like that of Hawthorne, might
work up with gloomy power.
In 1537 the young and beautiful Lady Glamis of this place was actually
tried and executed for witchcraft. Only think, now! what capabilities in
this old castle, with its gloomy pine shades, quaint architecture, and
weird associations, with this bit of historic verity to start upon.
Walter Scott says, there is in the castle a secret chamber; the entrance
to which, by the law of the family, can be known only to three persons
at once--the lord of the castle, his heir apparent, and any third
person whom they might choose to take into their confidence. See, now,
the materials which the past gives to the novelist or poet in these old
countries. These ancient castles are standing romances, made to the
author's hands. The castle started a talk upon Shakspeare, and how much
of the tragedy he made up, and how much he found ready to his hand in
tradition and history. It seems the story is all told in Holingshed's
Chronicles; but his fertile mind has added some of the most thrilling
touches, such as the sleep walking of Lady Macbeth. It always seemed to
me that this tragedy had more of the melancholy majesty and power of
the Greek than any thing modern. The striking difference is, that while
fate was the radical element of those, free will is not less distinctly
the basis of this. Strangely enough, while it commences with a
supernatural oracle, there is not a trace of fatalism in it; but through
all, a clear, distinct recognition of moral responsibility, of the power
to resist evil, and the guilt of yielding to it. The theology of
Shakspeare is as remarkable as his poetry. A strong and clear sense of
man's moral responsibility and free agency, and of certain future
retribution, runs through all his plays.
I enjoyed this ride to Aberdeen more than any thing we had seen yet, the
country is so wild and singular. In the afternoon we came in sight of
the German Ocean. The free, bracing air from the sea, and the thought
that it actually _was_ the German Ocean, and that over the other side
was Norway, within a day's sail of us, gave it a strange, romantic
charm.
"Suppose we just run over to Norway," said one of us; and then came the
idea, what we should do if we got over there, seeing none of us
understood Norse.
The whole coast along here is wild and rock-bound; occasionally long
points jut into the sea; the blue waves sparkle and dash against them in
little jets of foam, and the sea birds dive and scream around them.
On one of these points, near the town of Stonehaven, are still seen the
ruins of Dunottar Castle, bare and desolate, surrounded on all sides by
the restless, moaning waves; a place justly held accursed as the scene
of cruelties to the Covenanters, so appalling and brutal as to make the
blood boil in the recital, even in this late day.
During the reigns of Charles and James, sovereigns whom Macaulay justly
designates as Belial and Moloch, this castle was the state prison for
confining this noble people. In the reign of James, one hundred and
sixty-seven prisoners, men, women, and children, for refusing the oath
of supremacy, were arrested at their firesides: herded together like
cattle; driven at the point of the bayonet, amid the gibes, jeers, and
scoffs of soldiers, up to this dreary place, and thrust promiscuously
into a dark vault in this castle; almost smothered in filth and mire; a
prey to pestilent disease, and to every malignity which brutality could
inflict, they died here unpitied. A few escaping down the rocks were
recaptured, and subjected to shocking tortures.
A moss-grown gravestone, in the parish churchyard of Dunottar, shows the
last resting-place of these sufferers.
Walter Scott, who visited this place, says, "The peasantry continue to
attach to the tombs of these victims an honor which they do not render
to more splendid mausoleums; and when they point them out to their sons,
and narrate the fate of the sufferers, usually conclude by exhorting
them to be ready, should the times call for it, to resist to the death
in the cause of civil and religious liberty, like their brave
forefathers."
It is also related by Gilfillan, that a minister from this vicinity,
having once lost his way in travelling through a distant part of
Scotland, vainly solicited the services of a guide for some time, all
being engaged in peat-cutting; at last one of the farmers, some of whose
ancestors had been included among the sufferers, discovering that he
came from this vicinity, had seen the gravestones, and could repeat the
inscriptions, was willing to give up half a day's work to guide him on
his way.
It is well that such spots should be venerated as sacred shrines among
the descendants of the Covenanters, to whom Scotland owes what she is,
and all she may become.
It was here that Scott first became acquainted with Robert Paterson, the
original of Old Mortality.
Leaving Stonehaven we passed, on a rising ground a little to our left,
the house of the celebrated Barclay of Ury. It remains very much in its
ancient condition, surrounded by a low stone wall, like the old
fortified houses of Scotland.
Barclay of Ury was an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought
under Gustavus Adolphus in Germany, and one of the earliest converts to
the principles of the Friends in Scotland. As a Quaker, he became an
object of hatred and abuse at the hands of the magistracy and populace;
but he endured all these insults and injuries with the greatest patience
and nobleness of soul.
"I find more satisfaction," he said, "as well as honor, in being thus
insulted for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was
usual for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me
on the road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and
then escort me out again, to gain my favor."
Whittier has celebrated this incident in his beautiful ballad, called
"Barclay of Ury." The son of this Barclay was the author of that Apology
which bears his name, and is still a standard work among the Friends.
The estate is still possessed by his descendants.
A little farther along towards Aberdeen, Mr. S. seemed to amuse himself
very much with the idea, that we were coming near to Dugald Dalgetty's
estate of Drumthwacket, an historical remembrance which I take to be
somewhat apocryphal.
It was towards the close of the afternoon that we found ourselves
crossing the Dee, in view of Aberdeen. My spirits were wonderfully
elated: the grand sea scenery and fine bracing air; the noble, distant
view of the city, rising with its harbor and shipping, all filled me
with delight. Besides which the Dee had been enchanted for me from my
childhood, by a wild old ballad which I used to hear sung to a Scottish
tune, equally wild and pathetic. I repeated it to C----, and will now to
you.
"The moon had climbed the highest hill
That rises o'er the banks of Dee,
And from her farthest summit poured
Her silver light o'er tower and tree,--
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
And soft and low a voice she heard,
Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me.'
She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to see who there might be;
She saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With pallid cheek and hollow ee.
'O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath the stormy sea;
The storm, is past, and I'm at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me.'
Loud crew the cock; the vision fled;
No more young Sandy could she see;
But soft a parting whisper said,
'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me.'"
I never saw these lines in print any where; I never knew who wrote them;
I had only heard them sung at the fireside when a child, to a tune as
dreamy and sweet as themselves; but they rose upon me like an
enchantment, as I crossed the Dee, in view of that very German Ocean,
famed for its storms and shipwrecks.
In this propitious state, disposed to be pleased with every thing, our
hearts responded warmly to the greetings of the many friends who were
waiting for us at the station house.
The lord provost received us into his carriage, and as we drove along,
pointed out to us the various objects of interest in the beautiful town.
Among other things, a fine old bridge across the Dee attracted our
particular attention.
We were conducted to the house of Mr. Cruikshank, a Friend, and found
waiting for us there the thoughtful hospitality which we had ever
experienced in all our stopping-places. A snug little quiet supper was
laid out upon the table, of which we partook in haste, as we were
informed that the assembly at the hall were waiting to receive us.
There arrived, we found the hall crowded, and with difficulty made our
way to the platform. Whether owing to the stimulating effect of the air
from the ocean, or to the comparatively social aspect of the scene, or
perhaps to both, certain it is, that we enjoyed the meeting with great
zest. I was surrounded on the stage with blooming young ladies, one of
whom put into my hands a beautiful bouquet, some flowers of which I have
now dried in my album. The refreshment tables were adorned with some
exquisite wax flowers, the work, as I was afterwards told, of a young
lady in the place. One of the designs especially interested me. It was a
group of water lilies resting on a mirror, which gave them the
appearance of growing in the water.
We had some very animated speaking, in which the speakers contrived to
blend enthusiastic admiration and love for America with detestation of
slavery.
All the afternoon the beautiful coast had reminded me of the State of
Maine, and the genius of the meeting confirmed the association. They
seemed to me to be a plain, genial, strong, warm-hearted people, like
those of Maine.
One of the speakers concluded his address by saying that John Bull and
Brother Jonathan, with Paddy and Sandy Scott, should they clasp hands
together, might stand against the world; which sentiment was responded
to with thunders of applause.
It is because America, like Scotland, has stood for right against
oppression, that the Scotch love and sympathize with her. For this
reason do they feel it as something taken from the strength of a common
cause, when America sides with injustice and oppression. The children of
the Covenant and the children of the Puritans are of one blood.
They presented an offering in a beautiful embroidered purse, and after
much shaking of hands we went home, and sat down to the supper table,
for a little more chat, before going to bed. The next morning,--as we
had only till noon to stay in Aberdeen,--our friends, the lord provost,
and Mr. Leslie, the architect, came immediately after breakfast to show
us the place.
The town of Aberdeen is a very fine one, and owes much of its beauty to
the light-colored granite of which most of the houses are built. It has
broad, clean, beautiful streets, and many very curious and interesting
public buildings. The town exhibits that union of the hoary past with
the bustling present which is characteristic of the old world.
It has two parts, the old and the new, as unlike as L'Allegro and
Penseroso--the new, clean, and modern; the old, mossy and dreamy. The
old town is called Alton, and has venerable houses, standing, many of
them, in ancient gardens. And here rises the peculiar, old, gray
cathedral. These Scotch cathedrals have a sort of stubbed appearance,
and look like the expression in stone of defiant, invincible resolution.
This is of primitive granite, in the same heavy, massive style as the
cathedral of Glasgow, but having strong individualities of its own.
Whoever located the ecclesiastical buildings of England and Scotland
certainly had an exquisite perception of natural scenery; for one
notices that they are almost invariably placed on just that point of the
landscape, where the poet or the artist would say they should be. These
cathedrals, though all having a general similarity of design, seem, each
one, to have its own personality, as much as a human being. Looking at
nineteen of them is no compensation to you for omitting the twentieth;
there will certainly be something new and peculiar in that.
This Aberdeen Cathedral, or Cathedral of St. Machar, is situated on the
banks of the River Don; one of those beautiful amber-brown rivers that
color the stones and pebbles at the bottom with a yellow light, such as
one sees in ancient pictures. Old trees wave and rustle around, and the
building itself, though a part of it has fallen into ruins, has, in many
parts, a wonderful clearness and sharpness of outline. I cannot describe
these things to you; architectural terms convey no picture to the mind.
I can only tell you of the character and impression it bears--a
character of strong, unflinching endurance, appropriately reminding one
of the Scotch people, whom Walter Scott compares to the native sycamore
of their hills, "which scorns to be biased in its mode of growth, even
by the influence of the prevailing wind, but shooting its branches with
equal boldness in every direction, shows no weather side to the storm,
and may be broken, but can never be bended."
One reason for the sharpness and distinctness of the architectural
preservation of this cathedral is probably that closeness of texture for
which Aberdeen granite is remarkable. It bears marks of the hand of
violence in many parts. The images of saints and bishops, which lie on
their backs with clasped hands, seem to have been wofully maltreated and
despoiled, in the fervor of those days, when people fondly thought that
breaking down carved work was getting rid of superstition. These granite
saints and bishops, with their mutilated fingers and broken noses, seem
to be bearing a silent, melancholy witness against that disposition in
human nature, which, instead of making clean the cup and platter, breaks
them altogether.
The roof of the cathedral is a splendid specimen of carving in black
oak, wrought in panels, with leaves and inscriptions in ancient text.
The church could once boast in other parts (so says an architectural
work) a profusion of carved woodwork of the same character, which must
have greatly relieved the massive plainness of the interior.
In 1649, the parish minister attacked the "High Altar," a piece of the
most splendid workmanship of any thing of the kind in Europe, and which
had to that time remained inviolate; perhaps from the insensible
influence of its beauty. It is said that the carpenter employed for the
purpose was so struck with the noble workmanship, that he refused to
touch it till the minister took the hatchet from his hand and gave the
first blow.
These men did not consider that "the leprosy lies deep within," and
that when human nature is denied beautiful idols, it will go after ugly
ones. There has been just as unspiritual a resting in coarse, bare, and
disagreeable adjuncts of religion, as in beautiful and agreeable ones;
men have worshipped Juggernaut as pertinaciously as they have Venus or
the Graces; so that the good divine might better have aimed a sermon at
the heart than an axe at the altar.
We lingered a long time around here, and could scarcely tear ourselves
away. We paced up and down under the old trees, looking off on the
waters of the Don, listening to the waving branches, and falling into a
dreamy state of mind, thought what if it were six hundred years ago! and
we were pious simple hearted old abbots! What a fine place that would be
to walk up and down at eventide or on a Sabbath morning, reciting the
penitential psalms, or reading St. Augustine!
I cannot get over the feeling, that the souls of the dead do somehow
connect themselves with the places of their former habitation, and that
the hush and thrill of spirit, which we feel in them, may be owing to
the overshadowing presence of the invisible. St. Paul says, "We are
compassed about with a great cloud of witnesses." How can they be
witnesses, if they cannot see and be cognizant?
We left the place by a winding walk, to go to the famous bridge of
Balgounie, another dream-land affair, not far from here. It is a single
gray stone arch, apparently cut from solid rock, that spans the brown
rippling waters, where wild, overhanging banks, shadowy trees, and
dipping wild flowers, all conspire to make a romantic picture. This
bridge, with the river and scenery, were poetic items that went, with
other things, to form the sensitive mind of Byron, who lived here in his
earlier days. He has some lines about it:--
"As 'auld lang syne' brings Scotland, one and all,
Scotch, plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams,
The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall,
All my boy-feelings, all my gentler dreams,
Of what I then dreamt clothed in their own pall,
Like Banquo's offspring,--floating past me seems
My childhood, in this childishness of mind:
I care not--'tis a glimpse of 'auld lang syne.'"
This old bridge has a prophecy connected with it, which was repeated to
us, and you shall have it literatim:--
"Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa',
Wi' a wife's ae son, and a mare's a foal,
Doon ye shall fa'!"
The bridge was built in the time of Robert Bruce, by one Bishop Cheyne,
of whom all that I know is, that he evidently had a good eye for the
picturesque.
After this we went to visit King's College. The tower of it is
surmounted by a massive stone crown, which forms a very singular feature
in every view of Aberdeen, and is said to be a perfectly unique specimen
of architecture. This King's College is very old, being founded also by
a bishop, as far back as the fifteenth century. It has an exquisitely
carved roof, and carved oaken seats. We went through the library, the
hall, and the museum. Certainly, the old, dark architecture of these
universities must tend to form a different style of mind from our plain
matter-of-fact college buildings.
Here in Aberdeen is the veritable Marischal College, so often quoted by
Dugald Dalgetty. We had not time to go and see it, but I can assure you
on the authority of the guide book, that it is a magnificent specimen of
architecture.
After this, that we might not neglect the present in our zeal for the
past, we went to the marble yards, where they work the Aberdeen granite.
This granite, of which we have many specimens in America, is of two
kinds, one being gray, the other of a reddish hue. It seems to differ
from other granite in the fineness and closeness of its grain, which
enables it to receive the most brilliant conceivable polish. I saw some
superb columns of the red species, which were preparing to go over the
Baltic to Riga, for an Exchange; and a sepulchral monument, which was
going to New York. All was busy here, sawing, chipping, polishing; as
different a scene from the gray old cathedral as could be imagined. The
granite finds its way, I suppose, to countries which the old,
unsophisticated abbots never dreamed of.
One of the friends who had accompanied us during the morning tour was
the celebrated architect, Mr. Leslie, whose conversation gave us all
much enjoyment. He and Mrs. Leslie gave me a most invaluable parting
present, to wit, four volumes of engravings, representing the "Baronial
and Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Scotland," illustrated by Billings. I
cannot tell you what a mine of pleasure it has been to me. It is a proof
edition, and the engravings are so vivid, and the drawing so fine, that
it is nearly as good as reality. It might almost save one the trouble of
a pilgrimage. I consider the book a kind of national poem; for
architecture is, in its nature, poetry; especially in these old
countries, where it weaves into itself a nation's history, and gives
literally the image and body of the times.