The Lure of the Camera
by Charles S. Olcott · English · Gutenberg #35960 · 406,407 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Lure of the Camera
Author: Charles S. Olcott
Release date: April 25, 2011 [eBook #35960]
Language: English
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Transcriber's note:
The following typographical errors have been corrected:
Page 75: "It was to this charming valley that Walter Scott came,
with his young wife, in the first year of their wedded life." 'to'
amended from 'to to'.
Page 108: "We believe that many changes in the conditions of life
and labour are needed, and are coming to pass ..." 'needed' amended
from 'neeeded'.
Page 114: "At sight of this group of buildings one almost expects
to catch a glimpse of the well-meaning but not over-wise Mrs.
Thornburgh ..." 'buildings' amended from 'buidings'.
Page 249: "... everything that makes us see across our poor lives a
splendid goal and a boundless future, comes to us from people of
simplicity, those who have made another object of their desires
than the passing satisfaction and vanity ..." 'splendid' amended
from 'spendid'.
By Charles S. Olcott
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA. Illustrated.
THE COUNTRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Illustrated.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
[Illustration: THE STEPPING STONES]
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
BY
CHARLES S. OLCOTT
_Author of "George Eliot: Scenes and People of
her Novels" and "The Country
of Sir Walter Scott"_
ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published September 1914_
TO MY BOYS
GAGE, CHARLES, AND HOWARD
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
PREFACE
The difference between a ramble and a journey is about the same as that
between pleasure and business. When you go anywhere for a serious
purpose, you make a journey; but if you go for pleasure (and don't take
the pleasure too seriously, as many do) you only ramble.
The sketches in this volume, which takes its name from the first
chapter, are based upon "rambles," which were for the most part merely
incidental excursions, made possible by various "journeys" undertaken
for more serious purposes. It has been the practice of the author for
many years to carry a camera on his travels, so that, if chance should
take him within easy distance of some place of literary, historic, or
scenic interest, he might not miss the opportunity to pursue his
favorite avocation.
If the reader is asked to make long flights, as from Scotland to Italy,
then back, across the Atlantic, to New England, and thence overland to
Wyoming and Arizona, he must remember that ramblers take no account of
distance or direction. In this case they must take no account of time,
for these rambles are but the chance happenings that have occurred at
intervals in a period of more than a dozen years.
People who are in a hurry, and those who in traveling seek to "do" the
largest number of places in the shortest number of days, are advised not
to travel with an amateur photographer. Not only must he have leisure to
find and study his subjects, but he is likely to wander away from the
well-worn paths and use up his time in making inquiries, in a fashion
quite exasperating to the tourist absorbed in his itinerary.
The rambles here chronicled could not possibly be organized into an
itinerary or moulded into a guidebook. The author simply invites those
who have inclinations similar to his own, to wander with him, away from
the customary paths of travel, and into the homes of certain
distinguished authors or the scenes of their writings, and to visit with
him various places of historic interest or natural beauty, without a
thought of maps, distances, time-tables, or the toil and dust of travel.
This is the real essence of rambling.
The chapter on "The Country of Mrs. Humphry Ward" was published
originally in _The Outlook_ in 1909, and "A Day in Wordsworth's
Country," in the same magazine in 1910.
CONTENTS
I. THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 1
II. LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 15
English Courtesy--The George Eliot
Country--Experiences in Rural England.
Overcoming Obstacles--A London
"Bobby"--Carlyle's Birthplace--The Country of
Scott and Burns
III. A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 49
IV. FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 73
V. THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 93
I. MRS. WARD AND HER WORK 95
II. THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE 110
III. OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY 128
VI. A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 147
VII. LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 175
I. CONCORD 179
II. SALEM 196
III. PORTSMOUTH 207
IV. THE ISLES OF SHOALS 222
VIII. A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 233
IX. GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 251
X. THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA 271
INDEX 297
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE STEPPING STONES _Frontispiece_
On the River Rothay, near Ambleside, England, and below Fox How,
the home of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, grandfather of Mrs. Humphry
Ward. One of the scenes in "Robert Elsmere" was suggested by
these stones.
A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS 10
White Mountains, N.H.
PROFILE LAKE 12
Showing the Old Man of the Mountains.
In the Franconia Notch, White Mountains, N.H. The profile
suggested to Hawthorne the tale of "The Great Stone Face."
THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL 22
Near Nuneaton, England. The original of Cheverel Manor, in
George Eliot's "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story."
A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON 30
Where George Eliot attended school in her eighth or ninth year.
THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS 34
In Ellastone, England, the original of the "Donnithorne Arms" of
"Adam Bede."
THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS 40
In Ayrshire, Scotland. The poet was born here January 25, 1759.
The left of the building is the cottage of two rooms where the
family lived. Adjoining, on the right, is the "byre," or
cow-house.
THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE 44
The monument was built in 1820. It is sixty feet high, and
almost an exact duplicate of the monument in Edinburgh.
THE BRIG O' DOON, AYRSHIRE 48
The bridge over which Tam o' Shanter rode to escape the witches.
GRASMERE LAKE 60
"For rest of body perfect was the spot."
DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE 64
Wordsworth's home for eight years. The view is from the garden
in the rear of the cottage.
WORDSWORTH'S WELL 68
In the garden of Dove Cottage, where the poet placed "bright
gowan and marsh marigold" brought from the border of the lake.
HAWTHORNDEN 76
The home of the Drummond family, on the banks of the Esk,
Scotland.
THE SYCAMORE 80
The tree at Hawthornden under which William Drummond met Ben
Jonson.
RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE 86
In Roslin Glen overlooking the Esk.
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD 96
At the villa in Cadenabbia, overlooking Lake Como, where Mrs.
Ward wrote "Lady Rose's Daughter."
"UNDER LOUGHRIGG" 100
The view from the study window of Thomas Arnold at Fox How.
THE PASSMORE EDWARDS SETTLEMENT HOUSE 104
Tavistock Place, London.
THE LIME WALK 110
In the garden of Trinity College, Oxford. Referred to in "Robert
Elsmere."
COTTAGE OF "MARY BACKHOUSE" 114
At Sad Gill, Long Sleddale. The barns and storehouses, on either
end, give the small cottage an attenuated appearance.
THE RECTORY OF PEPER HAROW 118
In Surrey, England. The original of Murewell Rectory, the house
of "Robert Elsmere."
THE ROTHAY AND NAB SCAR 130
From Pelter Bridge, Ambleside, England.
LAKE COMO 138
From "the path that led to the woods overhanging the Villa
Carlotta."
STOCKS 144
The home of Mrs. Humphry Ward, near Tring, England.
LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY 150
According to Ruskin the most beautiful of the Italian Lakes.
ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE 154
The costly summer home of Count Vitaliano Borromeo in the
Seventeenth Century.
THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA 170
At Cadenabbia, Lake Como.
"I CALL THIS MY J. M. W. TURNER" 174
View from the dining-room window of the Villa Maria.
THE OLD MANSE 180
In Concord, where Emerson wrote "Nature" and Hawthorne lived for
three years.
WALDEN WOODS 184
The cairn marks the site of Thoreau's hut and "Thoreau's Cove"
is seen in the distance.
HOUSE OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON 190
Concord, Massachusetts.
THE WAYSIDE 194
House in Concord, where Hawthorne lived in the latest years of
his life.
THE MALL STREET HOUSE 200
Salem, Mass. The room in which Hawthorne wrote "The Scarlet
Letter" is in the third floor, front, on the left.
THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES 204
The house in Turner Street, Salem, Mass., built in 1669, and
owned by the Ingersoll family.
THE BAILEY HOUSE 208
The house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of Thomas Bailey
Aldrich's grandfather, known as "Captain Nutter" in "The Story
of a Bad Boy."
"AUNT ABIGAIL'S" ROOM 212
In the "Nutter" House.
AN OLD WHARF 216
On the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth, where Aldrich often played
in his boyhood.
CELIA THAXTER'S COTTAGE 224
On Appledore, where the poet maintained her famous "Island
Garden."
APPLEDORE 232
Trap-dike, on Appledore, the largest of the "Isles of Shoals."
JOHN BURROUGHS AT WOODCHUCK LODGE 238
The summer home of Mr. Burroughs is near Roxbury, New York, in
the Catskill Mountains. When not at work he enjoys "the peace of
the hills."
JOHN BURROUGHS AT WORK 244
The "study" is a barn, where the naturalist sits facing the
open doors. He looks out upon a stone wall where the birds and
small animals come to "talk with him." The "desk" is an old
hen-coop, with straw in the bottom, to keep his feet warm.
HYMEN TERRACE 254
At Mammoth Hot Springs in the Yellowstone National Park.
PULPIT TERRACE 258
A part of Jupiter Terrace, the largest of the formations at
Mammoth Hot Springs.
OLD FAITHFUL 264
The famous geyser in the Upper Geyser Basin of the Yellowstone
National Park. It plays a stream about one hundred and fifty
feet high every sixty-five minutes, with but slight variations.
THE GROTTO GEYSER 266
A geyser in the Yellowstone National Park notable for its
fantastic crater.
THE CANON OF THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER 268
The view from Inspiration Point.
THE TRAIL, GRAND CANON 278
The view shows the upper part of Bright Angels' Trail, as it
appears when the ground is covered with snow.
THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA 290
The view from Bright Angels'. The plateau over which the trail
leads to the edge of the river is partly covered by a deep
shadow. The great formation in the left foreground is known as
the "Battleship."
I
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA
I
Two pictures, each about the size of a large postage-stamp, are among my
treasured possessions. In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, in a
white dress, is vigorously kicking a football. The second depicts a
human wheelbarrow, the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, whose two
plump arms serve admirably the purpose of a wheel, his stout legs making
an excellent pair of handles, while the motive power is supplied by an
equally robust lad of eight, who grasps his younger brother firmly by
the ankles.
These two photographs, taken with a camera so small that in operation it
was completely concealed between the palms of my hands, revealed to me
for the first time the fascination of amateur photography. The discovery
meant that whatever interested me, even if no more than the antics of my
children, might be instantly recorded. I had no idea of artistic
composition, nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, and
printing papers. Still less did I foresee that the tiny little black box
contained the germ of an indefinable impulse, which, expanding and
growing more powerful year by year, was to lead me into fields which I
had never dreamed of exploring, into habits of observation never before
a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of countless places of
historic and literary interest as well as natural beauty and grandeur,
which would never have been mine but for the lure of the camera.
The spell began to make itself felt almost immediately. I determined to
buy a camera of my own,--for the two infinitesimal pictures were taken
with a borrowed instrument,--and was soon the possessor of a much larger
black box capable of making pictures three and a quarter inches square.
The film which came with it was quickly "shot off," and then came the
impulse to go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend a day at a
pretty little inland lake, a few hours' ride from our home. I hastened
to the druggist's to buy another film, and without waiting to insert it
in the camera, off we started. Arrived on the scene, our first duty was
to "load" the new machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow the
directions did not seem to fit. But we got it in place finally and began
to enjoy the pleasures of photography.
Our first view was a general survey of the lake, which is nearly twelve
miles long, with many bays and indentations in the shore-line, making a
rather large subject for a picture only three and a quarter inches
square. But such difficulties did not seem formidable. The directions
clearly intimated that if we would only "press the button" somebody
would "do the rest," and we expected the intangible somebody to perform
his part of the contract as faithfully as we were doing ours. Years
afterward, chancing to pass by the British Museum, which stretches its
huge bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of nearly four hundred
feet, we saw a little girl taking its picture with a "Brownie" camera.
"That reminds me of 'Dignity and Impudence,'" said my wife, referring to
Landseer's well-known painting which we had seen at the National Gallery
that afternoon. This is the mistake which all amateurs make at
first--that of expecting the little instrument to perform impossible
feats.
But to resume my story. We spent a remarkably pleasant day composing
beautiful views. We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the steamers and
the sail-boats and at everything else in sight except the huge
ice-houses which disfigure what would otherwise be one of the prettiest
lakes in America. We posed for each other in picturesque attitudes on
the rocks and in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had a
delightful outing and only regretted when, all too soon, the last film
was exposed. But we felt unusually happy to think that we had a
wonderful record of the day's proceedings to show to our family and
friends.
That night I developed the roll, laboriously cutting off one exposure at
a time, and putting it through the developer according to directions.
Number one was blank! Something wrong with the shutter, I thought, and
tried the next. Number two was also blank!! What can this mean? Perhaps
I haven't developed it long enough. So into the fluid went another one,
and this one stayed a long time. To my dismay number three was as vacant
as the others, and so were all the rest of the twelve. Early the next
morning I was at the drug store demanding an explanation. The druggist
confessed that the film-roll he had sold me was intended for another
camera, but "It ought to have worked on yours," he said. Subsequent
investigation proved that on my camera the film was to be inserted on
the left, while on the other kind it went in on the right. This
difference seemed insignificant until I discovered that in turning the
roll to insert it on the opposite side from what was intended, I had
brought the strip of black paper to the front of the film, thus
preventing any exposure at all! Thus I learned the first principle of
amateur photography:--_Know exactly what you are doing_ and take no
chances with your apparatus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted to
explain the use of the various "stops" on her camera, impatiently
interrupted me with the remark, "Well, that's the way it was set when I
got it and I'm not going to bother to change it. If the pictures are no
good, I'll send it back." It is such people who continually complain of
"bad luck" with their films.
It was two or three years after the complete failure of my first
expedition before the camera again exerted its spell, except that
meanwhile it was faithfully recording various performances of the
family, especially in the vacation season. It was in the autumn of 1898.
The victorious American fleet had returned from Santiago and all the
famous battleships and cruisers were triumphantly floating their ensigns
in the breezes of New York Harbor. "Here is a rare opportunity. Come!"
said the camera. Taking passage on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by
the lifeboats, outside the rail, where the view would be unobstructed.
We passed in succession all the vessels, from the doughty Texas,
commanded by the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Oregon, with the
laurels of her long cruise around Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by
one I photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, are some pictures
worth while. I had been in the habit of doing my own developing--with
indifferent success, it must be confessed. These exposures, made under
ideal conditions, were too precious to be risked, so I took the roll to
a prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, for developing and
printing. Every one was spoiled! Not a good print could be found in the
lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had left yellow spots and
finger-marks on every negative! Subsequent investigation revealed the
fact that a negro janitor had been entrusted with the work. Here, then,
was maxim number two for the amateur--_Do your own developing_, and be
sure to master the details of the operation. The old adage, "If you want
a thing well done, do it yourself," applies with peculiar force to
photography.
Another experience, which happened soon after, came near ending forever
all further attempts in photography. This time I lost, not only the
negatives, but the camera itself. Having accomplished very little, I
resolved to try no more. But a year or two later a friend offered to
sell me his 4 x 5 plate camera, with tripod, focusing-cloth and all, at
a ridiculously low price, and enough of the old fever remained to make
me an easy--victim, shall I say? No! How can I ever thank him enough? I
put my head under the focusing-cloth and for the first time looked at
the inverted image of a beautiful landscape, reflected in all its colors
upon the ground glass. At that moment began my real experience in
photography. The hand camera is only a toy. A child can use it as well
as an expert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of a prison
yard, and beyond them one cannot go. All is guesswork. Luck is the
biggest factor of success. Artistic work is practically impossible. It
is not until you begin to compose your pictures on the ground glass that
art in photography becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing to see how
many variations of the same scene may be obtained, how many different
effects of light and shade, and how much depends upon the point of view.
Then, too, one becomes more independent of the weather, for by a proper
use of the "stop" and careful application of the principles of correct
exposure, it is possible to overcome many adverse conditions.
An acquaintance once expressed surprise that I was willing to spend day
after day of my vacation walking about with a heavy camera case, full of
plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky tripod slung over my shoulder. I
replied that it was no heavier than a bagful of golf-sticks, that the
walk took me through an endless variety of beautiful scenery, and that
the game itself was fascinating. Of course, my friend could not
appreciate my point of view, for he had never paused on the shore of
some sparkling lake to study the ripple of the waters, the varying
shades of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the pebbly beach with
smooth flat stones whitening in the sun, but looking cooler and darker
where seen through the transparent cover of the shallow water, the deep
purple of the undulating hills in the distance, and above it all the
canopy of filmy, foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded
outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the loveliest cerulean blue.
He had never looked upon such scenes as these with the exhilarating
thought that something of the marvelous beauty which nature daily
spreads before us can be captured and taken home as a permanent reminder
of what we have seen.
To catch the charm of such a scene is no child's play. It requires the
use of the best of lenses and other appliances, skill derivable only
from long study and experience, and a natural appreciation of the
artistic point of view. It requires even more, for the plate must be
developed and the prints made, both operations calling for skill and a
sense of the artistic.
The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and in many forms of
recreation is the overcoming of obstacles. The football team must defeat
a heavy opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. If the
opponents are "easy," there is no fun in the game. The hunter who incurs
no hardship complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman would rather
land one big black bass after a long struggle than catch a hundred perch
which almost jump into your boat without an invitation.
[Illustration: A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS]
Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who
love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging
rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle.
Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer
for the purpose of taking the animal's picture than they would get if
they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes--and in this
class I include myself--can find all the sport they want in the less
strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out
the attractive scenes,--the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook;
the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined
castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of
some noteworthy historical event,--but the art of photography itself
presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select
the right point of view; to secure an artistic "balance" in all parts of
the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting
in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to
catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired
transparency in the shadows,--these and a hundred other considerations
give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the
never-ending fascination of the game.
I have noticed that the camera does not lure one into the beaten tracks
which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded
coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many
people are around, especially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do
its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with
leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always
felt a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable jargon of
the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show
places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such
places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the
other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an
acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at
leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not
only with a sense of complete satisfaction, but with a new friendship to
add to the pleasure of future memories.
[Illustration: PROFILE LAKE]
To visit the places made famous by their associations with literature
and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and
awe-inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast
depths of the Grand Canon, or restful in their sweet simplicity like the
quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people in their
homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages; to find new beauty
daily, whether at home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the
sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds; to gain
that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes
from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the
picturesque and beautiful,--these are the possibilities offered by
amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera.
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
I
Emerson said of the English people, "Every one of these islanders is an
island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable," and that "It is almost
an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced." Holmes,
on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were "received with
nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate
kindness." Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as
"the only real thing in a wilderness of shams," and thought his
patronage "divertingly insufferable." On the other hand, he praised the
genuineness of the better men of England, as "so manly-tender, so brave,
so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is
thicker than water." Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days
what he called "the two opposite poles of English character." One of
them was "taciturn, reserved, fastidious" and without "power of
enjoyment"; the other was "expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly,
laughing loud and long." All of this suggests that in attempting to
write one's impressions of the English or any other people, one must
remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great
emphasis--"some people are not all alike!"
I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without
exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland,
manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work
delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise
obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but
seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of
the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his
orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my
protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to
another, until, continuing to pass "higher up," I was at last
photographing everything of interest, including the "Beef-Eater" who
obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these
helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be
more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I
might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should
not be disappointed.
An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic
experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure
for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example
of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere
prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as
possible, the scenes of George Eliot's writings, and on the day of our
arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a
particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned
that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the
Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the
great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully
preserved.
Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis
Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite
assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an
appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present
again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting
permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr.
Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically
repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and
wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as
a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial
smile, calling me by name and saying, "I have something I want to show
you, if you would care to see it." Considerably surprised, I saw him
touch a button as he resumed,--"It's a picture of George Eliot,--at
least we think it is, but we are not sure,--we bought it from the
executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist." Here the
attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to
be a large painting in water-colors of a woman's face, with remarkably
strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say,
"If any woman in the world can do a man's thinking, I'm that person." A
letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore
Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the
painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered
portrait was a "study" for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic
Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true
womanliness of George Eliot's character, for he certainly softened the
expression of those determined-looking eyes.
After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend
inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as
possible, the scenes of George Eliot's novels and to photograph all the
various places of interest. "Of course you'll go to Nuneaton?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, in a tone of assurance; "I expect to visit Arbury
Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor." "I suppose, then, you are
acquainted with Mr. Newdegate," said he, inquiringly. I had to confess
that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise.
"Why, you can't get in if you don't know him. Arbury is a private
estate." This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I
could go anywhere. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very
beginning appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. Of course, I could
not expect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs,
and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin
seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. "I happen to
know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I'll give you a
letter of introduction.--No, I'll do better. I'll write and tell him
you're coming."
This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was
as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the
original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was
about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and
added, "Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture";
and the interview ended with his promise to have the official
photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report
that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and
the next morning received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall
cordially inviting us to visit him.
Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the
full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir
Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging side by side in
the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I
was, therefore, eager to find them.
We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at
the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster's
conviviality. Readers of "Janet's Repentance" will recall that the great
"man of deeds" addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of
the "Red Lion," protesting against the "temptation to vice" involved in
the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He
brought the meeting to a close by calling for "Three cheers for True
Religion"; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the
inn, he caused "the most capacious punch-bowl" to be brought out and
continued the festivities until after midnight, "when several friends of
sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them
showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter."
[Illustration: THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL]
The old tavern, one of the few which still retain the old-fashioned
arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change
horses, boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished
than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was
sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept
since Shakespeare's time.
In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the private grounds of which
make a beautifully wooded park of three hundred acres. The mansion is
seen to the best advantage from the opposite side of a little pool,
where the surrounding trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in
the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are waving gently in the
summer air, and the pond-lilies spread their round green leaves to make
a richer, deeper background for their blossoms of purest white. On a
green knoll behind this charming foreground stands a gray stone mansion
of rectangular shape, its sharp corners softened with ivy and by the
foliage at either end. Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked
on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each with a double-storied
oriel, and a multitude of pinnacles surmounting the walls on every side,
give a distinguished air to the building, as though it were a part of
some great cathedral. This Gothic aspect was imparted to the mansion
something over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdigate, who was the
prototype of George Eliot's Sir Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist
describes the place as if in the process of remodeling.
We were cordially welcomed by the present owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose
hospitality doubly confirmed our first impressions of British courtesy.
After some preliminary conversation we rose to begin a tour of
inspection. Our host threw open a door and instantly we were face to
face with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel, which for so long had stood in my mind as the only known
objects of interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the way, not of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, but of George Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory,
probably a full score of years after her last visit to the place, and
this is one of several slight mistakes. These fine portraits, really
representing Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the end of a
large and sumptuously furnished room, with high vaulted ceiling in the
richest Gothic style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its
tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster Abbey. The saloon,
as the apartment is called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window,
the very one through which Sir Christopher stepped into the room and
found various members of his household "examining the progress of the
unfinished ceiling."
Looking out through these windows, our host noticed some gathering
clouds and suggested a drive through the park before the shower. Soon
his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty little horse
appropriately named "Lightheart," for no animal with so fond a master
could possibly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few minutes at
Astley Castle, the "Knebley Abbey" of George Eliot, an old but
picturesque mansion, once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour and
his ill-fated protegee, Lady Jane Grey. Then, after a brief pause at the
parson's cottage, we proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building with a
square tower such as one sees throughout England.
A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure suggested George Eliot's
bucolic parson, the Reverend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the
farmers and talked of "short-horns" and "sharrags" and "yowes" during
the week, and on Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old sermons to
the ever-increasing satisfaction of his parishioners. We photographed
this ancient temple on the inside as well as outside, for it contains
some curious frescoes representing the saints holding ribbons with
mottoes from which one is expected to obtain excellent moral lessons.
Our next objective was the birthplace of George Eliot, a small cottage
standing in one corner of the park. We were driving rapidly along one of
the smooth roads leading to the place, when the pony made a sudden turn
to the right. I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, camera
and tripod in hand. The cart went down a steep embankment, then up
again, and the next instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the ground,
while near by lay the tripod, broken into a hundred splinters.
Scrambling to my feet, I saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a
ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on the seat, and nobody
the worse for the accident except poor Lightheart, who was almost
overcome with excitement. He had encountered some men on the road
leading a bull, and quickly resolved not to face what, to one of his
gentle breeding, seemed a deadly peril.
Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked back to the house, and in
due season sat down to luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that
splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought "looked less like a
place to dine in than a piece of space inclosed simply for the sake of
beautiful outline." A cathedral-like aspect is given to the room by the
great Gothic windows which form the distinguishing architectural feature
of the building. These open into an alcove, large enough in itself, but
small when compared with the main part of the room. The ecclesiastical
effect is heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of the canopies
built over various niches in the walls, or rather it would be, were it
not for the fact that the latter are filled with life-size statues in
white marble, of a distinctly classical character. Opposite the windows
is a mantel of generous proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations
of which would not be inappropriate for some fine altar-piece; but Cupid
and Psyche, standing in a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any
churchly thoughts, though they seem to be having a heavenly time.
After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, in the left wing of the
building, examining a first folio Shakespeare, while our host busied
himself with various notes of introduction and other memoranda for our
benefit. As we sat in the oriel window of this room,--the same in which
Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp,--we noticed what appeared to
be magazines, fans, and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They
proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It is related that Sir Roger
Newdigate--"Sir Christopher Cheverel," it will be remembered--used to
remonstrate with his lady for leaving her belongings scattered over his
library. She--good woman--was not only obedient, but possessed a sense
of humor as well, for she promptly removed the articles, but later took
advantage of her lord's absence to leave their "counterfeit presentment"
in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a
century.
The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining
the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that in
the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow
panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed
arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was
curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the
full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel "standing with one arm
akimbo," exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember
that "arm akimbo," if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for
more than twenty years?
It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured
out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The
harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played--her name was Sally
Shilton--is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only
that interesting instrument, but also the "queer old family portraits
... of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly
developed head-dresses--of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high
shoulders, and red pointed beards."
Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness that we had met in
his friend Mr. Colvin, informed us that he had invited the Reverend
Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet
us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were invited,
however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, and later did so, receiving
a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various
mementoes of her husband's distinguished relative, including a lace cap
worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess
Czerlaski of "The Sad Fortune of the Reverend Amos Barton." I can still
hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and
pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, "And here is Aunt Glegg!"
There she was, sure enough, with the "fuzzy front of curls" which were
always "economized" by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this
point the canon suddenly asked, "Have you seen the stone table?" I had
been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when
Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically
told in "Middlemarch." I had expected to find it at Griff House, near
Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot's girlhood, but the arbor at the end
of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when
Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table
of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident.
Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing,
while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr.
N----, who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in
the neighborhood. We accordingly stopped our little coupe at the
doctor's door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the
landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle
and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify
nearly all the localities of "Amos Barton" and "Janet's Repentance." He
also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her
eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a
crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy
faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made
no objection.
[Illustration: A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON]
On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at
their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice.
The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known
George Eliot's father and mother, and had been interested to paint
various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call,
because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when,
upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this
same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating
that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among
them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly
Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait
of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear
people seemed determined to make our quest a success.
We now turned our attention to "Adam Bede," traveling into Staffordshire
and Derbyshire, where Robert Evans, the novelist's father and the
prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young
manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The
first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a
jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of
Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera,
and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two
miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the
real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the
only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some
surprise at the pile of luggage.
In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only
way to reach Ellastone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy
road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to
carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning to
rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury
boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though we might be
obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the
good-natured agent, whose day's work was now done, and who was anxious
to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a
fire, at our disposal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to
Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent
thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for
us. A long wait of an hour ensued, during which we congratulated
ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, it
would at least be dryer than the platform. At last the boy returned with
the news that the inn was _not_ open, but that a carriage would be sent
for us! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the
welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived! It was
a butcher's cart. When the baggage was thrown in, there was but one seat
left--the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized
passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the
only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one
which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went,
twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only
visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces
from one direction and the rain from another, but happy in the hope and
expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the
hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night's lodging than a
country railway station.
In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson,
the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to "step in an' tek
somethink." We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord's
wife, who ushered us into the "best parlor," kindled a rousing fire in
the grate (English fires are not usually "rousing"), and asked what we
would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard
lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It
disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the
eyes of the cook--none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We
then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and
particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. "Oh, no, sir,
the inn is not open," explained our good Samaritan, "but we 're always
glad to make strangers comfortable." These words indicate the spirit of
the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady's
eyes, her smile, and her gestures. I cannot set down the exact words for
the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot's landlord of the
Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam: "They 're cur'ous talkers i' this
country; the gentry's hard work to hunderstand 'em; I was brought hup
among the gentry, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a
bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for 'hev n't you'?--the
gentry, you know, says, 'hev n't you'--well, the people about here says,
'hanna yey.' It's what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir."
[Illustration: THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS]
It was curious to note, when we explored the village the next morning,
that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was
in the time of George Eliot's father. I had never expected to find the
real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by
some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as
represented--except that Adam Bede's cottage has been enlarged and
repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where
Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower
and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the
village as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first
wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the
young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the
great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was
the original of the old squire in "Adam Bede." This fine old estate was
the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of
a visit. We found the fine old "hoaks" there, which Mr. Casson
mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion
of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone
terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the
place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much
to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained the
hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the
place from all the best points of view.
It has not been my intention to follow in detail the events of our
exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many
scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have
sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur
photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real
pleasure when the people one meets manifest a genuine interest and a
spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.
II
There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I
have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some
dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder.
There are surly butlers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we
encountered one of the species in the Lake District. I had called at
the country residence of Captain ----, a wealthy gentleman and a member
of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is
described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His
High-and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of
the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening of the muscles of the back and
shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was "not
at 'ome." I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next
day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused
with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum.
"Captain ---- is ex-_treme_-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He's
_obliged_ to be in Lunnun to-day, sir, but he _towld_ me to _sai_ to
you, sir, that you're to _taik_ everythink in the 'ouse you _want_,
sir." And then the Important One gave me full possession while I
photographed the most interesting rooms, coming back occasionally to
inquire whether I wished him to move "hany harticles of furniture,"
afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the
sacred precincts of his own particular domain.
At another time, also in connection with Mrs. Ward's novels, I came
dangerously near to another break. It was down in Surrey, whither we had
gone to visit the scenery of "Robert Elsmere." I knocked at the door of
a little stone cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown into the
presence of a very old gentleman, who looked suspiciously, first at my
card, and then at me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. I
explained that I was an American and had come to take a picture of his
house. He looked puzzled, and after some further scrutiny of my face, my
clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, "Well, you people in America
must be crazy to come all the way over here to photograph this house. I
have always said it's the ugliest house in England, owned by the ugliest
landlord that ever lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the
parish." Fortunately he was not possessed of the Oriental delusion that
a photograph causes some of the virtue of an individual (or of a house)
to pass out into the picture, and upon further reflection concluded that
if a harmless lunatic wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, it
wouldn't matter much after all.
Not infrequently it happened that the keepers in charge of certain
places of public interest, while desiring to be courteous themselves,
were bound by strict instructions from their superiors. In the year when
we were exploring the length and breadth of England and Scotland in
search of the scenes of Sir Walter Scott's writings, we came one day to
a famous hall, generously thrown open to the public by the Duke of ----,
who owned it. Here we found a rule that the use of "stands" or tripods
would not be permitted in the building. Snap-shots with hand-cameras
were freely allowed, but these are always more or less dependent on
chance, and for interior views, requiring a long time-exposure, are
worthless. The duke, apparently, did not mind poor pictures, but was
afraid of good ones. I felt that I really must have views of the famous
rooms of that house, and we pleaded earnestly with the keeper. But
orders were orders and he remained inflexible, but always courteous. He
wanted to help, however, and finally conducted me to a cottage near by
where I was presented to his immediate superior, a good-looking and
good-natured woman. She, too, was willing and even anxious to oblige,
but the duke's orders were imperative. Finally a thought struck me. "You
say stands are forbidden--would it be an infraction of the rules if I
were to rest my camera on a table or chair?" "Oh, no, indeed!" she
quickly replied; then, calling to the keeper, said, "John, I want you to
do everything you can for this gentleman." John seemed pleased. He first
performed his duty to the duke by locking up the dangerous tripod where
it could do no harm. Then taking charge of us, he conducted us through
the well-worn rooms, meanwhile instructing his daughter to look after
other visitors and keep them out of our way. I rested my camera on
ancient chairs and tables so precious that the visitors were not
permitted to touch them, John kindly removing the protecting ropes. We
were taken to parts of the house and garden not usually shown to
visitors, so anxious was our guide to assist in our purpose. At last we
came to a great ballroom, with richly carved woodwork, but absolutely
bare of furniture. Here the forbidden "stand" was sorely needed. My
companion promptly came to the rescue. "I'll be the tripod," said she.
The hint was a good one, so, resting the camera upon her shoulder, I
soon had my picture composed and in focus. Then, placing the camera on a
convenient window-ledge just above my head, and making allowance for the
increased elevation, I gave the plate a long exposure and the result was
as good an "interior" as I ever made.
This is one of the best parts of the game--the overcoming of obstacles.
Without it, photography would be poor fun, something like the game of
checkers I once played with a village rustic. He swept off all my men in
half a dozen moves and then went away disgusted. I was too easy. A
picture that is not worth taking a little trouble to get is usually not
worth having. I have even been known to take pictures I really did not
need, just because some unexpected difficulties arose.
Another part of the pursuit, which I have always enjoyed, is the quiet
amusement one can often derive from unexpected situations. One day in
London, when the streets were pretty well crowded with Coronation
visitors, we decided to take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in
front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the precaution to secure a
permit, so, without asking any questions, proceeded to spread out my
tripod and compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate-holder, a
"Bobby," by which name the London policeman is generally known,
appeared, advancing with an air that plainly said, "I'll soon stop
_that_ game, my fine fellow!" I expressed my surprise and said I had a
permit, at the same time drawing the slide--an action which, not being a
photographer, he did not consider significant. He looked scornfully at
the permit, and said it was not good after 10 A.M. Here, again, the
assistant photographer of our expedition came to the rescue. She
exercised the woman's privilege of asking "Why?" and "Bobby" moved from
in front of the camera to explain. "Click" went the shutter, in went the
slide, out came the plate-holder, and into the case went the camera.
"Bobby" politely apologized for interfering, and expressed his deep
regret at being obliged to disappoint us. I solemnly assured him that it
was all right, that he had only done his duty and that I did not blame
him in the least! But I neglected to inform him that the Victoria
Monument was already mine.
[Illustration: THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS]
One of the pleasures of rambling with a camera is that it takes you
to so many out-of-the-way places, which you would not otherwise be
likely to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her "Recollections of a Tour in
Scotland" complains that all the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad.
Dorothy ought to have known, for she and William walked most of the way
to save their bones from dislocation by the jolting of their little
cart, and their limited resources compelled them to seek the shelter and
food of the poorest inns. The modern tourist, on the contrary, will find
excellent roads and for the most part hotel accommodations where he can
be fairly comfortable. It was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as
occasionally happened, we could find nothing but an inn of the kind that
flourished a century ago.
On a very rainy morning in May we alighted from the train at the little
village of Ecclefechan, known to the world only as the birthplace of
Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom we inquired the
location of a good hotel, answered in a Scotch dialect so broad that we
could not compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, and as it
afforded the only escape from the pouring rain, we stepped in and
trusted to luck. The vehicle presently drew up before the door of a very
ancient hotel, from which the landlady, whom we have ever since called
"Mrs. Ecclefechan," came out to meet us. She was a frail little woman,
well along in years, with thin features, sharp eyes, and a bald head,
the last of which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort of peaked
black bonnet, tied with strings beneath her chin, and suggesting the
rather curious spectacle of a bishop's miter above a female face. Her
dress was looped up by pinning the bottom of it around her waist,
exposing a gray-and-white striped petticoat that came down halfway
between the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a pair of coarse
woolen stockings and some heavy shoes. A burlap apron completed the
costume.
Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, clerk, porter, cook,
chambermaid, waitress, barmaid, and bootblack of the establishment, was
possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as comfortable as her limited
facilities would permit. We were taken into the public-room, a space
about twelve feet square, with a small open fire at one end, benches
around the walls and a table occupying nearly all the remaining space.
Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where the landlady baked her
oatmeal cake and served the regulars who came for a "penny'orth o' rum"
and a bit of gossip. In front was another tiny room where were served
fastidious guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. At noon we sat
down to a luncheon, which might have been worse, and at five were
summoned into the little room again. We thought it curious to serve hard
boiled eggs with afternoon tea, and thinking supper would soon be
ready, declined them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans with big,
healthy appetites, for the supper never came. The eggs were it.
We spent the evening in the public-room sitting near the fire. One by
one the villagers dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and spending
an hour or two over a very small glass. The evenings had been spent in
that way in that place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in the
atmosphere of "long ago." A middle-aged Scotchman, whose name was
pronounced, very broadly, "Fronk," seemed to feel the responsibility of
entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly I thought, a song by Lady Nairne,
"The Auld Hoose," and recited with fine appreciation the lines of
Burns's "Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn," "To a Mouse," "To a
Louse," and other poems. He related how Burns once helped a friend out
of a dilemma. Three women had been buried side by side. The son of one
of them wished to put an inscription on his mother's tombstone, but the
sexton could not remember which grave was hers. Burns solved the problem
by suggesting these lines:--
"Here, or there, or thereaboots,
Lies the body of Janet Coutts,
But here, or there, or whereaboots,
Nane can tell
Till Janet rises and tells hersel."
Our landlady assured us that Fronk "had the bluid o' Douglas in his
veins," but he was now only a poor "ne'er-do-weel," picking up "a bit
shillin'" now and then. But he loved Bobbie Burns.
After the evening's entertainment we were shown to a tiny bedroom. Over
the horrors upstairs I must draw the veil of charity, only remarking
that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I shall seek out a nice soft pile
of old scrap-iron for a couch, rather than risk another night on one of
those beds.
Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, which is now one of the
"restored" show places, and an interesting one. We also went to the
graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we were conducted by an old
woman, nearly ninety years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived
in the village all her days. We asked if she had ever seen Carlyle. "Oh,
yes," she replied, wearily, "I hae seen 'im. He was a coo-rious mon."
Then brightening she added, with a smile that revealed her heart of
hearts, "But we a' _love_ Bobbie Burns." And so we found it throughout
Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissipated wanderer shared with
the intelligent and cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love
for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably called, affectionately,
"Bobbie."
[Illustration: THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE]
It was not long after this that we had occasion to visit the land of
Burns, for a trip through Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for
the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would scarcely be possible
without many glimpses of the places made famous by the elder and less
cultured but not less beloved poet. Scott's intimacy with Adam Ferguson,
the son of the distinguished Dr. Adam Ferguson, was the means of his
introduction to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it was at
the house of the latter, that Scott, then a boy of fifteen, met Burns
for the first and only time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet
by promptly naming the author of a poem which Burns had quoted, when no
one else in the room could give the information. It is a far cry from
the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the tavern in the Canongate
where the "Crochallan Fencibles" used to meet, but here the lines
crossed again, for to this resort for convivial souls Burns came to
enjoy the bacchanalian revels known as "High Jinks," in the same way as
did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott's fictitious Paulus Pleydell.
We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a number of places described
by Scott in "Guy Mannering," "Redgauntlet," and other novels, and found
ourselves in the very heart of the Burns country. In the center of High
Street stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which the original Effie
Deans, whose real name was Isabel Walker, was tried for child murder.
Here the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save her sister's
life, afterward walking to London to secure her pardon. Almost around
the corner is the house where Burns's Jean lived, and where "Bobbie"
died. In the same town is the churchyard of St. Michaels where Burns
lies buried in a handsome "muselum," as one of the natives informed us.
Out on the road toward the old church of Kirkpatrick Irongray, where
Scott erected a monument to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie Deans,
is a small remnant of the house once occupied by that heroine. In the
same general direction but a little farther to the north, on the banks
of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns attempted to manage a farm,
attend to the duties of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at the
same time. Out of the last came "Tam o' Shanter," but the other two
"attempts" were failures.
We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast of Carrick and what is
left of the ancestral home of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero
landed, with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graphically related
by Scott in "The Lord of the Isles." Here again we were in Burns's own
country. In the city of Ayr we saw the "Twa Brigs" and the very tavern
which Tam o' Shanter may be supposed to have frequented,--
"And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie."
Of course we drove to Burns's birthplace, about three miles to the
south, a long, narrow cottage with a thatched roof, one end of which was
dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was built by the poet's
father, with his own hands, and when Robert was born there in the winter
of 1759 probably looked a great deal less respectable than it does now.
Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway Kirk for a view of the old
church where Tam o' Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the
witches and started on his famous ride. The keeper felt personally
aggrieved because I preferred to utilize my limited time to make a
picture of the church, rather than listen to his repetition of a tale
which I already knew by heart. We traveled over Tam's route and soon had
a fine view of the old "Brig o' Doon," where Tam at length escaped the
witches at the expense of his poor nag's tail. I have made few pictures
that pleased me more than that of the "auld brig," which I was able to
get by placing my camera on the new bridge near by. Here the memory of
Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memorial, in the form of a
Grecian temple and very similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh,
but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded by a garden of
well-trimmed yews, shrubbery of various kinds, and a wealth of brightly
blooming flowers, and best of all, stands well above the "banks and
braes o' bonnie Doon," where the poet himself would have been happy to
stand and look upon his beloved river.
[Illustration: THE BRIG O' DOON, AYRSHIRE]
Whatever may have been "Bobbie's" faults, and, poor fellow, they were
many and grievous, there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle of
love beneath which they have been concealed and forgotten. He touched
the hearts of his countrymen as none other ever did, and out of the
sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung beautiful flowers, laid out
along well-ordered and graceful paths, a delight and solace to his
fellow-men, like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the lovely garden
at the base of his memorial overlooking the Doon.
III
A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY
III
A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY
Our arrival on Saturday evening at the village of Windermere was like
the sudden and unexpected realization of a dream. On many a winter
night, under the light of our library lamp at home, we had talked of
that vague, distant "sometime" when we should visit the English Lakes.
And now--by what curious combination of circumstances we did not try to
analyze--here we were with the whole beautiful panorama, in all its
evening splendors, spread out before us. Through our minds passed, as in
a vision, the whole company of poets who are inseparably associated with
these scenes: Wordsworth, whose abiding influence upon the spirit of
poetry will endure as long as the mountains and vales which taught him
to love and reverence nature; Southey, who, himself without the
appreciation of nature, was the first to recognize Wordsworth's rare
power of interpreting her true meaning; Coleridge, the most intimate
friend of the greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be the most
wonderful man he ever met, and who, in spite of those shortcomings which
caused his life to end in worldly failure, nevertheless possessed a
native eloquence and alluring personality.
Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent twenty of the happiest years
of his life at Dove Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. His
most intimate companion was the famous Professor Wilson of Edinburgh,
known to all readers of "Blackwood's Magazine" as "Christopher North."
Attracted partly by the beauty of the Lake Country, but more by his
desire to cultivate the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius he greatly
admired, Professor Wilson bought a pretty place in Cumberland, where he
lived for several years. He enjoyed the companionship of the friendly
group of poets, but, we are told, occasionally sought a different kind
of pleasure in measuring his strength with some of the native wrestlers,
one of the most famous of whom has testified that he found him "a very
bad un to lick."
At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found himself drawn to the Lakes by
the same double attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox How on
the River Rothay, where his youngest daughter still resides. He wrote in
1832: "Our intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the brightest
spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost
daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten."
It was not alone the beauty of the Westmoreland scenery that had
attracted this group of famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland
and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. But Wordsworth was here, in
the midst of those charming displays of Nature in her most cheerful as
well as most soothing moods. Nature's best interpreter and Nature
herself could be seen together. For a hundred years this same influence
has continued to exercise its spell upon travelers, and we are bound to
recognize the fact that this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from
our prearranged path, that we might enjoy the pleasure of a Sunday in
the country of Wordsworth.
The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, suggesting that splendid day
when Wordsworth, then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed of an
irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry:
"Magnificent
The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
Glorious as e'er I had beheld--in front,
The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn--
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds,
And laborers going forth to till the fields.
Ah! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim
My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated spirit."
We resolved that the whole of this beautiful day should be devoted to
catching something of that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills
which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and through him taught the love of
Nature to countless thousands. A few steps took us away from the town,
the inn, and the other tourists, into a quiet woodland path leading
toward the lake, at the end of which we stood
"On long Winander's eastern shore."
"Winander" is the old form of Windermere. The lake was the scene of many
of Wordsworth's boyhood experiences.
"When summer came,
Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,
To sweep along the plain of Windermere
With rival oars; and the selected bourne
Was now an Island musical with birds
That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle
Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown
With lilies of the valley like a field;
And now a third small Island, where survived
In solitude the ruins of a shrine
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served
Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race,
So ended, disappointment could be none,
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,
Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,
And the vainglory of superior skill,
Were tempered."
Wordsworth's boyhood was probably very much like that of other boys. He
tells us that he was "stiff, moody, and of a violent temper"--so much so
that he went up into his grandfather's attic one day, while under the
resentment of some indignity, determined to destroy himself. But his
heart failed. On another occasion he relates that while at his
grandfather's house in Penrith, he and his eldest brother Richard were
whipping tops in the large drawing-room. "The walls were hung round with
family pictures, and I said to my brother, 'Dare you strike your whip
through that old lady's petticoat?' He replied, 'No, I won't.' 'Then,'
said I, 'here goes!' and I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat;
for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly
punished. But, possibly from some want of judgment in the punishments
inflicted, I had become perverse and obstinate in defying chastisement,
and rather proud of it than otherwise." Lowell remarks upon this
incident: "Just so do we find him afterward striking his defiant lash
through the hooped petticoat of the artificial style of poetry, and
proudly unsubdued by the punishment of the Reviewers." When scarcely ten
years old, it was his joy
"To range the open heights where woodcocks run."
He would spend half the night "scudding away from snare to snare,"
sometimes yielding to the temptation to take the birds caught in the
snare of some other lad. He felt the average boy's terror inspired by a
guilty conscience, for he says:--
"And when the deed was done,
I heard among the solitary hills
Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
Of undistinguishable motion, steps
Almost as silent as the turf they trod."
Across the lake from where we stood, and over beyond the hills on the
other side, is the quaint old town of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth was
sent to school at the age of nine years. The little schoolhouse may
still be seen, but it is of small import. The real scenes of
Wordsworth's early education were the woods and vales, the solitary
cliffs, the rocks and pools, and the Lake of Esthwaite, five miles
round, which he was fond of encircling in his early morning walks, that
he might sit
"Alone upon some jutting eminence,
At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude."
In winter-time "a noisy crew" made merry upon the icy surface of the
lake.
"All shod with steel,
We hissed along the polished ice in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn,
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle."
Nor were the pleasures of social life lacking. Dances, feasts, public
revelry, and
"A swarm
Of heady schemes, jostling each other,"
all seemed for a time to conspire to lure his mind away from the paths
of "books and nature," which he would have preferred. But, curiously
enough, it was after one of these nights of revelry that, on his way
home, Wordsworth was so much impressed with the beauties of the dawn
that he felt the impulse, previously mentioned, to devote himself to
poetry.
No other poet ever gave such an account of the development of his own
mind as Wordsworth gives in the "Prelude." And while he recounts enough
incidents like the snaring of woodcock, the fishing for trout in the
quiet pools and the cascades of the mountain brooks, the flying of kites
on the hilltops, the nutting expeditions, the rowing on the lake, and in
the winter-time the skating and dancing, to convince us that he was
really a boy, yet he continually shows that beneath it all there was a
deeper feeling--a prophecy of the man who was even then developing. No
ordinary boy would have been conscious of "a sense of pain" at beholding
the mutilated hazel boughs which he had broken in his search for nuts.
No ordinary lad of ten would be able to hold
"Unconscious intercourse with beauty
Old as creation, drinking in a pure
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
Of curling mist, or from the level plain
Of waters colored by impending clouds."
Even at that early age, in the midst of all his pleasures he felt
"Gleams like the flashing of a shield;--the earth
And common face of Nature spake to me
Rememberable things."
The secret of Wordsworth's power lay in the fact that, throughout a long
life, nature was to him a vital, living Presence--one capable of
uplifting mankind to loftier aspirations, of teaching noble truths, and
at the same time providing tranquillity and rest to the soul. As a boy
he had felt for nature
"A feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm."
But manhood brought a deeper joy.
"For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of
Something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear--both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being."
In these noble lines we reach the very summit of Wordsworth's
intellectual power and poetic genius.
We must now retrace our steps to the village and find a carriage to take
us on our journey. For we are not like our English friends, who are good
walkers, nor do we care to emulate the pedestrian attainments of our
poet, who, De Quincey thought, must have traversed a distance of one
hundred and seventy-five thousand to one hundred and eighty thousand
English miles. So a comfortable landau takes us on our way, skirting the
upper margin of the lake, then winding along the river Brathay, pausing
for a moment to view the charming little cascade of Skelwith Force, then
on again until Red Bank is reached, overlooking the vale of Grasmere.
The first glimpse of this placid little lake, "with its one green
island," its shores well fringed with the budding foliage of spring, the
gently undulating hills forming as it were a graceful frame to the
mirror of the waters, in which the reflection of the blue sky and fleecy
white clouds seemed even more beautiful than their original
overhead--the first glimpse could scarcely fail to arouse the emotions
of the most apathetic and stir up a poetic feeling in the most unpoetic
of natures.
To a mind like Wordsworth's, such a scene was an inspiration, a
revelation of Nature's charms such as could arouse an almost ecstatic
enthusiasm in the heart of one who, all his life, had lived amid scenes
of beauty and possessed the eyes to see them. He came here first "a
roving schoolboy," on a "golden summer holiday," and even then said,
with a sigh,--
"What happy fortune were it here to live!"
He had no thought, nor even hope, that he would ever realize such good
fortune, but only
"A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others never could be his."
[Illustration: GRASMERE LAKE]
Possibly he may have stood on this very knoll where we were enjoying our
first view:--
"The station whence we looked was soft and green,
Not giddy, yet aerial, with a depth
Of vale below, a height of hills above.
For rest of body perfect was the spot,
All that luxurious nature could desire;
But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze
And not feel motions there?"
Many years later, in the summer of 1799, Wordsworth and Coleridge were
walking together over the hills and valleys of Westmoreland and
Cumberland, hoping to find, each for himself, a home where they might
dwell as neighbors. Since receiving his degree at Cambridge in 1791
Wordsworth had wandered about in a somewhat aimless way, living for a
time in London and in France, visiting Germany, and finally attempting
to find a home in the south of England. A small legacy left him in 1795
had given a feeling of independence, and his one consuming desire at
this time was to establish a home where his beloved sister Dorothy might
be with him and he could devote his entire time to poetry.
A little cottage in a quiet spot just outside the village of Grasmere
attracted his eye. It had been a public-house, and bore the sign "The
Dove and the Olive Bough." He called it "Dove Cottage," and for eight
years it became his home. We found the custodian, a little old lady, in
a penny shop across the street, and she was glad to show us through the
tiny, low-ceilinged rooms. The cottage looks best from the little garden
in the rear. The ivy and the roses soften all the harsh angles of the
eaves and convert even the chimney-pots into things of beauty. A tangled
mass of foliage covers the small back portico and makes a shady nook,
where a little bench is invitingly placed. A few yards up the garden
walk, over stone steps put in place by Wordsworth and Hartley
Coleridge, is the rocky well, or spring, where the poet placed "bright
gowan and marsh marigold" brought from the borders of the lake. At the
farthest end is the little summer-house, the poet's favorite retreat.
How well he loved this garden is shown in the poem written when he left
Grasmere to bring home his bride in 1802:--
"Sweet garden orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found."
Seating ourselves in this garden, we tried to think of the three
interesting personages who had made the place their home. Coleridge
said, "His is the happiest family I ever saw." They had one common
object--to work together to develop a rare poetic gift. They were poor,
for Wordsworth had only the income of a very small legacy, and the
public had not yet come to recognize his genius; the returns from his
literary work were therefore extremely meager. They got along with
frugal living and poor clothing, but as they made no pretensions they
were never ashamed of their poverty. Visitors came and went, and at the
cost of many little sacrifices were hospitably entertained.
Perhaps the world will never know how much Wordsworth really owed to the
two women of his household. They lived together with no sign of jealousy
or distrust. The husband and brother was the object of their untiring
and sympathetic devotion. They walked with him, read with him, cared for
him. Mrs. Wordsworth seems to have been a plain country-woman of simple
manners, yet possessed of a graciousness and tact which made everything
in the household go smoothly. De Quincey declared that, "without being
handsome or even comely," she exercised "all the practical fascination
of beauty, through the mere compensating charms of sweetness all but
angelic, of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect and purity
of heart speaking through all her looks, acts, and movements."
Wordsworth was never more sincere than when he sang,--
"She was a phantom of delight,"
and closed the poem with that splendid tribute to a most excellent
wife:--
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light."
He recognized her unusual poetic instinct by giving her full credit for
the best two lines in one of his most beautiful poems, "The
Daffodils":--
"They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude."
To the other member of that household, his sister Dorothy, Wordsworth
gave from early boyhood the full measure of his affection. She was his
constant companion in his walks, at all hours and in all kinds of
weather. She cheerfully performed the irksome task of writing out his
verses from dictation. Her observations of nature were as keen as his,
and the poet was indebted to Dorothy's notebook for many a good
suggestion. He has been most generous in his acknowledgments of his
obligation to her:--
"She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,
And humble cares, and delicate fears,
* * * * *
And love, and thought, and joy."
In the early days when he was overwhelmed with adverse criticism and
brought almost to the verge of despair, it was Dorothy's helping hand
that brought him back to his own.
"She whispered still that brightness would return;
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A poet, made me seek beneath that name,
And that alone, my office upon earth."
[Illustration: DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE]
But it is De Quincey who gives the best statement of the world's
obligation to Dorothy. Said he:--
Whereas the intellect of Wordsworth was, by its original tendency, too
stern, too austere, too much enamored of an ascetic harsh sublimity,
she it was--the lady who paced by his side continually through sylvan
and mountain tracks, in Highland glens, and in the dim recesses of
German charcoal-burners--that first couched his eye to the sense of
beauty, humanized him by the gentler charities, and engrafted, with
her delicate female touch, those graces upon the ruder growths of
nature which have since clothed the forest of his genius with a
foliage corresponding in loveliness and beauty to the strength of its
boughs and the massiveness of its trunks.
Nearly all of Wordsworth's best poetry was written in this little
cottage, or, to speak more accurately, it was composed while he was
living here. For it was never his way to write verses while seated at a
desk, pen in hand. His study was out of doors. He could compose a long
poem while walking, and remember it all afterward when ready to dictate.
Thousands of verses, he said, were composed on the banks of the brook
running through Easedale, just north of Grasmere Lake. The tall figure
of the poet was a familiar sight to farmers for miles around, as he
paced the woods or mountain paths, his head bent down, and his lips
moving with audible if not distinguishable sounds. One of his neighbors
has left on record an impression of how he seemed when he was "making a
poem."
He would set his head a bit forward, and put his hands behind his
back. And then he would start in bumming, and it was bum, bum, bum,
stop; and then he'd set down, and git a bit o' paper out, and write a
bit. However, his lips were always goan' whoole time he was upon
gress[1] walk. He was a kind mon, there's no two words about that; and
if any one was sick i' the place, he wad be off to see til' 'em.
In personal appearance--about which, by the way, he cared little--he was
not unlike the dalesmen about him. Nearly six feet high, he looked
strong and hardy enough to be a farmer himself. Carlyle speaks of him as
"businesslike, sedately confident, no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about
being courteous; a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain
breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran and on all he said or did."
On our return from Grasmere we took the road along the north shore of
Rydal Water--a small lake with all the characteristic beauty of this
fascinating region, and yet not so different from hundreds of others
that it would ever attract more than passing notice. But the name of
Rydal is linked with that of Grasmere, and the two are visited by
thousands of tourists year after year. For fifty years the shores of
these two lakes and the hills and valleys surrounding them were the
scenes of Wordsworth's daily walks. As we passed we heard the
cuckoo--its mysterious sound seeming to come across the lake--and as our
own thoughts were on Wordsworth, "the wandering Voice" seemed
appropriate. If we could have heard the skylark at that moment, our
sense of satisfaction would have been quite complete, and no doubt we
should have cried out, with the poet,--
"Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind."
Just north of the eastern end of the lake, beneath the shadow of Nab
Scar, is Rydal Mount, where the poet came to live in 1813, remaining
until his death, thirty-seven years later. Increasing prosperity enabled
him to take this far more pretentious house. It stands on a hill, a
little off the main road, and quite out of sight of the tourists who
pass through in coaches and _chars-a-bancs_. The drivers usually jerk
their thumbs in the general direction and say, "There is Rydal Mount,"
etc., and the tourists, who have seen only a farmhouse--not
Wordsworth's--are left to imagine that they have seen the house of the
poet.
It is an old house, but some recent changes in doors and windows give it
a more modern aspect. The unaltered portion is thickly covered with ivy.
The ground in front is well planted with a profusion of rhododendrons. A
very old stone stairway descends from the plaza in front of the house to
a kind of mound or rather a double mound, the smaller resting upon a
larger one. From this point the house is seen to the best advantage. In
the opposite direction is a landscape of rare natural beauty. Far away
in the distance lies Lake Windermere glistening like a shield of
polished silver, while on the left Wansfell and on the right Nab Scar
stand guard over the valley. In the foreground the spire of the little
church of Rydal peeps out over the trees.
At the right of the house is a long terrace which formed one of
Wordsworth's favorite walks, where he composed thousands of verses. From
here one may see both Windermere and Rydal Water, with mountains in the
distance. Passing through the garden we came to a gate leading to Dora's
Field. Here is the little pool where Wordsworth and Dora put the little
goldfishes, that they might enjoy a greater liberty. Here is the stone
which Wordsworth saved from destruction by the builders of a stone wall.
A little flight of stone steps leads down to another boulder containing
the following inscription, carved by the poet's own hand:--
Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ's chosen flock
Shun the broad way too easily explored
And let thy path be hewn out of the rock
The living Rock of God's eternal WORD
1838
[Illustration: WORDSWORTH'S WELL]
Dora's field is thickly covered in spring-time with the beautiful golden
daffodils, planted by the poet himself. No sight is more fascinating
at this season than a field of these bright yellow flowers. We
Americans, who only see them planted in gardens, cannot realize what
daffodils mean to the English eye, unless we chance to visit England
during the early spring. What Wordsworth called a "crowd" of daffodils,
growing in thick profusion along the margin of a lake, beneath the
trees, ten thousand to be seen at a glance, all nodding their golden
heads beside the dancing and foaming waves, is a sight well worth
seeing.
"The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude:
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."
But now the time had come to return to Windermere, and reluctantly we
turned our backs upon these scenes, so full of pleasant memories. The
day, however, was not yet done, for after supper we climbed to the top
of Orrest-Head, a little hill behind the village. No more charming spot
could have been chosen in which to spend the closing hours of this
peaceful day. Far below lay the quiet waters of the lake, only glimpses
of its long and narrow surface appearing here and there, like "burnished
mirrors" set by Nature for the sole purpose of reflecting a magnificent
golden sky. It was "an evening of extraordinary, splendor," like that
one which Wordsworth saw from Rydal Mount:--
"No sound is uttered,--but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades."
As we stood watching the splendid sunset, the village church rang out
its chimes, as if to accompany the inspiring scene with sweet and holy
music.
"How pleasant, when the sun declines, to view
The spacious landscape change in form and hue!
Here vanish, as in mist, before a flood
Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood;
Their objects, by the searching beams betrayed,
Come forth and here retire in purple shade;
Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white,
Soften their glare before the mellow light."
The shadows which had been slowly falling upon the scene had now so far
enveloped the mountain-side that the narrow roadways and stone fences
marking the boundaries of the fields were barely visible. Suddenly in
the distance we saw a moving object, a mere speck upon the hillside. It
darted first in one direction and then another, like some frightened
being uncertain which way to turn. Then a darker speck appeared, and
with rapid movement circled to the rear of the whiter one, the latter
moving on ahead. Another sudden movement, and a second white speck
appeared in another spot. The black speck as quickly moved to the rear
of this second bit of white, driving it in the same direction as the
first. The white specks then began to seem more numerous. We tried to
count--one--two--three--ten--a dozen--perhaps even twenty. There was but
one black speck, and he seemed to be the master of all the others, for,
darting here and there after the stragglers, he kept them all together.
He drove them along the narrow road. Then, coming to an opening in the
fence, he hurried along to the front of the procession; then, facing
about, deftly turned the whole flock through the gate into a large
field. Through this pasture, with the skill of a military leader, he
marshaled his troop, rushing backwards and forwards, allowing none to
fall behind nor to stray away from the proper path, finally bringing
them up in a compact body to another opening in the opposite end of the
field. On he went, driving his small battalion along the road, then at
right angles into another road, until the whole flock of sheep and the
little black dog who commanded them disappeared for the night among the
out-buildings of a far distant farm.
The twilight had almost gone, and in the growing darkness we retraced
our steps to the village, well content that, through communion with the
Spirit of Wordsworth in the presence of that "mighty Being" who to him
was the great Teacher and Inspirer of mankind, our own love of nature
had been reawakened, and our time well spent on this peaceful,
never-to-be-forgotten day at Windermere.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Grass.
IV
FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN
IV
FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN
"Roslin's towers and braes are bonnie--
Craigs and water! woods and glen!
Roslin's banks! unpeered by ony,
Save the Muse's Hawthornden."
The vale of the Esk is unrivaled, even in Scotland, for beauty and
romantic interest. From its source to where it enters the Firth of
Forth, the little river winds its way past ancient castles with their
romantic legends, famed in poetry and song, and the picturesque homes of
barons and lairds, poets and philosophers, forming as it goes, with
rocks and cliffs, tall trees and overhanging vines, a bewildering
succession of beautiful scenes.
It was to this charming valley that Walter Scott came, with his young
wife, in the first year of their wedded life. A young man of imaginative
and romantic temperament, though as yet unknown to fame, he found the
place an inspiration and delight. A pretty little cottage, with thatched
roof, and a garden commanding a beautiful view, made the home where many
happy summers were spent. This was at Lasswade, a village which took its
striking name from the fact--let us hope it was a fact--that here a
sturdy lass was wont to wade the stream, carrying travelers on her
back,--a ferry service sufficiently romantic to make up for its
uncertainty.
Lockhart tells us that "it was amidst these delicious solitudes" that
Walter Scott "laid the imperishable foundation of all his fame. It was
here that when his warm heart was beating with young and happy love, and
his whole mind and spirit were nerved by new motives for exertion--it
was here that in the ripened glow of manhood he seems to have first felt
something of his real strength, and poured himself out in those splendid
original ballads which were at once to fix his name."
"Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Esk's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep through copsewood deep,
Impervious to the sun.
* * * * *
Who knows not Melville's beechy grove
And Roslin's rocky glen,
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,
And classic Hawthornden?"
[Illustration: HAWTHORNDEN]
The visitor who would see "Roslin's rocky glen" may take a coach in
Edinburgh and soon reach the spot after a pleasant drive over a
well-kept road. But if he would see "classic Hawthornden" in the same
day, he must go there first. For the gate which separates the two opens
out from Hawthornden and the traveler cannot pass in the opposite
direction. We therefore took the train from Edinburgh, and after half
an hour alighted at a little station, from which we walked a few hundred
yards along a quiet country road, until we reached a lodge marking the
entrance to a large estate. Entering here, a few steps brought us to the
house of the gardener, who first conducted us to the place that
interests him the most--a large and well-kept garden, full of fruits and
vegetables, beautiful flowers and well-trained vines. His pride
satisfied by our sincere admiration of his handiwork, our guide was
ready to reveal to us the glory of Hawthornden, and conducted us to the
edge of a precipice known as John Knox's Pulpit. In front is a deep
ravine of stupendous rocks partly bare and partly covered with bushes
and pendent creepers. The tall trees on the border, the wooded hill in
the distance, and the grand sweep of the river far below, form a scene
of majestic grandeur as nearly perfect as one could wish. To the left,
on the very edge of a perpendicular rock, is a strong, well-built
mansion, so situated that the windows of its principal rooms command a
view of the wondrous vale. On the other side of the house are the
ivy-covered ruins of an older castle, dating back many centuries.
Since the middle of the sixteenth century, Hawthornden has been the home
of a family of Drummonds--a famous Scottish name. William Drummond, the
most distinguished of them all, whose name is inseparably associated
with the place, was born in 1585. His father was a gentleman-usher at
the court of King James VI, and through his association with the
Scottish royalty had acquired the Hawthornden property. The boy grew up
amid such surroundings, was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and
traveled on the Continent for three years before settling down to his
life-work, which he then thought would be the practice of law. But
scarcely had he returned to Edinburgh for this purpose, when his father
died, and young Drummond, at the age of twenty-four, found himself
master of Hawthornden with ample means at his command. All thought of
the law was abandoned forthwith. The quiet of Hawthornden and the beauty
of its natural scenery fitted his temperament exactly. He had already
acquired a scholar's tastes, had read extensively, and possessed a large
library in which the Latin classics predominated, though there were many
books in Greek, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, French, and English. He
retired to his delightful home to live among his books, and if he found
that such surroundings became a tacit invitation from the Muses to keep
them company, who could wonder? "Content with my books and the use of my
eyes," he said, "I learnt even from my boyhood to live beneath my
fortune; and, dwelling by myself as much as I can, I neither sigh for
nor seek aught that is outside me."
It has been said that Drummond's three stars were Philosophy,
Friendship, and Love. Some three or four years after the poet began his
contented life at Hawthornden, the latter star began to shine so
brightly as to eclipse the other two. In 1614 he met an attractive girl
of seventeen or eighteen, the daughter of Alexander Cunningham, of
Barns, a country-seat on a little stream known as the Ore, in Fifeshire,
on the opposite side of the Firth of Forth. His poems began at once to
reveal the extent to which the loveliness of the fair Euphame had taken
possession of him:--
"Vaunt not, fair Heavens, of your two glorious lights,
Which, though most bright, yet see not when they shine,
And shining cannot show their beams divine
Both in one place, but part by days and nights;
Earth, vaunt not of those treasures ye enshrine,
Held only dear because hid from our sights,
Your pure and burnished gold your diamonds fine,
Snow-passing ivory that the eye delights;
Nor, Seas, of those dear wares are in you found;
Vaunt not rich pearl, red coral, which do stir
A fond desire in fools to plunge your ground.
Those all more fair are to be had in her:
Pearl, ivory, coral, diamond, suns, gold,
Teeth, neck, lips, heart, eyes, hair, are to behold."
On seeing her in a boat on the Forth he declared her perfection:--
"Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a crystal plain;
Cut your white locks, and on your foaming face
Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace
The boat that earth's perfections doth contain."
The river Ore, on the banks of which he first met his lady-love, became
to Drummond the greatest river in the world. In one sonnet he compares
the tiny stream with every famous river from the Arno to the Nile; and
finds that none of them
"Have ever had so rare a cause of praise."
Unfortunately, his happiness was of brief duration, for on the very eve
of the marriage, the young lady died. Drummond's grief was intense. One
can almost imagine him mournfully gazing down the beautiful glen, which
she might have enjoyed with him, and exclaiming--
"Trees, happier far than I,
That have the grace to heave your heads so high,
And overlook those plains;
Grow till your branches kiss that lofty sky
Which her sweet self contains.
Then make her know my endless love and pains
And how those tears, which from mine eyes do fall
Helpt you to rise so tall.
Tell her, as once I for her sake loved breath
So, for her sake, I now court lingering death."
[Illustration: THE SYCAMORE]
For some years after her death, Euphame was to Drummond what Beatrice
was to Dante--the inspirer of all that was good in him. Later in life
he married Elizabeth Logan, a lady who was said to resemble Euphame
Cunningham, and she became the mother of his five sons and four
daughters.
In front of the mansion of Hawthornden is a venerable sycamore, said to
be five hundred years old. In the month of January, 1619, according to a
favorite and oft-told story, Drummond was sitting beneath this tree,
when he saw and recognized the huge form of Ben Jonson, as that
rollicking hero sauntered toward him along the private road. Jonson had
walked all the way from London to see what could be seen in Scotland,
and one of the attractions had been an invitation from Drummond, who was
now beginning to be known in England, to spend two or three weeks at his
home. As he approached, Drummond arose and greeted him heartily,
saying,--
"Welcome, welcome, royal Ben!"
To which Jonson quickly replied replied--
"Thankee, thankee, Hawthornden!"
Upon which they both laughed and felt well acquainted at once.
The contrast between these two men, as they stood under the old
sycamore, must have been strongly marked. Drummond, quiet, reserved, and
gentle in manner--Jonson, boisterous and offensively vulgar: Drummond,
well dressed and refined in appearance--Jonson, fat, coarse, and
slovenly; Drummond, a country gentleman, accustomed to live well, but
always within his means, caring little for society, a man of correct
habits and strict piety, and later in life a loving husband and a tender
father--Jonson, the dictator of literary London, who waved his scepter
in the "Devil Tavern" in Fleet Street, egotistical and quarrelsome,
self-assertive, a bully in disposition, his life a perpetual round of
dissipation and debt, his means of livelihood dependent on luck or
favor, and his greatest enjoyment centering in association with those
who, like himself, were most at home in the theaters and taverns of the
great bustling city.
Yet both were poets and men of genius, though in different ways. In
spite of his peculiarities, Drummond found "rare Ben Jonson" a most
interesting companion. He kept a close record of the conversations which
passed between them, and might well be called the father of modern
interviewing. But unlike the interviewer of to-day, Drummond did not
rush to the nearest telegraph station to get his story "on the wire" and
"scoop" his contemporaries. There were no telegraphs nor newspapers to
call for such effort, and Drummond had too much respect for the courtesy
due a guest to think of publishing their private talks. But a portion of
the material was published in 1711, long after Drummond's death, and
probably the whole of it in 1832. These conversations with one who knew
intimately most of the literary leaders of his time have proved
invaluable. They contain Ben's opinions of nearly everybody--Queen
Elizabeth, the Earl of Leicester, King James, Spenser, Raleigh,
Shakespeare, Bacon, Drayton, Beaumont, Chapman, Fletcher, and many other
contemporaries. Most of all they contain his opinion of himself and his
writings, which needless to say is quite exalted.
With no thought of his notes being published, Drummond allowed himself
perfect frankness in writing about his guest. His summary of the
impression made by Ben's visit is as follows:--
He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of
others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every
word and action of those about him (especially after drink, which is
one of the elements in which he liveth); a dissembler of ill parts
which reign in him, a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh
nothing well but what either he himself or some of his friends and
countrymen hath said or done: he is passionately kind and angry;
careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but, if he be well
answered, at himself. For any religion, as being versed in both.
Interpreted best sayings and deeds often to the worst. Oppressed with
phantasy which hath ever mastered his reason, a general disease in
many poets.... He was in his personal character the very reverse of
Shakespeare, as surly, ill-natured, proud and disagreeable as
Shakespeare, with ten times his merit, was gentle, good-natured, easy,
and amiable.
Jonson expressed with equal frankness his opinion of Drummond, to whom
he said that he "was too good and simple, and that oft a man's modesty
made a fool of his wit."
Drummond as a poet was classed by Robert Southey and Thomas Campbell in
the highest rank of the British poets who appeared before Milton. His
sonnets, which are remarkable for their exquisite delicacy and
tenderness, won for him the title of "the Scottish Petrarch." It has
been said that they come as near to perfection as any others of this
kind of writing and that as a sonneteer Drummond is surpassed only by
Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth among the poets who have written in
English.
Before taking leave of the Scottish poet and his picturesque home, we
paused for a few minutes to visit the wondrous caverns, cut out of the
solid rock upon which the house is built. Antiquarians have insisted
that these caves date back to the time of the Picts, at least as far as
the ninth or tenth century.
This, too, was the popular understanding before the scientists offered
their opinion. In a curious old volume, published in 1753,[2] we are
told:--
Underneath [the house of Drummond] are the noted Caverns of
_Hawthorn-Den_, by Dr. _Stuckely_ in his _Itinerarium-Curiosa_, said
to have been the King of _Pictlands_ Castle or Palace; which nothing
can shew the Doctor's Credulity more than by suffering himself to be
imposed upon by the Tattle of the Vulgar, who in all things they
cannot account for, are ascribed to the _Picts_, without the least
Foundation. For those caves, instead of having been a Castle or
Palace, I take them either to have been a Receptacle for Robbers, or
Places to secure the People and their Effects in, during the
destructive Wars between the _Picts_ and _English_, and _Scots_ and
_English_.
During the contests between Bruce and Baliol for the Scottish crown,
these caves became a place of refuge for Bruce and his friends, and one
of the rooms is still pointed out as Bruce's bedchamber.
"Here, too, are labyrinthine paths
To caverns dark and low,
Wherein they say King Robert Bruce
Found refuge from his foe."
In the walls are many square holes, from twelve to eighteen inches deep,
supposed to have been used as cupboards. On a rough table near one of
the openings is a rude and very much damaged desk, said to have been the
property of John Knox.
Leaving these gloomy resorts of ancient heroes--perhaps of ancient
robbers--we sought a brighter and more cheerful scene. Descending the
path we reached a bridge over the Esk on which is a gate that permitted
us to leave Hawthornden, although it does not allow wanderers on the
other side to enter. The bridge gave a fine opportunity for a farewell
view of the grand old mansion, high in the air at the top of the cliff,
which we were now viewing from below.
A delightful stroll along the left bank of the stream for about two
miles brought us to Roslin Castle, situated on a rocky promontory high
above the river. At the point of the peninsula the river is narrowed by
a large mass of reddish sandstone over which it falls. When flooded this
becomes a beautiful cascade,--whence the name, "Ross," a Gaelic word
meaning promontory or jutting rock, and "Lyn," a waterfall,--the "Rock
of the Waterfall." The Esk, where it forms the cascade, is still called
"the Lynn." The view from the promontory is one of the most delightful
to be imagined. The banks are precipitous and covered with a luxurious
growth of natural wood. The vale seems to be crowded with every possible
combination of trees and cliffs, foliage and sparkling stream, that
nature can put together to form a region of romantic suggestion.
[Illustration: RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE]
Little now remains of the ancient castle of Roslin, which was formerly
two hundred feet long and ninety feet wide. A few ivy-covered walls and
towers may still be seen, in the midst of which is a more modern
dwelling rebuilt in 1653. The ancient foundation walls, nine feet thick,
still visible below the surface, and the almost inaccessible location of
the castle tell the story of its original purpose. A huge kitchen,
with the fireplace alone occupying as much space as the entire kitchen
of one of our modern houses, suggests the lavish scale upon which the
establishment was once conducted.
The castle was built by a family of St. Clairs, whose ancestor,
Waldernus de St. Clair, came over with the Conqueror. William St. Clair,
Baron of Roslin, Earl of Caithness and Prince of the Orkneys, who
flourished in the middle of the fifteenth century, was one of the most
famous of these barons. He lived in the magnificence of royal state.
He kept a great court and was royally served at his own table in
vessels of gold and silver.... He had his halls and other apartments
richly adorned with embroidered hangings. His princess, Elizabeth
Douglas, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, whereof fifty-three
were daughters of noblemen, all clothed in velvet and silks, with
their chains of gold, and other ornaments; and was attended by two
hundred riding gentlemen in all her journeys; and if it happened to be
dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings were at the foot
of the Black Friar's Wynd, eighty lighted torches were carried before
her.[3]
The castle was accidentally set on fire in 1447 and badly damaged, and
was leveled to the ground by English forces under the Earl of Hertford,
in 1544, who was sent to Scotland by Henry VIII to seek to enforce the
marriage of his son Edward to the infant Mary of Scotland, the daughter
of James V. In 1650 it was again destroyed, during Cromwell's campaign
in Scotland, by General Monk, and rising again, suffered severely at the
hands of a mob from Edinburgh in 1688.
It was William St. Clair, the feudal baron above referred to, who built
the exquisitely beautiful chapel which stands not far from the castle.
The same ancient manuscript, previously quoted, informs us that
His age creeping on him made him consider how he had spent his time
past, and how to spend that which was to come. Therefore to the end he
might not seem altogether unthankfull to God for the benefices
receaved from Him, it came in his minde to build a house for God's
service of most curious work, the which, that it might be done with
greater glory and splendour he caused artificers to be brought from
other regions and forraigne kingdoms and caused dayly to be abundance
of all kinde of workemen present, etc., etc.
The foundation of Roslin Chapel was laid in 1446. It was originally
intended to be a cruciform structure with a high central tower. The
existing chapel is, therefore, really only a small part of what the
church was meant to be. Its style is called "florid Gothic," but this is
probably for want of a better name. There is no other piece of
architecture like it in the world. It is a medley of all architectures,
the Egyptian, Grecian, Roman, and Saracenic being intermingled with all
kinds of decorations and designs, some exquisitely beautiful and others
quaint and even grotesque. There are thirteen different varieties of the
arch. The owner, who possessed great wealth, desired novelty. He secured
it by engaging architects and builders from all parts of Europe. The
most beautiful feature of the interior is known as the "'Prentice's
Pillar." It is a column with richly carved spiral wreaths of beautiful
foliage twined about from floor to ceiling. It is said that the
master-builder, when he came to erect this column, found himself unable
to carry out the design, and traveled to Rome to see a column of similar
description there. When he returned he found that his apprentice had
studied the plans in his absence and with greater genius than his own,
had overcome the difficulties and fashioned a pillar more beautiful than
any ever before dreamed of. The master, stung with jealous rage, struck
the apprentice with his mallet, killing him instantly. This, at least,
is the accepted legend.
The barons of Roslin were buried beneath the chapel side by side,
encased in their full suits of armor. There was a curious superstition
that when one of the family died, the chapel was enveloped in flames,
but not consumed. This and the "uncoffined chiefs" are referred to by
Scott in "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." The lady is lost in the storm
while crossing the Firth on her way to Roslin:--
"O'er Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
"It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copsewood glen;
'Twas seen from Dreyden's groves of oak,
And seen from caverned Hawthornden.
"Seemed all on fire that chapel proud
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.
"Seemed all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmered all the dead men's mail.
"Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
So still they blaze when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
"There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold--
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle."
Commemorated by a tablet in the chapel is another interesting legend.
Robert Bruce, King of Scotland, in following the chase on Pentland Hills
near Roslin, had often started "a white faunch deer" which invariably
escaped from his hounds. In his vexation he asked his nobles whether any
of them had hounds which would likely be more successful. All hesitated
for fear that the mere suggestion of possessing dogs superior to those
of the king might be an offense. But Sir William St. Clair (one of the
predecessors of the builder of the chapel) boldly and unceremoniously
came forward and said he would wager his head that his two favorite dogs
Hold and Help would kill the deer before it could cross the March burn.
The king promptly accepted the rash wager, and betted the forest of
Pentland Moor.
The hunters reach the heathern steeps and Sir William, posting himself
in the best situation for slipping his dogs, prayed devoutly to
Christ, the Virgin Mary, and St. Katherine. The deer is started, the
hounds are slipped; when Sir William spurs his gallant steed and
cheers the dogs. The deer reaches the middle of the March-burn brook,
the hounds are still in the rear, and our hero's life is at its
crisis. An awful moment; the hunter threw himself from his horse in
despair and Fate seemed to sport with his feelings. At the critical
moment Hold fastened on the game, and Help coming up, turned the deer
back and killed it close by Sir William's side. The generous monarch
embraced the knight and bestowed on him the lands of Kirktown, Logan
House, Earnsham, etc., in free forestrie.[4]
The grateful Sir William erected a chapel to St. Katherine, at the spot,
to commemorate the saint's intervention.
One more tale of Roslin remains to be told. Not far away, on Roslin
Moor, occurred one of the famous battles of Scottish history. There were
really three battles, all fought in one day, the 24th of February, 1303.
Three divisions of the English army, consisting of thirty thousand men,
were successively attacked by the valiant Scots with only ten thousand
men, who, after overpowering the first division, attacked the second,
and then the third, defeating all three in the same day.
And so, with history and legend, poetry and romance, real life and
fiction, the glory of nature's art and the achievements of human
handicraft all happily intermingled in our thought and blended into one
pleasant memory, we brought to its close our walk through the valley of
the Esk, from Hawthornden to Roslin Glen.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Maitland's _History of Scotland_.
[3] From an old manuscript, in the Advocates' Library, collection of
Richard Augustine Hay.
[4] Britton's _Architectural Antiquities_.
V
THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
V
THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
I
MRS. WARD AND HER WORK
"'Why does any one stay in England who _can_ make the trip to Paradise?'
said the duchess, as she leaned lazily back in the corner of the boat
and trailed her fingers in the waters of Como."
These words from "Lady Rose's Daughter" came to mind as we glided
swiftly in a little motor-boat, late in the afternoon of a perfect April
day, over the smooth waters of Como and into the arm of the lake known
as Lecco, where we were to enjoy our cup of tea in a little _latteria_
high up on a rocky crag. In the stern sat Mrs. Ward, looking the picture
of contentment, a light summer hat with simple trimmings giving an
almost girlish aspect to a face in which strong intellectuality and
depth of moral purpose were clearly the predominating features. A day's
work done,--for Mrs. Ward goes to Como for work, not play,--this little
trip across the lake was one of her favorite recreations, in which, for
the time, we were hospitably permitted to share. About us were the
scenes "enchanted, incomparable," which are best described in the words
of Mrs. Ward herself:--
When Spring descends upon the shores of the Lago di Como, she brings
with her all the graces, all the beauties, all the fine, delicate, and
temperate delights of which earth and sky are capable, and she pours
them forth upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around the shores of
other lakes--Maggiore, Lugano, Garda--blue mountains rise and the
vineyards spread their green and dazzling terraces to the sun. Only
Como can show in unmatched union a main composition, incomparably
grand and harmonious, combined with every jeweled or glowing or
exquisite detail. Nowhere do the mountains lean towards each other in
such an ordered splendor as that which bends around the northern
shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed masses rise behind each other,
to right and left of a blue waterway, in lines statelier or more noble
than those kept by the mountains of Lecco Lake as they marshal
themselves on either hand, along the approaches to Lombardy and
Venetia.
[Illustration: MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD]
... And within this divine framework, between the glistening snows
which still, in April, crown and glorify the heights, and those
reflections of them which lie encalmed in the deep bosom of the lake,
there's not a foot of pasture, not a shelf of vineyard, not a slope of
forest, where the spring is not at work, dyeing the turf with
gentians, starring it with narcissuses, or drawing across it the first
golden network of the chestnut leaves; where the mere emerald of the
grass is not in itself a thing to refresh the very springs of being;
where the peach-blossom and the wild cherry and the olive are not
perpetually weaving patterns on the blue which ravish the very heart
out of your breast. And already the roses are beginning to pour over
the wall; the wistaria is climbing up the cypresses; a pomp of
camellias and azaleas is in all the gardens; while in the glassy bays
that run up into the hills the primrose banks still keep their sweet
austerity, and the triumph of spring over the just banished winter is
still sharp and new.
It was in a garden such as this, with a wild cherry tree and olives
"perpetually weaving patterns" against the blue sky, that we first met
Mrs. Ward. It was a balmy April morning. The scent of spring was in the
air, and the birds were adding their melody to the beauty of the
landscape. The villa stands well up the slope of a high hill and is
reached by a winding path through fragrant trees. A little below the
level of the house is a shady nook, well sheltered from the sun, from
which the high mountains of the north and the blue glimmer of the lake
beneath can be plainly seen. Here we were greeted by the novelist in
terms of cordiality that instantly made us "feel at home." There was no
posing, none of that condescension which some writers had led us to
expect. We were simply welcomed as friends, with a perfect hospitality
that seemed to be born of the tranquil beauty all about us.
Mrs. Ward is a woman of rather more than medium height and of erect and
graceful carriage. Her manner is dignified, but it is the dignity of
one properly conscious of her own strength and is never repellent. One
cannot help feeling that he is in the presence of a distinguished
person--one who has justly earned a world-wide fame--and yet one in whom
the attributes of true womanliness reign supreme. You are proud of the
honor of her friendship, and yet you cannot help thinking what an
excellent neighbor she would be.
The instinct which impels Mrs. Ward to seek such scenes of beauty as
Lake Como in which to do her writing came to her naturally, for her
childhood was spent in one of the most beautiful parts of all England,
Westmoreland, the home of Wordsworth and of Ruskin. Here "Arnold of
Rugby" made his home in a charmingly situated cottage known as Fox How.
"Fox," in the language of Westmoreland, means "fairy," and "how" is
"hill." A "fairy hill" indeed it must have seemed to Dr. Arnold's little
granddaughter Mary, when as a child of five she was brought there by her
father from far-away Tasmania, where she was born. The English Lakes are
famous for their beauty, but there is no more delightful spot in all the
region than the valley "under Loughrigg," and no lovelier river than the
Rothay, rippling over the smooth pebbles from Wordsworth's beloved Rydal
Water down to the more pretentious grandeur of Lake Windermere. The
impressions of her childhood created in the future novelist an intense
love of these streams and mountains, which only increased with her
absence and the enlargement of her field of vision. When she was the
mother of a little girl of seven and a boy of four, she determined to
give to them the same impressions which had delighted her own childhood,
and the family made an ever-memorable visit from Oxford, where they were
then living, to the vicinity of Fox How--a visit which all children may
enjoy who will read the pretty little story of "Milly and Olly."
Mary Augusta Arnold was born in Tasmania on the 11th of June, 1851. Her
father, Thomas Arnold, second son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby and brother of
Matthew Arnold, was at that time Inspector of Schools in the far-away
island. He had married the granddaughter of Colonel Sorell, a former
Governor of Tasmania, and no doubt intended to remain there permanently.
But, becoming interested, even at that distance, in the so-called
"Oxford Movement" of the middle of the last century, he determined to
return to England, where he followed Newman and others into the Roman
Catholic Church, accepting a professorship of English Literature in the
Catholic University of Dublin. His daughter Mary, the eldest of six, was
sent to Ambleside to be educated. In 1865, having renounced the Catholic
faith, Mr. Arnold took up his residence at Oxford. Here his eldest
daughter, at the age of fourteen, came under the influence of the
friendships and associations which were to have so potent an influence
upon her future career. The most important of these were Professor Mark
Pattison and the Bodleian Library. Professor Pattison strongly urged her
to specialize her studies, and acting upon his suggestion, she learned
the Spanish language and began a course of study in Spanish literature
and history, in which she found the facilities of the Bodleian Library
invaluable. In 1872 she became the wife of Mr. Thomas Humphry Ward, then
a fellow and tutor in Brasenose College. During the ensuing ten or
eleven years Mrs. Ward assisted her husband in his literary work and
contributed largely to the "Pall Mall Gazette," the "Saturday Review,"
the "Academy," and other magazines, besides publishing the little book
for children already referred to, "Milly and Olly."
[Illustration: "UNDER LOUGHRIGG"]
In 1881 Mr. Ward accepted a position on the staff of the "Times," and
the family removed to London. For several years they occupied a house in
Russell Square, which Mrs. Ward still regards with fond memories, later
removing to their present town house, No. 25 Grosvenor Place. But Mrs.
Ward's love of nature is too intense for an uninterrupted residence in
London, and she possesses an ideal country home some thirty miles away,
near the little village of Aldbury, known as "Stocks." This large and
beautiful estate is ancient enough to be mentioned in "Domesday Book."
Its name does not come from the old "stocks" used as an instrument of
punishment, which may still be seen in the village, although this is a
common supposition. "Stocks" is derived from the German "stock," meaning
stick or tree, and refers to the magnificent grove by which the house is
surrounded.
Before Stocks became a possibility, Mrs. Ward usually managed to choose
a summer home in the country, and these choices are most interestingly
reflected in her novels. During the Oxford residence Surrey was a
favorite resort for seven years, its atmosphere entering largely into
the composition of "Miss Bretherton" and "Robert Elsmere." Two nights
spent at a farm on the Kinderscout gave ample material for the opening
chapter of the "History of David Grieve." The lease for a season of
Hampden House, in Buckinghamshire, gave the original for Mellor Park in
"Marcella," and a visit near Crewe fixed the scenes of "Sir George
Tressady." "Helbeck of Bannisdale" was the result of a summer spent in
the delightful home of Captain Bagot, of Levens Hall, near Kendal.
Summers in Italy and Switzerland gave most charming scenery for "Lady
Rose's Daughter" and "Eleanor," and, to a less degree, "The Marriage of
William Ashe." The cottage of her youngest daughter, Dorothy, near the
Langdale Pikes, suggested the home of Fenwick, while Diana Mallory found
her home in Stocks itself. Thus the creatures of Mrs. Ward's fancy have
simply lived in the places which she knew the best. They are all scenes
of beauty, for Mrs. Ward loves the beautiful in nature, and has spent
her life where this yearning could be most fully gratified.
But if Mrs. Ward seeks the country as the best place for literary work,
she is not idle when in the city. If any one imagines her to be merely a
society woman with a genius for literature, he is making a serious
mistake. Outside of society and literature she is a busy woman, bent on
the accomplishment of a task which few would have the courage to assume.
Her ideal is best expressed in the closing words of "Robert Elsmere":--
The New Brotherhood still exists, and grows. There are many who
imagined that, as it had been raised out of the earth by Elsmere's
genius, so it would sink with him. Not so! He would have fought the
struggle to victory with surpassing force, with a brilliancy and
rapidity none after him could rival. But the struggle was not his. His
effort was but a fraction of the effort of the race. In that effort,
and in the Divine force behind it, is our trust, as was his.
These words, written nearly a quarter of a century ago, were truly
prophetic. For Mrs. Ward not only possesses the kind of genius from
which an Elsmere could be created, but is gifted with a rare capacity
for business, which has enabled her to crystallize the ideals of her
work of fiction into a substantial and permanent institution for
practical benevolence. She was already interested in "settlement" work
among the poor of London during the writing of the novel. But in 1891,
after the storm of criticism which the book aroused had subsided, its
suggestions began to take definite shape in the organization of the
Passmore Edwards Settlement, in University Hall, in Gordon Square. In
1898 the work was moved to its present quarters in Tavistock Place,
where, under the leadership of Mrs. Ward and through the generosity of
herself and the friends whom she had been able to influence, a large and
substantial building was erected. Directly in the rear of the building
is a large garden owned by the Duke of Bedford, who recently placed it
at the disposal of the Settlement, keeping it in order at his own
expense, resowing the grass every year to keep it fresh and thick. Here
in the vacation season one thousand children daily enjoy the luxury of
sitting and walking on the grass, and that in the heart of central
London. The garden occupies the site of Dickens's Tavistock House. One
cannot help imagining the author of Little Nell sitting there in spirit
while troops of happy London children pass in review. The land here
placed entirely at the disposal of Mrs. Ward and the warden of the
Settlement is worth not less than half a million dollars. Twenty-seven
teachers, under the direction of a competent supervisor, give
instruction in organized out-of-door exercises.
This was the first of the recreation schools or play centers. Handwork
occupations, such as cooking--both for girls and boys--sewing, knitting,
basket-work, carpentering, cobbling, clay modeling, painting and
drawing; dancing combined with old English songs and nursery rhymes;
musical drill and gymnastics; quiet games and singing games; acting; and
a children's library of story-books and picture-books--these are the
provisions which have been made for the fortunate children of that
locality.
[Illustration: THE PASSMORE EDWARDS SETTLEMENT HOUSE]
The entire purpose of such play centers is to rescue the children of the
poor from the demoralization that results from being turned out to play
after school hours in the streets and alleyways, where they are
subjected to every kind of vile association and influence. The effects
already noted by those in charge of the centers are improvement in
manners, in thoughtfulness for the little ones, and in unselfishness;
increase in regard for truth and honesty; the development of the
instinct in all children to "make something"; the teaching that it is
more enjoyable to play together in harmony than when obedience to a
leader is refused. The success of this first experiment was so marked
that gradually other centers were started in different parts of
London. Liberal sums of money were placed in the hands of Mrs. Ward, who
enlisted the support of the County Council to the extent of securing
facilities in the public school buildings. The work has so far
progressed that the total attendance last year[5] reached an aggregate
of six hundred thousand. It is difficult to estimate from these figures
how many children were affected, but, taking--at a guess--fifty times as
the average attendance of each, this would mean that the lives of at
least twelve thousand poor children were directly lifted up by this
practical charity, and that as many more hard-working and anxious
parents were indirectly benefited.
But Mrs. Ward will not be satisfied until the entire school population
of London has been made to feel the influence of these play centers.
Private beneficence, as she has plainly pointed out, can never solve the
problem. "Private effort," said she in a well-known letter to the London
"Times," "cannot deal with seven hundred and fifty thousand children, or
even with three hundred thousand. If there is a serious and urgent need,
if both the physique and the morale of our town children are largely at
stake, and if private persons can only touch a fraction of the problem,
what remains but to appeal to the public conscience?"
This is Mrs. Ward's way of "doing things." She does not appeal to public
authority to accomplish an ideal without first finding a way and proving
that it can be done. But, having clearly demonstrated her proposition at
private expense, she does not rest content with the results so obtained,
but pushes steadily forward toward the larger ideal, which can be
realized only through public support.
But the recreation school is only a part of the work of the Passmore
Edwards Settlement. During the daytime many of the rooms are used by the
"Cripple Schools." Children who are suffering from spinal diseases,
heart trouble, and deformities of various kinds which prevent attendance
at the regular schools are daily brought to the Settlement in
ambulances. Here the little ones do all kinds of kindergarten work,
while the older ones are instructed in drawing, sewing, bent-iron work,
and other suitable tasks. As an outgrowth of this school twenty-three
cripple schools are now in operation in London.
But it is in the evening that the Passmore Edwards Settlement is seen to
best advantage. There is a large library containing some three thousand
volumes, which are kept in active use. On Monday nights two tables in
this room are the centers of busy groups. These represent the "coal
club," a businesslike charity of a very practical kind. The club buys a
large quantity of coal in the summer-time, when it can be obtained
cheapest. As a large consumer, it usually gets every possible
concession. The members of this club can buy the coal in small
quantities as wanted, or as they are able to pay for it, at any time
during the year, at the summer price of one shilling one and a half
pence per hundred weight (twenty-seven cents). If bought during the
winter in the ordinary way, they would have to pay perhaps five or six
pence more--a very substantial saving. Thrift is encouraged by allowing
members to deposit small sums in the summer to apply against their
winter purchases. Last year the club transacted a business equal to
about $4300.
"The Poor Man's Lawyer" is another practical part of the work. Once each
week free legal advice is given to all who ask it, and considerable
money has been saved to people who, from ignorance and poverty, might
have been imposed upon. The "Men's Club," the "Boys' Club," the "Factory
Girls' Club," and the "Women's Club" are all actively engaged in
performing the usual functions of such organizations. There is a
gymnasium where boys and girls, men and women, all have their regular
turns of systematic instruction.
An orchestra of a dozen pieces and a choral society of forty members,
together with a dramatic society, give opportunity for many to take part
in numerous concerts and entertainments. A large hall is the scene
nearly every night of some kind of social amusement. The room is
decorated with many pictures, all reproductions of the best works of
art, while around the walls are placed busts in marble of Emerson, James
Martineau, Dickens, Matthew Arnold, Benjamin Jowett, and Sir William
Herschel--the gift of Mr. Passmore Edwards. There is a large stage for
dramatic performances, drills, etc., with a piano and a good organ.
There are tables where the members may play cards, smoke, or have light
refreshments. On Sunday nights there are concerts or lectures. The whole
atmosphere of the place is attractive to the men and women who frequent
it. There is no obtrusive piety, no patronizing air, nothing to offend
the pride of the poor man who values his self-esteem, yet all the
influences of the place are elevating.
The whole spirit of the Settlement is expressed in these words,
displayed in a framed notice at the entrance to the social hall:--
We believe that many changes in the conditions of life and labour are
needed, and are coming to pass; but we believe also that men, without
any change except in themselves and in their feelings towards one
another, might make this world a better and a happier place.
Therefore, with the same sympathies but different experiences of life,
we meet to exchange ideas and to discuss social questions, in the hope
that, as we learn to know one another better, a feeling of fellowship
may arise among us.
To these ends we have a Library, Clubs, Lectures, Classes,
Entertainments, etc., and we endeavour to make the Settlement a centre
where we may unite our several resources in a social and intellectual
home.
In all this work Mrs. Humphry Ward is the inspiration, and a moving,
active spirit. Her name stands next to that of the wealthy Duke of
Bedford as the most liberal contributor. She is the Honorable Secretary
of the Council, a member of the Finance Committee, president of the
Women's Club, etc. But these are only her official positions. Her
directing hand is manifest in every branch of the work, and, from the
warden down to the humblest member of the Girls' Club, her name is
accorded a respect amounting almost to reverence.
But, as with the play centers, Mrs. Ward is not content with the work of
this one institution, splendid as it is. To her it is only the means of
ascertaining the way. She feels that she is dealing with a great
problem, and her method is to ascertain, first of all, the best
solution, and then to use her large influence to induce others to take
up the work. Thus the "New Brotherhood" of Robert Elsmere has not only
continued to exist for a quarter of a century, but has in it the
elements of growth which will make it a vital power in human society
long after the real Robert Elsmere, in the person of Mrs. Ward, has
ceased to be the directing force.
II
THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE
In seeking to point out the real persons and places of Mrs. Ward's
novels, it is only fair to the author to begin with her own statement as
to the story-teller's method of procedure:--
An idea, a situation, is suggested to him by real life, he takes
traits and peculiarities from this or that person whom he has known or
seen, but that is all. When he comes to write ... the mere necessities
of an imaginative effort oblige him to cut himself adrift from
reality. His characters become to him the creatures of a dream, as
vivid often as his waking life, but still a dream. And the only
portraits he is drawing are portraits of phantoms, of which the germs
were present in reality, but to which he himself has given voice,
garb, and action.
[Illustration: THE LIME WALK]
It is my purpose to point out some of these "germs of reality" in Mrs.
Ward's work, relying for the essential facts, at least, upon information
given me personally by the novelist herself. For Mrs. Ward does not
hesitate to admit that certain characters were drawn from real life; but
she insists upon a proper understanding of the exact sense in which this
is true. Because "Miss Bretherton" was suggested by the career of Mary
Anderson it does not follow that all that is said of the former is true
of the latter. There is a vast difference between a "suggestion" and
a "portrait." The thoughts and feelings or the personal characteristics
of a certain individual may suggest a character who in his physical
aspects, his environment, and the events of his career may be conceived
as an individual totally different. Mrs. Ward's novels contain no
portraits and no history. But they abound in characters suggested by
people whom she has known, in incidents and reminiscences of real life,
and in vivid word-pictures of scenes which she has learned to love or of
places with which she is personally familiar.
A study of the scenery of these novels properly begins in the County of
Surrey. About four miles southwest of Godalming is Borough Farm, an
old-fashioned brick house, which we reached by a drive over country that
seemed in places almost like a desert--so wild and forsaken that one
could scarcely believe it to be within a few miles of some of the
busiest suburbs of London. But it has a splendid beauty of its own. The
thick gorse with its golden blossoms everywhere waves a welcome. There
are now and then great oaks to greet you, and graceful patches of white
birch. And everywhere is a delightfully exhilarating sense of freedom
and fresh air such as only this kind of open country can suggest. Here
Mrs. Ward lived for seven summers, finding in the country round about
some of the most interesting of the scenes of her first novel, "Miss
Bretherton," and of "Robert Elsmere."
"Miss Bretherton" was published in 1884. Mary Anderson was at that time
the reigning success on the London stage, while Sarah Bernhardt, in
Paris, was startling the world with an art of a totally different
character. The beauty of the young American actress was the one subject
of conversation. Was it her beauty that attracted the crowds to the
theater, and that alone? Was she totally lacking in that consummate art
which the great Frenchwoman admittedly possessed? These questions
suggested to Mrs. Ward the theme of her first attempt at fiction. The
beautiful Miss Bretherton is taken in hand by a party of friends
representing the highest types of culture. In their effort to give her
mind and body much-needed rest from the exactions of London society she
is carried away on two notable excursions. The first is to Surrey, the
real scene of this outing being a place near Borough Farm called "Forked
Pond," well known to Mrs. Ward and her family while residents at the
farm. The other is to Oxford, where, after admiring the colleges, which
brought many happy recollections to the gentlemen of the party, Miss
Bretherton is taken to Nuneham Park, a beautiful place on the river
where a small rustic bridge enhances the romantic character of the
surroundings. This, of course, was familiar ground to the author, who
spent sixteen happy years in that vicinity as a resident of Oxford.
Through the kindness of these friends, and particularly by the influence
of Kendal, who becomes her lover, Miss Bretherton is made to take a new
view of her art, and is transformed into an actress of real dramatic
power.
Although a charming story, "Miss Bretherton" did not prove successful
and had little part in making the reputation of the novelist, who is
likely to be known as "the author of 'Robert Elsmere,'" so long as her
fame shall endure. For this great book created a sensation throughout
the English-speaking world when it appeared, and aroused controversies
which did not subside for many years.
The scenery of "Robert Elsmere" combines the Westmoreland which Mrs.
Ward learned to love in her childhood with the Oxford of her girlhood
and early married life, and the Surrey where so many pleasant summers
were spent. Not wishing, for fear of recognition, to describe the
country near Ambleside, with which she was most familiar, Mrs. Ward
placed the scenes of the opening chapters in the neighboring valley of
Long Sleddale, giving it the name of Long Whindale. Whinborough is the
city of Kendal, and the village of Shanmoor is Kentmere. Burwood Farm,
where the Leyburns lived, is a house far up the valley, which still
"peeps through the trees" at the passer-by just as it did in the days
when Robert Elsmere first met the saintly Catherine there. A few
hundred yards down the stream is a little stone church across the road
from a small stone schoolhouse, and next to the school a gray stone
vicarage, standing high above the little river, all three bearing the
date 1863. At sight of this group of buildings one almost expects to
catch a glimpse of the well-meaning but not over-wise Mrs. Thornburgh,
sitting in the shade of the vicarage, awaiting the coming of old John
Backhouse, the carrier, with the anxiously expected consignment of "airy
and appetizing trifles" from the confectioner's.
[Illustration: COTTAGE OF "MARY BACKHOUSE"]
At the extreme end of the valley the road abruptly comes to an end. A
stone bridge leads off to the left to a group of three small farms. In
front no sign of human habitation meets the eye. The hills seem to come
together, forming a kind of bowl, and there is no sound to break the
stillness save the ripple of the river. It was to this lonely spot that
Catherine was in the habit of walking, quite alone, to visit the dying
Mary Backhouse. The house of John and Jim Backhouse where Mary died may
still be seen. It is the oldest of the three farms above mentioned. A
very small cottage, it is wedged between a stable on one side and a sort
of barn or storehouse on the other, so that from the road before
crossing the bridge it seems to be quite pretentious. The house dates
back to 1670. Mary Backhouse never existed except in imagination, but
Mrs. Ward, upon seeing the photograph of the house, exclaimed with much
satisfaction, "Yes, that is the very house where Mary Backhouse died."
So real to her are the events described in her novels that Mrs. Ward
frequently refers to the scenes in this way. Behind the house is a very
steep hill, covered with trees and rough stones. It was over this hill
that Robert and Catherine walked on the night of Mary Backhouse's death.
Readers of "Robert Elsmere" will remember that poor Mary was the victim
of a strange hallucination. On the night of Midsummer Day, one year
before, she had seen the ghost or "bogle" of "Bleacliff Tarn." To see
the ghost was terror enough, but to be spoken to by it was the sign of
death within a year. And Mary had both seen and been spoken to by the
ghost. Her mind, so far as she had one, for she was really half-insane,
was concentrated on the one horrible thought--that on Midsummer Night
she must die. The night had at last arrived, and Catherine, true to her
charitable impulses, was there to comfort the dying girl.
The weather was growing darker and stormier; the wind shook the house in
gusts, and the farther shoulder of High Fell was almost hidden by the
trailing rain-clouds. But Catherine feared nothing when a human soul was
in need, and, hoping to pacify the poor woman, volunteered to go out to
the top of the Fell and over the very track of the ghost at the precise
hour when she was supposed to walk, to prove that there was nothing near
"but the dear old hills and the power of God." As she opened the door of
the kitchen, Catherine was surprised to find Robert Elsmere there, and
together they set out, over the rough, stony path, facing the wind and
rain as they climbed the distant fell-side. There Robert pleaded his
love against Catherine's stern sense of duty, and won.
When Robert and Catherine were married, they went to live at the Rectory
of Murewell, in Surrey. This old house is at Peper Harow, three miles
west of Godalming and a mile or so from Borough Farm. It was leased for
one summer by Mrs. Ward. A plain, square house of stone, much discolored
by the weather, it could hardly be called attractive in itself. But
stepping back to the road, with its picturesque stone wall surmounted by
foliage, and viewing the house as it appears from there, flanked on the
left by a fine spreading elm and on the right by a tall, pointed fir and
a cluster of oaks, with a little flower garden under the windows and the
gracefully curving walk leading past the door in a semicircle stretching
from gate to gate, the ugly house is transformed into a home of beauty,
where Robert and Catherine, one can well imagine, might have been quite
happy and contented with their surroundings.
In the rear of the house is the garden, famous for its phloxes, the
scene of many walks and family confidences. At the farther end is the
gate where Langham poured out the story of his life in passionate
speech, impelled by the equally passionate sympathy of Rose, only to
recall himself a moment later, "the critic in him making the most
bitter, remorseless mock of all these heroics and despairs the other
self had been indulging in."
Only a short walk from the Rectory is the little church of Peper Harow,
the scene of Robert's early clerical labors, and further on is the large
and beautiful Peper Harow Park, the present home of Lord Middleton. This
attractive park is the original of Squire Wendover's, but the house
itself is not described. The fine library owned by the Squire, which so
delighted Robert Elsmere with its many rare books, was in reality the
famous Bodleian Library of Oxford, with which the author became familiar
very early in life.
Three characters from real life, each a man of marked individuality,
stand out prominently in the pages of "Robert Elsmere." These are
Professor Mark Pattison, whose strong personality and scholarly
attainments suggested Squire Wendover; Professor Thomas H. Green, the
original of Mr. Grey; and the melancholy Swiss philosopher, poet, and
dreamer Amiel, who was the prototype of Langham.
The theme of the novel is the development of Robert Elsmere's character
and the gradual change of his religious views, brought about through
many a bitter struggle. In this the principal influence was that of
Roger Wendover, a typical English squire of large possessions, but, in
addition, a scholar of the first rank, the possessor of a large library
filled with rare and important volumes of history, philosophy, science,
and religion, with the contents of which he was thoroughly familiar, and
an author of two great books, one of which had stirred up a tremendous
excitement in the circles of English religious thought.
The Pentateuch, the Prophets, the Gospels, St. Paul, Tradition, the
Fathers, Protestantism and Justification by Faith, the Eighteenth
Century, the Broad Church Movement, Anglican Theology--the Squire had
his say about them all. And while the coolness and frankness of the
method sent a shock of indignation and horror through the religious
public, the subtle and caustic style, and the epigrams with which the
book was strewn, forced both the religious and the irreligious public
to read, whether they would or no. A storm of controversy rose round
the volumes, and some of the keenest observers of English life had
said at the time, and maintained since, that the publication of the
book had made or marked an epoch.
[Illustration: THE RECTORY OF PEPER HAROW]
Against the influence of such a book, and more particularly against a
growing intimacy with its author, Robert Elsmere felt himself as
helpless as a child. The squire's talk "was simply the outpouring of one
of the richest, most skeptical, and most highly trained of minds on the
subject of Christian origins." His two books were, he said, merely an
interlude in his life-work, which had been devoted to an "exhaustive
examination of human records" in the preparation of a great History of
Testimony which had required learning the Oriental languages and sifting
and comparing the entire mass of existing records of classical
antiquity--India, Persia, Egypt, and Judea--down to the Renaissance.
Reference has already been made to the influence of Professor Mark
Pattison upon the early life of Mrs. Ward. To create the Squire she had
only to imagine the house in the great park of Peper Harow, equipped
with a library like the Bodleian, and inhabited by a person who might be
otherwise like any English squire, but in mental equipment a duplicate
to some extent of the Rector of Lincoln. Professor Pattison's father was
a strict evangelical. He gave his son a good education, and the boy
early manifested a delight in literature and learning. He soon developed
an independence of character, and, refusing to confine his reading to
the prescribed books of orthodoxy, delved into the classics extensively
as well as the English literature of Pope, Addison, and Swift. He was
graduated at Oxford in 1836, and took his M.A. degree in 1840. By this
time he had abandoned the evangelical teachings of his youth, and with
other young men came under the influence of Newman, in whose house he
went to live. When Newman went into the Roman Catholic Church in 1845,
Pattison was not so much shocked as others. Indeed, he confessed that he
"might have dropped off to Rome himself in some moment of mental and
physical depression or under pressure of some arguing convert." But
Pattison, who was now a Fellow at Lincoln College, was thoroughly
devoted to his work and was fast gaining a great reputation, not only
for his magnetic influence upon young men, but as one of the ablest of
college tutors and lecturers. In 1861 he became Rector of Lincoln. He
was an indefatigable writer, contributing to many magazines and to the
"Encyclopaedia Britannica." An article on "Tendencies of Religious
Thought in England, 1688-1750" aroused widespread comment. His literary
work was marked by evidences of most painstaking research coupled with a
profound scholarship and excellent judgment in the arrangement of his
material. He devoted a lifetime to the preparation of a history of
learning--a stupendous undertaking of which only a portion was ever
completed. He possessed a library said to be the largest private
collection of his time in Oxford. It numbered fourteen thousand volumes,
and was extraordinarily complete in books on the history of learning and
philosophy in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. Of
Professor Pattison's personality his biographer says:--
Under a singularly stiff and freezing manner to strangers and to those
whom he disliked he concealed a most kindly nature, full of geniality
and sympathy and a great love of congenial and especially of female
society. But it was in his intercourse with his pupils and generally
with those younger than himself that he was seen to most advantage.
His conversation was marked by a delicate irony. His words were few
and deliberate but pregnant with meaning and above all stimulating,
and their effect was heightened by perhaps too frequent and,
especially to undergraduates, somewhat embarrassing flashes of
silence.
All these qualities are continually appearing in the Squire. But
Professor Pattison's own definition of a man of learning is the best
description of Roger Wendover:--
Learning is a peculiar compound of memory, imagination, scientific
habit, accurate observation, all concentrated through a prolonged
period on the analysis of the remains of literature. The result of
this sustained mental endeavor is not a book, but a man. It cannot be
embodied in print; it consists of the living word.
The second in importance of the potent influences upon Robert Elsmere's
character was that of Henry Grey, a tutor of St. Anselm's (Balliol
College), Oxford. Very early in his Oxford career Elsmere was taken to
hear a sermon by Mr. Grey, which made a deep impression on his mind. The
substance of this sermon, which is briefly summarized in the novel, was
taken from a volume of lay sermons by Professor Thomas Hill Green,
entitled "The Witness of God."
The whole basis of Grey's thought was ardently idealist and Hegelian.
He had broken with the popular Christianity, but for him God,
consciousness, duty, were the only realities. None of the various
forms of materialist thought escaped his challenge; no genuine
utterance of the spiritual life of man but was sure of his sympathy.
It was known that, after having prepared himself for the Christian
ministry, he had remained a layman because it had become impossible to
him to accept miracle; and it was evident that the commoner type of
Churchmen regarded him as an antagonist all the more dangerous because
he was so sympathetic.
All of this, like all the other references to Grey throughout the book,
applies perfectly to Professor Green. He was the leading exponent at
Oxford of the principles of Kant and Hegel, and attracted many
followers. His simplicity, power, and earnestness commanded respect. He
associated with his pupils on terms of friendly intimacy, frequently
taking some of them with him on his vacations. He was a man of
singularly lofty character, and those who knew him were reminded of
Wordsworth, whom he resembled in some ways.
When Elsmere is advised by his friend Newcome to solve all the problems
of his doubt by trampling upon himself, flinging away his freedom, and
stifling his intellect, these words of Henry Grey flash upon his mind:--
God is not wisely trusted when declared unintelligible. Such honor
rooted in dishonor stands; such faith unfaithful makes us falsely
true.
God is forever reason; and his communication, his revelation, is
reason.
The words are taken from the same volume of Professor Green's sermons.
The death of this dear friend of Robert Elsmere occurred in 1882, and is
most touchingly described. An old Quaker aunt was sitting by his
bedside:--
She was a beautiful old figure in her white cap and kerchief, and it
seemed to please him to lie and look at her. "It'll not be for long,
Henry," she said to him once. "I'm seventy-seven this spring. I shall
come to thee soon." He made no reply, and his silence seemed to
disturb her.... "Thou'rt not doubting the Lord's goodness, Henry?" she
said to him, with the tears in her eyes. "No," he said, "no, never.
Only it seems to be his will; we should be certain of nothing--_but
Himself_! I ask no more." I shall never forget the accent of these
words; they were the breath of his inmost life.
To understand the third of the three characters from real life in
"Robert Elsmere," it is necessary to glance at the story of Henri
Frederic Amiel, a Swiss essayist, philosopher, and dreamer, who was born
in 1821 and died in 1881, leaving as a legacy to his friends a "Journal
Intime" covering the psychological observations, meditations, and inmost
thoughts of thirty years. They represented a prodigious amount of labor,
covering some seventeen thousand folio pages of manuscript. This
extensive journal was translated into English by Mrs. Ward and published
in 1883, five years before the date of "Robert Elsmere." Her long and
exhaustive study of the life of this extraordinary man as revealed by
himself made a deep impression upon the mind of the novelist--so much so
that she could not refrain from introducing him in the person of the
morbid Langham. A brief glance at some of the peculiarities of Amiel
will prove the best interpretation of Langham, without which the latter
must always remain a mystery.
Amiel's estimate of the value of his life-work was not a high one. "This
Journal of mine," he said, "represents the material of a good many
volumes; what prodigious waste of thought, of strength. It will be
useful to nobody, and even for myself it has rather helped me to shirk
life than to practice it." And again, "Is everything I have produced
taken together, my correspondence, these thousands of journal pages, my
lectures, my articles, my poems, my notes of different kinds--anything
better than withered leaves? To whom and to what have I been useful?
Will my name survive me a single day? And will it ever mean anything to
anybody? A life of no account! When it is all added up, nothing!"
"Amiel," says Mrs. Ward, "might have been saved from despair by love and
marriage, by paternity, by strenuous and successful literary
production."
Family life attracted him perpetually. "I cannot escape from the ideal
of it," he said. "A companion of my life, of my work, of my thoughts, of
my hopes; within, a common worship--towards the world outside, kindness
and beneficence; education to undertake; the thousand and one moral
relations which develop around the first--all these ideas intoxicate me
sometimes."
But in vain. "Reality, the present, the irreparable, the necessary,
repel and even terrify me. I have too much imagination, conscience, and
penetration, and not enough character. The life of thought alone seems
to me to have enough elasticity and immensity to be free enough from the
irreparable; practical life makes me afraid. I am distrustful of myself
and of happiness because I know myself. The ideal poisons for me all
imperfect possession, and I abhor all useless regrets and repentances."
Mrs. Ward dramatized this strange individuality in the character of
Langham. The love-scene in which Langham wins the hand of the beautiful
Rose, followed by the all-night mental struggle in which he finally
feels compelled to renounce all that he has gained, is almost tragic in
its intensity.
Poor Langham, with the prize fairly within his grasp, found that he
lacked the courage to retain it. And so the morning after the proposal,
instead of the pleasantly anticipated call from her accepted lover, the
unfortunate Rose was shocked to receive a pessimistic letter announcing
that the engagement had not survived the night. To the casual reader it
would seem that such a man as Langham would be impossible. But that
Amiel was just such a person his elaborate journal fully reveals. And
Professor Mark Pattison has given his testimony that Amiel was not alone
in his experiences, for six months after the journal was published he
wrote, "I can vouch that there is in existence at least one other soul
which has lived through the same struggles mental and moral as Amiel."
Among the very large number of persons who come upon the stage in the
action of this remarkable book, several besides the Squire, Grey, and
Langham may have been suggested by persons whom the author knew. But the
prototypes of these three are the only ones who really enter, in a vital
way, into the actual construction of the novel. "But who was the real
Elsmere?" one naturally asks. Many attempts have been made to identify
this good preacher or that worthy reformer with the famous character,
much to the annoyance of the author, who really created Elsmere out of
the influences already described. The real Elsmere would be obviously
one whose religious views were moulded by Mark Pattison and Thomas H.
Green, and one who was profoundly interested in, if not influenced by,
the strange self-distrust of Amiel. The real Elsmere would be also one
whose religious convictions led inevitably to the desire to perform some
practical service to mankind. Such an Elsmere exists in the person of
Mrs. Ward herself, who is to-day regarded by the workers and associates
of the Passmore Edwards Settlement, in Tavistock Place, London, with
very much the same love and gratitude as Elsmere won from the people of
Elgood Street. For this beneficent institution was a direct result of
the novel, and owes its existence very largely to Mrs. Ward's energetic
and influential efforts.
III
OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY
"The History of David Grieve," Mrs. Ward's third novel, is by many
considered, next to "Robert Elsmere," her greatest achievement. David
and his sister Louie are the orphan children of a sturdy and high-minded
Englishman whose wife was a French woman of somewhat doubtful character.
Their development from early childhood to full maturity is traced with a
power of psychological analysis seldom equaled. Both are intensely human
and fall easy prey to the temptations of their environment, but in the
end David overcomes the evil influences, while poor Louie, inheriting
more of her mother's temperament, goes to her death in poverty and
disgrace.
The most attractive part of the book is the opening, where the two
children are seen roaming the hills of the wild moorland country of
their birth. This is the Kinderscout region, in Derbyshire, something
over twenty miles southeast of Manchester.
The visitor must take the train to Hayfield, called Clough End in the
novel, and then, if he is fortunate enough to have permission from the
owner, may drive a distance of four or five miles to what is now called
Upper House, the country home of a wealthy merchant of Manchester. This
was originally known as Marriott's Farm, and for several hundred years
was owned by a family of that name. Here Mrs. Ward spent two days, when
the entire house consisted of what is now the right wing. She walked
over the moors and along the top of the Kinderscout with Mr. Marriott as
her guide, and thus obtained the knowledge for the most perfect
description of pastoral life to be found in any of her novels.
Needham's Farm, the home of David and Louie, is the only other farm in
the neighborhood. It is now known as the Lower House, and is owned by
the same Manchester gentleman, but is leased to a family named Needham,
who have occupied it for many years. It looks now just as it did when
Mrs. Ward described it.
The "Owd Smithy," where the prayer-meeting was held and Louie wickedly
played the ghost of Jenny Crum, is now only remotely suggested by a heap
of rocks bearing little resemblance to a building of any kind. Huge
mill-stones, partly embedded in the earth, are scattered about here and
there. The Downfall, which, when the water is coming over, is visible
for miles around, is ordinarily a bare, bleak pile of rocks, for it is
usually nearly if not quite dry. But after a heavy rain the water comes
over in large volume, and, if the wind is strong, is blown back,
presenting a most curious spectacle of a cascade seeming to disappear
in the air when halfway to the bottom. Not far away is the Mermaid's
Pool, haunted by the ghost of Jenny Crum. There is a real ghost story
connected with this pool, which doubtless formed the basis of Mrs.
Ward's legend. An old farmer named Tom Heys was much troubled by a
ghost, of which he could not rid himself. He once shot at it, but
without effect except that the bullet-mark is in the old house even now.
An old woman once saw the ghost while shearing sheep. She threw the
tongs at it. Instantly the room was filled with flying fleece, while the
woman's clothes were cut to pieces and fell off her body. These were
some of the troublesome pranks played by the ghost. At length the farmer
discovered, somewhere on his place, an old skull, which doubtless
belonged to His Ghostship, and carried it to the Mermaid's Pool, where
he deposited it
"To stay as long as holly's green,
And rocks on Kinderscout are seen."
This effectually disposed of the ghost so far as he was concerned, but
the spirit still hovers over the Mermaid's Pool.
[Illustration: THE ROTHAY AND NAB SCAR]
Market Place, Manchester, where we find David after his flight from the
old farm, looks to-day very much the same. Half Street, however, on the
east of the cathedral, has disappeared. Purcell's shop in this street
was described from a quaint little book-shop which actually existed at
the time.
The Parisian scenes of "David Grieve," the Louvre, the Boulevards, the
Latin Quarter, Fontainebleau, Saint-Germain, and Barbizon, are all too
well known to need mention here. The final scenes of the novel, where
David's wife is brought after the beginning of her fatal illness, are in
one of the most beautiful localities in the English Lake District.
Lucy's house is supposed to be on the right bank of the river. The house
is imaginary (the one on the left bank having no connection with the
story), but the location is exactly described. This is just above Pelter
Bridge, a mile north of Ambleside, where the river Rothay combines with
the adjacent hills to make one of those fascinating scenes for which
Westmoreland is famous. Nab Scar looms up before us, and off to the left
is Loughrigg. A stroll along the river brings one to the little bridge
at the outlet of Rydal Water, where David walked for quiet meditation
during his wife's illness; and still farther northward the larch
plantations on the side of Silver How add their touch of beauty to the
landscape. This entire region has always been dear to Mrs. Ward's heart
from the associations of her girlhood, and, if Lucy must die, she could
think of no more lovely spot for the last sad scenes.
One character in "David Grieve" is drawn from real life--Elise Delaunay,
the French girl with whom David falls in love on his first visit to
Paris. This is, in some respects, a portrait of Marie Bashkirtseff, a
young native of Russia, whose brief career as an artist attracted much
notice. Marie was born of wealthy parents in 1860. When she was only ten
years old her mother quarreled with her husband and left him, taking the
children with her. Marie returned to her father, with whom she traveled
extensively. A born artist, the journey through Italy created in her a
new and thrilling interest. She resolved to devote her life to art, and
in 1877 entered the school of Julian in Paris. She soon showed
astonishing capacity, and Julian assured her that her draughtsmanship
was remarkable. One of her paintings, "Le Meeting," was exhibited in the
Salon of 1884, and attracted much notice. Reproductions were made in all
the leading papers, and it was finally bought by the cousin of the Czar,
the Grand Duke Constantino Constantinowitch, a distinguished connoisseur
and himself a painter. This picture represents half a dozen street
gamins of the ordinary Parisian type holding a conference in the street.
Their faces exhibit all the seriousness of a group of financiers
consulting upon some project of vast importance.
The peculiarity of Marie's character is set forth by her biographer in
words which enable the reader of "David Grieve" instantly to recognize
Elise Delaunay:--
She never wholly yields herself up to any fixed rule of conduct, or
even passion, being swayed this way or that by the intense
impressionability of her nature. She herself recognized this anomaly
in the remark, "My life can't endure; I have a deal too much of some
things and a deal too little of others, and a character not made to
last." The very intensity of her desire to see life at all points
seems to defeat itself, and she cannot help stealing side glances at
ambition during the most romantic tete-a-tete with a lover, or being
tortured by visions of unsatisfied love when art should have engrossed
all her faculties.
In the last year of her life Marie achieved an admiration for
Bastien-Lepage which, her biographer says, "has a suspicious flavour of
love about it. It is the strongest, sweetest, most impassioned feeling
of her existence." She died in 1884, at the early age of twenty-four,
assured by Bastien-Lepage that no other woman had ever accomplished so
much at her age.
"Marcella" and "Sir George Tressady" are novels of English social and
political life--a field in which Mrs. Ward is peculiarly at home, and in
which she has no superior. Marcella, who in her final development became
one of the most beautiful women of all Mrs. Ward's characters, was
suggested by the personality of an intimate friend, whose name need not
be mentioned. Mellor Park, the home of Marcella, is drawn from Hampden
House in Buckinghamshire. It is a famous old house, some centuries old,
now the country-seat of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, and, with its
well-kept gardens and spacious park, is unusually attractive. Twenty
years ago, however, it was in a state of neglect. The road leading to it
was full of underbrush, the garden was wholly uncared-for, and the house
itself much in need of repair. This is the state in which Mrs. Ward
describes it--and she knew it well, for she had leased it for a season
and made it her summer home. The murder of the gamekeeper, described as
taking place near Mellor Park, really happened at Stocks, Mrs. Ward's
present home near Tring.
The village of Ferth, where Sir George Tressady had his home and owned
the collieries, is a mining village ten miles from Crewe, known as "Talk
o' the Hill." The ugly black house to which Tressady brought home his
young wife was described from an actual house which the author visited.
"Helbeck of Bannisdale" was written while the author was living at
Levens Hall, the handsome country home of Captain Bagot, M.P., which
Mrs. Ward leased for a summer. It is a few miles south of Kendal, in
Westmoreland, and just on the border of the "Peat Moss" country. The
old hall dates back to 1170, the original deed now in possession of
Captain Bagot bearing that date. The dining-room has an inlaid design
over the mantel with the date 1586. The entrance-hall, dining-room, and
drawing-room contain many antique relics. But the most remarkable
feature of Levens is the garden, containing about two hundred yews
trained and trimmed into every conceivable shape. There is an "umbrella"
which has required two hundred years of constant care to reach its
present size and shape; a British lion, with perfect coronet; a peacock
with correctly formed neck and tail feathers; a barrister's wig, a
kaffir's hut, and so on through a long list of curious shapes. In front
of the house the river Kent, with a bridge of two arches, makes a
picturesque scene. This is the "bridge over the Bannisdale River" which
marked the end of Laura's drive with Mason, where at sight of Helbeck
the young man made his sudden and unceremonious departure. A spacious
park skirts the river, through which runs a grassy road bounded by
splendid oaks intertwining their branches high above. Following this
path we reached a foot-bridge barely wide enough for one person to
cross, on the park end of which is a rough platform apparently built for
fishermen. Here Laura kept her clandestine appointment with Mason, and
on her way home was mistaken for the ghost of the "Bannisdale Lady,"
much to the terror of a poor old man who chanced to be passing, and not
a little to her own subsequent embarrassment. A little beyond is the
deep pool where Laura was drowned.
The exterior of Bannisdale Hall is not Levens, but Sizergh Castle, some
two or three miles nearer Kendal. At the time of the story a Catholic
family of Stricklands owned the place, but, like Helbeck, were gradually
selling parts of their property, and dealers from London and elsewhere
were constantly coming to carry off furniture or paintings. The family
finally lost the property, and it was acquired by a distant relative,
Sir Gerald Strickland, who was recently appointed Governor of New South
Wales, and who now owns but does not occupy it.
The little chapel, high up on a hill, where Laura was buried, is at
Cartmel Fell, in Northern Lancashire. A quaint little chapel five or six
hundred years old, it is well worth a visit.
The scenes of "Eleanor" are in Italy, and here Mrs. Ward fairly revels
in descriptions of "Italy, the beloved and beautiful." The opening
chapters have their setting in the Villa Barberini, on the ridge of the
Alban Hills, south of Rome, from the balcony of which the dome of St.
Peter's can be seen in the distance, dominating the landscape by day and
seeming at night to be the one thing which has definite form and
identity. There is a visit to Nemi and Egeria's Spring, after which the
scene changes to the valley of the Paglia, beyond the hill town of
Orvieto, "a valley with wooded hills on either side, of a bluish-green
color, checkered with hill towns and slim campaniles and winding roads;
and, binding it all in one, the loops and reaches of a full brown
river."
Torre Amiata--the real name of which is Torre Alfina--is a magnificent
castle, "a place of remote and enchanting beauty." Through some Italian
friends, Mrs. Ward met the agent of this great estate, who put his house
at her disposal for a season. This happy opportunity gave her the
intimate acquaintance with the surrounding country which she used with
such excellent skill in "Eleanor," and enabled her, among other things,
to discover the ruined convent and chapel which formed the dismal
retreat of Lucy and Eleanor in their strange flight from Mr. Manisty.
"Lady Rose's Daughter," which followed "Eleanor," likewise reflects the
author's love of Italy. It was written, in part at least, in the
beautiful villa at Cadenabbia, on Lake Como, from which a view of
surpassing loveliness meets the eye in every direction. Mrs. Ward never
tires of it, and in her leisure moments while there found great delight
in reproducing in her sketch-book the charming colors of a landscape
which can scarcely be equaled in any other part of the world.
The setting of the novel in its earlier chapters is London. But when
Julie Le Breton, worn out by mental anguish, the result of experiences
which had nearly ruined her life, could be rescued and brought back to
life only by a quiet rest amid pleasant surroundings, Lake Como was the
place selected by her kind-hearted little friend the duchess. As her
strength gradually returned she daily walked over the hill to the path
that led to the woods overhanging the Villa Carlotta.
Such a path! To the left hand, and, as it seemed, steeply beneath her
feet, all earth and heaven--the wide lake, the purple mountains, the
glories of a flaming sky. On the calm spaces of water lay a shimmer of
crimson and gold, repeating the noble splendor of the clouds.... To
her right a green hillside--each blade of grass, each flower, each
tuft of heath, enskied, transfigured by the broad light that poured
across it from the hidden west. And on the very hilltop a few
scattered olives, peaches, and wild cherries scrawled upon the blue,
their bare, leaning stems, their pearly whites, their golden pinks and
feathery gray, all in a glory of sunset that made of them things
enchanted, aerial, fantastical, like a dance of Botticelli angels on
the height.
[Illustration: LAKE COMO]
The story opens with a graphic description of Lady Henry's
salon--frequented by the most prominent people in London--where the
chief attraction was not the great lady herself, but her maid companion,
Julie Le Breton. Everywhere Julie was met with smiles and evidence of
eager interest. She knew every one, and "her rule appeared to be at once
absolute and welcome." But one evening Lady Henry was ill and gave
orders that the guests be turned away with her apologies. As the
carriages drove up, one by one, the footman rehearsed Lady Henry's
excuses. But a group of men soon assembled in the inner vestibule, and
Julie felt impelled to invite them into the library, where they were
implored not to make any noise. The distinguished frequenters of Lady
Henry's salon were all there. Coffee was served, and, stimulated by the
blazing fire and a sense of excitement due to the novelty of the
situation, an animated conversation sprang up, which continued till
midnight and was at last suddenly interrupted by the unexpected
appearance of Lady Henry herself.
Lady Henry's awakening led to Julie's dismissal. But her friends did not
desert her. A little cottage was found, where Julie was soon comfortably
installed.
This much of the story--and little if any more--was suggested by the
life of Julie de Lespinasse, a Frenchwoman who figured brilliantly in
the Paris society of the middle of the eighteenth century.
In 1754 the Marquise du Deffand was one of the famous women of Paris.
Her quick intelligence and a great reputation for wit had brought to her
drawing-room the famous authors, philosophers, and learned men of the
day. But the great lady, now nearly sixty, was entirely blind and
subject to a "chronic weariness that devoured her." She sought a remedy
in the society of an extraordinarily attractive young woman, of somewhat
doubtful parentage, named Julie de Lespinasse, whom she took into her
home as a companion. Julie became a great social success. For ten years
she remained with Madame du Deffand, when a bitter quarrel separated
them. Julie's friends combined to assure her an income and a home, and
she was soon established almost opposite the house of her former patron.
The Marechale de Luxembourg presented her with a complete suite of
furniture. Turgot, the famous Minister of Louis XVI, and President
Henault were among those who provided funds. D'Alembert, distinguished
as a philosopher, author, and geometrician, who was the cause of the
quarrel with the marquise, became Julie's most intimate friend. When she
founded her own salon, his official patronage and constant presence
assured its success. Her success was, in fact, astonishingly rapid. "In
the space of a few months," says her biographer, the Marquis de Segur,
"the modest room with the crimson blinds was nightly filled, between
the hours of six and ten, by a crowd of chosen visitors, courtiers and
men of letters, soldiers and churchmen, ambassadors and great ladies,
... each and all gayly jostling elbows as they struggled up the narrow
wooden stairs, unregretting, and forgetting in the ardor of their talk,
the richest houses in Paris, their suppers and balls, the opera, and the
futile lures of the grand world."
The remarkable career and unique personality of this famous woman
furnished the suggestion for Julie Le Breton. But beyond this the
resemblance is slight. The subsequent history of the Frenchwoman has no
relation to the story of "Lady Rose's Daughter," and the personality of
the two women differs in many respects.
"The Marriage of William Ashe" is like "Lady Rose's Daughter" in two
important respects: it is a story in which the author reveals an
extraordinary knowledge of English politics and familiarity with the
social life of the upper classes, and it is one in which a story of real
life plays an important part. Indeed, there is far more of real life in
this novel than in any other the author has written. William Ashe and
his frivolous and erratic wife Kitty are portraits, considerably
modified, it is true, but nevertheless real, of William and Caroline
Lamb. William Lamb--known to posterity as Lord Melbourne--did not
become a distinguished statesman until after he had entered the House of
Lords. For twenty-five years he had been a member of the House of
Commons, of little influence and almost unknown to the country at large.
But soon after the death of George IV he entered the cabinet of Earl
Grey as Home Secretary. This was in 1830. Less than four years later he
rose suddenly to the highest position in the state. As Premier it was
his unique privilege to instruct the young Queen, Victoria, in the
duties of her high office--a task which he executed with commendable
tact and skill. It is the inconsequential William Lamb of the House of
Commons, and not the exalted Lord Melbourne, whom Mrs. Ward had in mind
in portraying William Ashe; and it was more particularly his young wife,
Caroline Lamb, who furnished the real motive of the novel.
"Lady Caroline," we are told by Lord Melbourne's biographer, Dr.
Dunckley, "became the mistress of many accomplishments. She acquired
French and Latin, and had the further courage, Mr. Torrens tells us, to
undertake the recital of an ode of Sappho. She could draw and paint, and
had the instinct of caricature. Her mind was brimming with romance, and,
regardless of conventionality, she followed her own tastes in
everything. In conversation she was both vivacious and witty." Such was
Lady Caroline Ponsonby when she married William Lamb. The marriage
proved an extremely unhappy one. Lady Caroline's whole life was a series
of flirtations--deliberately planned, as a matter of fact, and yet
entered upon with such mad rushes of passion as to seem merely the
result of some irresistible impulse. A son was born to the couple, but
he brought no joy, for as he grew up he developed an infirmity of
intellect amounting almost to imbecility. The life of the young people
was "an incessant round of frivolous dissipation." The after-supper
revels often lasted till daybreak. But this brought no happiness, and
both husband and wife came to realize that marriage had been, for them,
a troublesome affair. About this time Lord Byron appeared on the scene.
"Childe Harold" had brought him sudden fame. He had traveled in the
East, was the hero of many escapades, had been sufficiently wicked to
win the admiration of certain ladies of romantic tendencies, and
altogether created quite a _furor_ through the peculiar charms of his
handsome face and dashing ways. He sought and obtained an introduction
to Lady Caroline. He came to call the next day when she was alone, and
for the next nine months almost lived at Melbourne House. They called
each other by endearing names, and exchanged passionate verses. They
were constantly together, and the intimacy caused much scandalous
comment. It lasted until Byron became tired of it all, and announced
his intention of marrying. The marriage to a cousin of Lady Caroline
aroused the fierce jealousy of the latter, who proceeded to perform a
little melodrama of her own, first trying to jump out of a window and
then stabbing herself--not so deep that it would hurt--with a knife.
Such escapades could have but one result. There came a separation, of
course; but some traces of the early love remained in both, and when
Lady Caroline was dying, William Lamb was summoned from Ireland. The
final parting was not without tender affection on both sides, and
William felt his loss deeply.
In this brief sketch the reader of Mrs. Ward's novel will recognize
Kitty Ashe in every line. The portraiture is very close. Cliffe takes
the place of Lord Byron without being made to resemble him. But he
serves to reveal the weakness of Kitty's character. Even Kitty's
mischievous work in writing a book, which came near ruining her
husband's career, was an episode in the life of Caroline Lamb. She wrote
a novel in which Byron and herself were the principal characters, and
their escapades were paraded before the world in a thin disguise which
deceived nobody.
[Illustration: STOCKS]
Of Mrs. Ward's later books there is little to say, so far as scenes and
"originals" are concerned. In "Fenwick's Career" the little cottage
where the artist and his wife lived was in reality the summer home of
Mrs. Ward's daughter Dorothy. It stands on the slope of a hill near the
Langdale Pikes in Westmoreland, commanding a view of surpassing
loveliness.
In the "Testing of Diana Mallory" the scenery is all taken from the
country near Stocks, the summer home of the novelist.
In "Daphne," or "Marriage a la Mode," Mount Vernon, Washington, Niagara
Falls, and an imaginary English estate supply the necessary scenery, and
these are not described with real interest, for the author, contrary to
her usual custom, is here writing with a fixed didactic purpose. But a
chapter incidentally thrown in reflects the novelist's impressions of a
visit to the White House as the guest of President Roosevelt--an
experience which interested her greatly. In "the tall, black-haired man
with the meditative eye, the equal, social or intellectual, of any
Foreign Minister that Europe might pit against him, or any diplomat that
might be sent to handle him," it is easy to recognize Mr. Root.
Secretary Garfield is "this younger man, sparely built, with the sane
handsome face--son of a famous father, modest, amiable, efficient."
Secretary Taft, with whom, apparently, the distinguished author did not
really become acquainted, is lightly referred to as "this other of huge
bulk and height, the hope of a party, smiling already a Presidential
smile as he passed."
It has been said of this book that it does an injustice to America. But
such was assuredly far from the author's intent. Mrs. Ward, who is one
of the keenest observers of English and European public men, pays a high
compliment in the remark that "America need make no excuses whatever for
her best men.... She has evolved the leaders she wants, and Europe has
nothing to teach them." She is attacking the laxity of the divorce laws
in certain American States, and in doing so is actuated by motives which
every high-minded American must applaud. The English general who berates
American institutions is held up to ridicule, and the most agreeable
woman in the book--perhaps the only agreeable one--is an American.
Daphne, through whom the author condemns the evil, is not a typical
American girl, but, with evident intent to avoid offense, is made the
daughter of a foreigner.
As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ward's feelings toward America are of the
kindliest nature, and, whatever may be said of the merits of "Marriage a
la Mode" as a work of fiction, in condemning an abuse which nobody can
defend she has performed a real service.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] 1908.
VI
A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES
VI
A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES
We caught our first glimpse of Maggiore from a window in Stresa, late in
the afternoon of a charming day in early spring. In spite of the
lateness of the hour, with all the enthusiasm of amateurs, we proceeded
to make a photograph of the charming scene. Ruskin was right when he
declared Maggiore to be the most beautiful of all the Italian lakes;--at
least, we felt willing to admit this, even though we had not yet seen
the others. In the foreground were the green lawns and white paths of a
well-kept park, skirting the lake; then a wide stretch of water,
roughened by the wind so that its surface, usually smooth, was now
dotted with whitecaps, dancing and sparkling in the afternoon sun;
across the water to the left, the village of Pallanza, pushing itself
far out into the lake, and thrown into strong relief by the high
mountains at its back; far away in the distance, the white-capped summit
of some Alpine range; and above it all, the most beautiful of blue
Italian skies.
We gazed long upon the scene, until the twilight began to deepen. Soon
two figures appeared at the entrance to the park, one a woman in a
green velvet gown, the other a man in a long flowing mantle of the style
peculiar to Italy. They seemed in earnest conversation, now approaching
each other with vigorous but graceful gestures, now falling back a step
or two and again advancing. The man would throw his cloak over his left
shoulder; then, when his earnestness caused it to slip away, he would
throw it back again, repeating the movement over and over. We could
almost fancy overhearing Lorenzo say:--
"In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
As far as Belmont";
and hearing Jessica reply:--
"And in such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne'er a true one."
The little pantomime seemed all that was needed to complete the romance
of the scene, while the gathering twilight lent its aid.
[Illustration: LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY]
The Lago di Maggiore, known to the Romans as Lacus Verbanus, is the
westernmost as well as the largest of three lovely lakes which lie on
the southern slope of the Alps, in an area not greater than that of the
State of Rhode Island. The Lago di Como, or Lacus Larius, is the
easternmost of the group, while the Lago di Lugano, smaller, but not
less beautiful, lies between the other two.
There is a peculiar delicacy of beauty about these lakes like an
exquisitely tinted rosebud or the perfume of apple blossoms. The
ruggedness of aspect common to most mountain lakes is here lost in the
soft luxuriance of the green shores, the sparkling waters, and the rich
blue sky. The hills are lined with terraces of green vineyards,
interspersed with the pink of peach and almond blossoms. Camellias and
azaleas brighten the gardens. Mulberry trees, olives, and cypresses,
mingling with their sturdy Northern companions, the spruces and pines,
cast their varied foliage against the brown of the near-by mountains. In
the distance the snow-clad peaks of the Alps interpose their white
mantles between the blue of the sky and the warmer tones of the
hillsides, while here and there picturesque villages stand out on
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