Over the Ocean; or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands
by Curtis Guild · English · Gutenberg #41233 · 1,202,693 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Over the Ocean; or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Over the Ocean; or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands
Author: Curtis Guild
Release date: October 30, 2012 [eBook #41233]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41233
Credits: Produced by K Nordquist, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE OCEAN; OR, SIGHTS AND SCENES IN FOREIGN LANDS ***
Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and Black
Letter text is denoted by =equals signs=.
OVER THE OCEAN;
OR,
SIGHTS AND SCENES
IN
FOREIGN LANDS.
BY
CURTIS GUILD,
EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COMMERCIAL BULLETIN.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
1871.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
BY LEE AND SHEPARD,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
No. 10 Spring Lane.
PREFACE.
The following pages are the record of the fruition of years of desire
and anticipation; probably the same that fills the hearts of many who
will read them--a tour in Europe.
The habits of observation, acquired by many years' constant occupation
as a journalist, were found by the author to have become almost second
nature, even when the duties of that profession were thrown aside for
simple gratification and enjoyment; consequently, during a journey of
nearly seven months, which was enjoyed with all the zest of a first
tour, the matter which composes this volume was prepared.
Its original form was in a series of sketches in the columns of the
Boston Commercial Bulletin. In these the writer attempted to give as
vivid and exact an idea of the sights and scenes which he witnessed as
could be conveyed to those who had never visited Europe.
Whether describing Westminster Abbey, or York Minster,
Stratford-on-Avon, or the streets of London; the wonders of the Louvre,
or the gayeties and glitter of Paris; the grandeur of the Alpine passes;
the quaintness of old continental cities; experiences of post
travelling; the romantic beauties of the Italian lakes; the underground
wonders of Adelsberg, or the aqueous highways of Venice,--the author
aimed to give many minute particulars, which foreign letter-writers deem
of too little importance to mention, but which, nevertheless, are of
great interest to the reader.
That the effort was, in some measure, successful, has been evinced by a
demand for the sketches in permanent form, sufficient to warrant the
publication of this volume.
In so presenting them, it is with the belief that it may be pleasant to
those who have visited the same scenes to revisit them in fancy with the
writer, and with a hope that the volume may, in some degree, serve as a
guide to those who intend to go "over the ocean," as well as an
agreeable entertainment to the stay-at-homes.
C. G.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Going Abroad.--What it costs.--Hints to Tourists.--Life
on board Ship.--Land Ho!--Examining Luggage.--The Emerald
Isle.--Blarney Castle.--Dublin.--Dublin Castle.--St.
Patrick's Cathedral.--Cheap John's Paradise.--Phoenix
Park.--Across the Irish Sea.--Railroad travelling in
England.--Guard _vs._ Conductor.--Word to the Wise.--
Railroad Stations.--An Old English City.--Chester
Cathedral.--The City Walls. 1-28
CHAPTER II.
Chester to Liverpool.--An English Breakfast.--A Trial of
Patience.--Liverpool Docks.--St. George's Hall.--Poverty
and Suffering.--The Lake District.--Home of the Poets.--
Keswick.--An English Church.--The Druids' Temple.--
Brougham Hall.--A Roadside Inn. 28-46
CHAPTER III.
Edinburgh.--Historic Streets.--Edinburgh Castle.--Bonnie
Dundee.--Rooms of Historic Story.--The Scottish Regalia.
--Curiosities of the Old City.--Holyrood Palace.--Relics
of the Past.--Holyrood Abbey.--Antiquarian Museum.--Scott
and Scotland.--Hawthornden.--Roslin Chapel.--Melrose
Abbey.--The Abbey Hotel.--Abbotsford.--Stirling Castle.--
The Tournament Field.--Field of Bannockburn.--Lady of the
Lake Scenes.--Scotch Lakes and Hills. 47-79
CHAPTER IV.
Glasgow Cathedral.--Vestiges of Vandalism.--Bible Stories
in Colored Glass.--The Actor's Epitaph.--Tam O'Shanter's
Ride.--Burns's Cottage.--Kirk Alloway.--A Reminder from
the Witches.--Bonnie Doon.--Newcastle-on-Tyne.--York.--
Beauties of York Minster.--Old Saxon Relics.--Sheffield.--
The Cutlery Works.--English Mechanics.--English Ale.--
Chatsworth.--Interior of the Palace.--Sculpture Gallery.--
Landscape Effects.--Grand Conservatory.--Haddon Hall. 80-115
CHAPTER V.
Kenilworth.--Stratford on Avon.--Interesting Mementos.--
Stratford Church.--Shakespeare's Safeguard.--Warwick
Castle.--Dungeon and Hall.--Warder's Horn and Warwick
Vase.--Leicester's Hospital.--Beauchamp Chapel.--Mugby
Junction.--Oxford.--The Mitre Tavern.--Bodleian Library.
--Literary Treasures.--Curiosities and Rarities.--Story
of an Old Portrait.--Queen Bess on Matrimony.--Addison's
Walk.--Boating on the Isis.--Martyr's Memorial. 116-151
CHAPTER VI.
London.--Feeing Servants.--Railway Porters.--London
Hotels.--Sights in London Streets.--Cabs and Cab-drivers.
--London Shops.--Hints to Buyers.--A London Banking-house.
--Routine _vs._ Courtesy.--Westminster Abbey.--Tombs of
Kings and Warriors.--Poets' Corner.--Tributes to Genius.
--Penny Steamboat Trip.--Kew Gardens.--The Star and
Garter. 152-185
CHAPTER VII.
The Original Wax Works.--London Theatres.--Full Dress at
the Opera.--Play Bills.--A Palace for the People.--Parks
of London.--Zoölogical Gardens.--The Tower of London.--The
Silver Key.--Site of the Scaffold.--Knights in Armor.--
Regalia of England.--St. Paul's.--The Whispering Gallery.
--Up into the Ball.--Down into the Crypt.--Gog and Magog.
--Bank of England.--Hampton Court Palace.--The Gardens and
People.--Windsor Castle.--Windsor Parks.--London
Newspapers.--The Times.--The British Museum.--
Bibliographical Curiosities.--Egyptian Galleries.--A
Wealth of Antiquities.--Original Magna Charta.--Priceless
Manuscripts. 185-246
CHAPTER VIII.
From London to Paris.--Grand Hotels.--The Arch of Triumph.
--Paris by Gaslight.--Site of the Guillotine.--
Improvements in Paris.--The Bastille.--The Old Guard.--The
Louvre.--Gallery of Masterpieces.--Relics of Napoleon I.
--Palais Royal.--Jewelry.--French Funeral.--Père La Chaise.
--Millions in Marble.--Tomb of Bonaparte.--Versailles.--
Halls of the Crusades.--Gallery of the Empire.--Gallery of
Battles.--Theatre in the Palace.--Fountains at Versailles.
--Notre Dame.--Sainte Chapelle.--The Madeleine.--The
Pantheon.--Les Champs Elysées.--Cafés Chantants.--The
Jardin Mabille.--The Luxembourg.--Palace of St. Cloud.--
Shops in Paris.--Bargains. 246-309
CHAPTER IX.
Good by to Paris.--Church of St. Gudule.--Field of
Waterloo.--Brussels Lace.--Antwerp.--The Cathedral Spire.
--Dusseldorf.--Cologne Cathedral.--Riches of the Church.
--Up the Rhine.--Bridge of Boats.--Coblentz and
Ehrenbreitstein.--Stolzenfels.--Legendary Castles.--Bingen
on the Rhine.--Roman Remains.--Mayence.--Wiesbaden.--
Gambling Halls.--Frankfort-on-the-Main.--Heidelberg Castle.
--The Great Tun.--The King's Seat.--Baden-Baden.--Sabbath
Amusement.--Satan's Snare baited.--Among the Gamblers.--
Scene at the Table.--Strasburg Cathedral.--Strasburg
Clock.--Clock at Basle.--Swiss Railways.--Travelling in
Switzerland.--Zurich and its Scenery. 309-375
CHAPTER X.
The Righi.--Guides and Alpenstocks.--Climbing the Alps.--
Night on the Mountain Top.--The Yodlyn.--Lucerne.--
Wonderful Organ Playing.--A Sail on Lake Lucerne.--Scene
of Tell's Archery.--The St. Gothard Pass.--The Devil's
Bridge.--The Brunig Pass.--A Valley of Beauty.--Interlaken.
--Staubbach Waterfall.--Glaciers and Avalanches.--An
Illuminated Waterfall.--Berne.--The Freiburg Organ.--Lake
Leman.--The Prison of Chillon.--Geneva.--Swiss Washerwomen.
--Glaciers by Moonlight.--Sunrise on Mont Blanc.--Valley of
Chamouny.--View from Flegère.--Climbing again.--Crossing
the Sea of Ice.--The Mauvais Pass.--Under a Glacier.--The
Tête Noir Pass.--Italian Post Drivers.--The Rhone Valley.
--Simplon Pass.--Gorge of Gondo.--Fressinone Waterfall.--
Domo d'Ossola.--An Italian Inn.--Lake Maggiore.--Milan
Cathedral.--A Wonderful Statue.--Death and Dross.--The La
Scala Theatre.--Lake Como.--Italian Monks.--Madesimo
Waterfall. 376-450
CHAPTER XI.
The Splügen Pass.--The Via Main.--Tamina Gorge.--Falls of
Schaffhausen.--Munich.--Galleries of Paintings.--Grecian
Sculpture restored.--A Bronze Giant.--Hall of the Colossi.
--The Palace.--Basilica of St. Boniface.--Salzburg.--
Aquarial Wonders.--Visiting Lilliput.--Vienna.--Judging by
Appearances.--Royal Regalia.--Cabinet of Minerals.--The
Ambras Museum. 450-475
CHAPTER XII.
Superb Mausoleum.--The Strauss Band.--Summer Palace.--
Imperial Gallery.--Vienna Leather Work.--Shops and Prices.
--The Cave of Adelsberg.--Underground Wonders.--Nature's
Imitation of Art. 476-487
CHAPTER XIII.
Venice.--Gondolas and Gondoliers.--Shylock.--The Rialto.--
The Giant's Staircase.--The Lion's Mouth.--Terrible
Dungeons.--Square of St. Mark.--The Bronze Horses.--Church
of St. Mark.--Titian's Monument.--Canova's Monument.--
Cathedrals and Pictures.--Florence.--Art in the Streets.--
The Uffizi Gallery.--Old Masters in Battalions.--Hall of
Niobe.--Cabinet of Gems.--Michael Angelo's House.--The
Duomo.--The Campanile.--Church of Santa Croce.--Michael
Angelo's Statuary.--Florentine Mosaics.--Medicean Chapel.
--Pitti Palace.--Halls of the Gods.--The Cascine.--Powers,
the Sculptor. 487-530
CHAPTER XIV.
Tower of Pisa.--The Duomo.--Galileo's Lamp.--The
Baptistery.--Campo Santo.--Over the Apennines.--Genoa.--
Streets of Genoa.--Pallavicini Gardens.--Water Jokes.--
Turin to Susa.--Mt. Cenis Pass.--Paris again.--Down in the
Sewers. 531-548
CHAPTER XV.
Sic transit.--English Rudeness.--Wonders of London.--
Looking towards Home.--Last Purchases.--English
Conservatism.--Reunion of Tourists.--All aboard.--Home
again. 549-558
OVER THE OCEAN.
CHAPTER I.
Do you remember, dear reader, when you were a youngster, and studied a
geography with pictures in it, or a "First" or "Second" Book of History,
and wondered, as you looked upon the wood-cuts in them, if you should
ever see St. Paul's Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, or London Bridge,
or go to the Tower of London, and into the very room in which the poor
little princes were smothered by the order of their cruel uncle Richard,
by the two rude fellows in a sort of undress armor suit, as depicted in
the Child's History of England, or should ever see the Paris you had
heard your elders talk so much of, or those curious old Rhine castles,
of which we read so many startling legends of robber knights, and fair
ladies, and tournaments, and gnomes, and enchanters? What a realm of
enchantment to us, story-book readers, was beyond the great blue ocean!
and how we resolved, when we grew to be a man, we would travel all over
the world, and see every thing, and buy ever so many curious things in
the countries where they grew or were made. Even that compound which
produced "the finest jet black ever beheld," was to us invested with a
sort of poetic interest in boyhood's day, for the very stone jug that we
held in our hand had come from London,--"97 High Holborn,"--and there
was the picture of the palatial-looking factory on the pink label.
LONDON! There was something sonorous in the sound, and something solid
in the very appearance of the word when written. When we were a man,
didn't we mean to go to London!
Years added to youth dissipated many of these air-built castles, and
other barriers besides the watery plain intervene between the goal of
one's wishes, and Europe looks further away than ever. "Going to Europe!
Everybody goes to Europe nowadays," says a friend. True, and in these
days of steam it is not so much of an event as formerly; indeed, one
would judge so from many of his countrymen that he meets abroad, who
make him blush to think how they misrepresent Americans.
The Great Expositions at London and Paris drew from our shores every
American who could by any manner of means or excuse leave business, and
obtain funds sufficient to get over and back, if only for a six weeks'
visit. The Exposition brought out to Paris and to Europe, among the
swarm of Americans who went over, many such, and some who had scarcely
visited beyond the confines of their native cities before crossing the
Atlantic. These people, by their utter inexperience as travellers, and
by their application of the precept inculcated in their minds that money
would answer for brains, was a substitute for experience, and the only
passport that would be required anywhere and for anything, became a
source of mortification to their countrymen, easy game for swindling
landlords and sharp shop-keepers, and rendered all the great routes of
travel more beset with extortions and annoyances than ever before.
But about "going to Europe." When one decides to start on a pleasure
trip to that country for the first time, how many very simple things he
wishes to know, that correspondents and people who write for the papers
have never said anything about. After having once or twice gone over in
a steamship, it never seems to occur to these writers that anybody else
will want to become acquainted with the little minutiæ of information
respecting life on board ship during the trip, and which most people do
not like to say they know nothing about; and novices, therefore, have to
clumsily learn by experience, and sometimes at four times the usual
cost.
Speaking of cost, let me say that this is a matter upon which hardly any
two tourists will agree. How much does it cost to go to Europe? Of
course the cost is varied by the style of living and the thoroughness
with which one sees sights; by thoroughness I mean, besides expenditure
of time, the use of extra shillings "_pour boires_," and the skilful
dispensation of extra funds, which will gain admission to many a
forbidden shrine, insure many an unexpected comfort, and shorten many a
weary journey.
There is one popular error which one quickly becomes disabused of, and
that is, that everything abroad is dirt cheap, and it costs a mere song
to live. Good articles always bring good prices. Many may be cheaper
than at home, it is true, but they are by no means thrown away, and good
living in Paris cannot be had, as some suppose, for three francs a day.
If one is going abroad for pleasure, and has a taste for travelling, let
him first decide what countries he wishes to visit, the routes and time
he will take, and then from experienced tourists ascertain about what it
would cost; after having learned this, add twenty per cent. to that
amount, and he will be safe.
Safe in the knowledge that you have enough; safe in being able to make
many little purchases that you will never dream of till you reach Regent
Street, the Boulevards, the "Piazza San Marco," the Florence mosaic
stores, or the Naples coral shops. Safe in making little side excursions
to noted places that you will find on your route, and safe from the
annoying reflection that you might have done so much better, and seen so
much more, if you had not limited the expenditure to that very amount
which your friend said would take you through.
These remarks of course apply only to those who feel that they can
afford but a fixed sum for the journey, and who ought always to wait
till they can allow a little margin to the fixed sum, the more
completely to enjoy the trip.
I have seen Americans in French restaurants actually calculating up the
price of a dinner, and figuring out the price of exchange, to see if
they should order a franc's worth more or less. We may judge how much
such men's enjoyment is abridged.
On the other hand, the class that I refer to, who imagine that money
will pass for everything, increase the cost of travel to all, by their
paying without abatement the demands of landlords and shopkeepers. The
latter class, on the continent, are so accustomed, as a matter of
course, to being "beaten down" in the price, that it has now come to be
a saying among them, that he who pays what is at first demanded must be
a fool or an American. In Paris, during the Exposition, green Englishmen
and freshly-arrived Americans were swindled without mercy. The jewelry
shops of the Rue de la Paix, the Grand Hotel, the shops of the Palais
Royal, and the very Boulevard cafés fleeced men unmercifully. The
entrance of an American into a French store was always the occasion of
adding from twenty to twenty-five per cent. to the regular price of the
goods. It was a rich harvest to the cringing crew, who, with smirks,
shrugs, bows, and _pardonnez moi's_ in the oiliest tones, swindled and
cheated without mercy, and then, over their half franc's worth of black
coffee at the restaurant, or glass of absinthe, compared notes with each
other, and boasted, not how much trade they had secured or business they
had done, but how much beyond the legitimate price they had got from the
foreign purchaser, whom they laughed at.
All the guide-books and many tourists exclaim against baggage, and urge
the travelling with a single small trunk, or, as they call it in
England, portmanteau. This is very well for a bachelor, travelling
entirely alone, and who expects to go into no company, and will save
much time and expense at railway stations; but there is some comfort in
having wardrobe enough and some space for small purchases, even if a
little extra has to be paid. It is the price of convenience in one
respect, although the continual weighing of and charging for baggage is
annoying to an American, who is unused to that sort of thing; and one
very curious circumstance is discovered in this weighing, no two scales
on the continent give the same weight of the same luggage.
Passage tickets from America to Europe it is, of course, always best to
secure some time in advance, and a previous visit to the steamer may aid
the fresh tourist in getting a state-room near the centre of the ship,
near the cabin stairs, and one having a dead-light, all of which are
desirable things.
Have some old clothes to wear on the voyage; remember it is cold
at sea even in summer; and carry, besides your overcoat and warm
under-clothing, some shawls and railway rugs, the latter to lie round on
deck with when you are seasick.
There is no cure for seasickness; keep on deck, and take as much
exercise as possible; hot drinks, and a hot water bottle at the feet are
reliefs.
People's appetites come to them, after seasickness, for the most
unaccountable things, and as soon as the patient 'hankers' for anything,
by all means let him get it, if it is to be had on board; for it is a
sure sign of returning vigor, and in nine cases out of ten, is the very
thing that will bring the sufferer relief. I have known a delicate young
lady, who had been unable to eat anything but gruel for three days,
suddenly have an intense longing for corned beef and cabbage, and, after
eating heartily of it, attend her meals regularly the remainder of the
voyage. Some make no effort to get well from port to port, and live in
their state-rooms on the various little messes they imagine may relieve
them, and which are promptly brought either by the stewardess or bedroom
steward of the section of state-rooms they occupy.
The tickets on the Cunard line express, or did express, that the amount
received includes "stewards' fees;" but any one who wants to be well
served on the trip will find that a sovereign to the table steward, and
one to the bedroom steward,--the first paid the last day before reaching
port, and the second by instalments of half to commence with, and half
just before leaving,--will have a marvellously good effect, and that it
is, in fact, an expected fee. If it is your first voyage, and you expect
to be sick, speak to the state-room steward, who has charge of the room
you occupy, or the stewardess, if you have a lady with you; tell him you
shall probably need his attention, and he must look out for you; hand
him half a sovereign and your card, with the number of your room, and
you will have occasion to experience most satisfactorily the value of
British gold before the voyage is over. If a _desirable_ seat at the
table is required in the dining-saloon--that is, an outside or end seat,
where one can get out and in easily,--or at the table at which the
captain sometimes presides, a similar interview with the saloon steward,
a day or two before sailing, may accomplish it.
Besides these stewards, there are others, who are known as deck
stewards, who wait upon seasick passengers, who lie about the decks in
various nooks, in pleasant weather, and who have their meals brought to
them by these attentive fellows from the cabin table. It is one phase of
seasickness that some of the sufferers get well enough to lie languidly
about in the fresh, bracing air, and can eat certain viands they may
fancy for the nonce, but upon entering the enclosed saloon, are at once,
from the confined air or the more perceptible motion of the ship,
afflicted with a most irrepressible and disagreeable nausea.
Well, the ticket for Liverpool is bought, your letter of credit
prepared, and you are all ready for your first trip across the water.
People that you know, who have been often, ask, in a _nonchalant_ style,
what "boat" you are going "over" in; you thought it was a steamer, and
the easy style with which they talk of running over for a few weeks, or
should have gone this month, if they hadn't been so busy, or they shall
probably see you in Vienna, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, causes you to
think that this, to you, tremendous undertaking of a first voyage over
the Atlantic is to be but an insignificant excursion, after all, and
that the entire romance of the affair and the realizing of your
imagination is to be dissolved like one of youth's castles in the air.
So it seems as you ride down to the steamer, get on board, pushing amid
the crowds of passengers and leave-taking friends; and not until a last,
and perhaps, tearful leave-taking, and when the vessel fairly swings out
into the stream, and you respond to the fluttering signal of dear ones
on shore, till rapid receding renders face and form indistinguishable,
do you realize that you are fairly launched on the great ocean, and
friends and home are left behind, as they never have been before.
One's first experience upon the great, awful Ocean is never to be
forgotten. My esteem for that great navigator, Christopher Columbus, has
risen one hundred per cent. since I have crossed it, to think of the
amount of courage, strength of mind, and faith it must have required to
sustain him in his venturesome voyage in the frail and imperfect crafts
which those of his day must have been.
Two days out, and the great broad sweep of the Atlantic makes its
influence felt upon all who are in any degree susceptible. To the
landsman, the steamship seems to have a regular gigantic see-saw motion,
very much like that of the toy ships that used to rise and fall on mimic
waves, moved by clock-work, on clocks that used to be displayed in the
store windows of jewellers and fancy dealers. Now the bows rise with a
grand sweep,--now they sink again as the vessel plunges into an
advancing wave,--up and down, up and down, and forging ahead to the
never-ceasing, tremulous jar of the machinery. In the calmest weather
there is always one vast swell, and when wind or storm prevails, it is
both grand and terrible.
The great, vast ocean is something so much beyond anything I ever
imagined,--the same vast expanse of dark-blue rolling waves as far as
the eye can reach,--day after day, day after day,--the great ship a mere
speck, an atom in the vast circle of water,--water everywhere. The very
wind sounds differently than on land; a cheerful breeze is like the
breath of a giant, and a playful wave will send a dozen hogsheads of
water over the lofty bulwarks.
But in a stiff breeze, when a great wave strikes like an iron avalanche
against the ship, she seems to pause and shudder, as it were, beneath
the blow; then, gathering strength from the unceasing throb of the
mighty power within, urges her way bravely on, while far as the eye can
reach, as the ship sinks in the watery valleys, you see the great black
tossing waves, all crested with spray and foam, like a huge squadron of
white-plumed giant cavalry. The spray sometimes flies high over the
smoke-stack, and a dash of saline drops, coming fiercely into the face,
feels like a handful of pebbles. A look around on the vast expanse, and
the ship which at the pier seemed so huge, so strong, so unyielding,
becomes an atom in comparison,--is tossed, like a mere feather, upon old
Ocean's bosom; and one realizes how little is between him and eternity.
There seem to be no places that to my mind bring man so sensibly into
the presence of Almighty God as in the midst of the ocean during a
storm, or amid the grand and lofty peaks of the Alps; all other feelings
are swallowed up in the mute acknowledgment of God's majesty and man's
insignificance.
If ever twelve days seem long to a man, it is during his first voyage
across the Atlantic; and the real beauty of green grass is best
appreciated by seeing it on the shores of Queenstown as the steamer
sails into Cork harbor.
Land again! How well we all are! A sea voyage,--it is nothing. Every one
who is going ashore here is in the bustle of preparation.
We agree to meet A and party in London; we will call on B in
Paris,--yes, we shall come across C in Switzerland. How glib we are
talking of the old country! for here it is,--no three thousand miles of
ocean to cross now. A clear, bright Sunday morning, and we are going
ashore in the little tug which we can see fuming down the harbor to meet
us.
We part with companions with a feeling of regret. Seated on the deck of
the little tug, the steamer again looms up, huge and gigantic, and we
wonder that the ocean could have so tossed her about. But the bell
rings, the ropes are cast off, the tug steams away, our late companions
give us three parting cheers, and we respond as the distance rapidly
widens between us.
Custom-house officials examine your luggage on the tug. American
tourists have but very little trouble, and the investigation is slight;
cigars and fire-arms not forming a prominent feature in your luggage,
but little, if any, inconvenience may be anticipated.
This ordeal of the custom-house constitutes one of the most terrible
bugbears of the inexperienced traveller. It is the common opinion that
an inspection of your baggage means a general and reckless overhauling
of the personal property in your trunks--a disclosure of the secrets of
the toilet, perhaps of the meagreness of your wardrobe, and a laying of
profane hands on things held especially sacred. Ladies naturally dread
this experience, and gentlemen, too, who have been foolish enough to
stow away some little articles that custom-house regulations have placed
under the ban. But the examination is really a very trifling affair; it
is conducted courteously and rapidly, and the traveller laughs to
himself about his unfounded apprehensions.
The tug is at the wharf; the very earth has a pleasant smell; let us get
on _terra firma_. Now, then, a landsman finds out, after his first
voyage, what "sea legs" on and sea legs off, that he has read of so much
in books, mean.
He cannot get used to the steadiness of the ground, or rather, get at
once rid of the unsteadiness of the ship. I found myself reeling from
side to side on the sidewalk, and on entering the Queen's Hotel, holding
on to a desk with one hand, to steady myself, while I wrote with the
other. The rolling motion of the ship, to which you have become
accustomed, is once more perceptible; and I knew one friend, who did not
have a sick day on board ship, who was taken landsick two hours after
stepping on shore, and had as thorough a casting up of accounts for an
hour as any of us experienced on the steamer at sea. The Cunard steamers
generally arrive at, or used to arrive at, Queenstown on Sunday
mornings, and all who land are eager to get breakfast ashore. We tried
the Queen's Hotel, where we got a very fair breakfast, and were charged
six or eight shillings for the privilege of the ladies sitting in a room
till the meal was ready for us--the first, and I think the only,
positive swindle I experienced in Ireland. After breakfast the first
ride on an English (or rather Irish) railway train took us to Cork. The
road was through a lovely country, and, although it was the first of
May, green with verdure as with us in June--no harsh New England east
winds; and one can easily see in this country how May-day came to be
celebrated with May-queens, dances, and May-poles.
To us, just landed from the close steamer, how grateful was the
fragrance of the fresh earth, the newly-blossomed trees, and the hedges
all alive with twittering sparrows! The country roads were smooth, hard,
and clear as a ball-room floor; the greensward, fresh and bright, rolled
up in luxuriant waves to the very foot of the great brown-trunked trees;
chapel bells were tolling, and we saw the Irish peasantry trudging along
to church, for all the world as though they had just stepped out of the
pictures in the story-books. There were the women with blue-gray cloaks,
with hoods at the back, and broad white caps, men in short corduroys,
brogues, bobtail coats, caubeens and shillalah; then there was an
occasional little tip-cart of the costermonger and his wife, drawn by a
donkey; the jaunting-car, with half a dozen merry occupants, all forming
the moving figures in the rich landscape of living green in herbage, and
the soft brown of the half moss-covered stone walls, or the corrugated
stems of the great trees.
We were on shore again; once more upon a footing that did not slide from
beneath the very step, and the never-ending broad expanse of heaving
blue was exchanged for the more grateful scene of pleasant fields and
waving trees; the sufferings of a first voyage had already begun to live
in remembrance only as a hideous nightmare.
A good hotel at Cork is the Imperial Hotel; the attendance prompt, the
chamber linen fresh and clean, the viands well prepared.
The scenery around Cork is very beautiful, especially on the eastern
side, on what is known as the upper and lower Glanmere roads, which
command fine views. The principal promenade is a fine raised avenue, or
walk, over a mile in length, extending through the meadows midway
between two branches of the River Lee, and shaded by a double row of
lofty and flourishing elms.
Our first walk in Ireland was from the Imperial Hotel to the Mardyke.
Fifteen minutes brought us to the River Lee; and now, with the city
proper behind us, did we enjoy the lovely scene spread out to view.
In the month of May one realizes why Ireland is called the Emerald
Isle--such lovely green turf, thick, luxurious, and velvety to the
tread, and so lively a green; fancy New England grass varnished and
polished, and you have it. The shade trees were all in full leaf, the
fruit trees in full flower; sheep and lambs gamboling upon the
greensward, birds piping in the hedges, and _such_ hedges, and
laburnums, and clambering ivy, and hawthorn, the air perfumed with
blossoms, the blue sky in the background pierced by the turrets of an
old edifice surrounded by tall trees, round which wheeled circles of
cawing rooks; the little cottages we passed, half shrouded in beautiful
clambering Irish ivy, that was peopled by the nests of the brisk little
sparrows, filling the air with their twitterings; the soft spring
breeze, and the beautiful reach of landscape--all seemed a realization
of some of those scenes that poets write of, and which we sometimes
fancy owe their existence to the luxuriance of imagination.
Returning, we passed through another portion of the city, which gave us
a somewhat different view; it was nearly a mile of Irish cabins. Of
course one prominent feature was dirt, and we witnessed Pat in all his
national glory. A newly-arrived American cannot help noticing the
deference paid to caste and position; we, who treat Irish servants and
laborers so well as we do, are surprised to see how much better _they_
treat their employers in Ireland, and how little kind treatment the
working class receive from those immediately above them.
The civil and deferential Pat who steps aside for a well-dressed couple
to pass, and touches his hat, in Cork, is vastly different from the
independent, voting Pat that elbows you off the sidewalk, or puffs his
fragrant pipe into your very face in America. In Ireland he accepts a
shilling with gratitude, and invocation of blessings on the donor; in
America he condescends to receive two dollars a day! A fellow-passenger
remarked that in the old country they were a race of Touch-hats, in the
new one of Go to ----. I found them here obliging and civil, ready to
earn an honest penny, and grateful for it, and much more inclined to
"blarney" a little extra from the traveller than to swindle it out of
him.
I made an arrangement with a lively driver to take us to the celebrated
Blarney Castle in a jaunting-car--a delightful vehicle to ride in of a
pleasant spring day, as it was on that of our excursion. The cars for
these rides are hung on springs, are nicely cushioned, and the four
passengers sit back to back, facing to the side; and there being no
cover or top to the vehicle, there is every opportunity of seeing the
passing landscape.
No American who has been interested in the beautiful descriptions of
English and Irish scenery by the British poets can realize their
truthfulness until he looks upon it, the characteristics of the scenery,
and the very climate, are so different from our own. The ride to Blarney
Castle is a delightfully romantic one, of about six miles; the road,
which is smooth, hard, and kept in excellent order, winds upon a side
hill of the River Lee, which you see continually flashing in and out in
its course through the valley below; every inch of ground appears to be
beautifully cultivated. The road is lined with old brown stone walls,
clad with ivy of every variety--dark-green, polished leaf, Irish ivy,
small leaf, heart leaf, broad leaf, and lance leaf, such as we see
cultivated in pots and green-houses at home, was here flourishing in
wild luxuriance.
The climate here is so moist that every rock and stone fence is clad
with some kind of verdure; the whole seems to satisfy the eye. The old
trees are circled round and round in the ivy clasp; the hedges are in
their light-green livery of spring; there are long reaches of pretty
rustic lanes, with fresh green turf underneath grand old trees, and
there are whole banks of violets and primroses--yes, whole banks of such
pretty, yellow primroses as we preserve singly in pots at home.
There are grand entrances to avenues leading up to stately estates,
pretty ivy-clad cottages, peasants' miserable, thatched cabins, great
sweeps of green meadow, and the fields and woods are perfectly musical
with singing birds, so unlike America: there are linnets, that pipe
beautifully; finches, thrushes, and others, that fill the air with their
warblings; skylarks, that rise in regular circles high into the air,
singing beautifully, till lost to vision; rooks, that caw solemnly, and
gather in conclaves on trees and roofs. Nature seems trying to cover the
poverty and squalor that disfigures the land with a mantle of her own
luxuriance and beauty.
Blarney Castle is a good specimen of an old ruin of that description for
the newly-arrived tourist to visit, as it will come up to his
expectation in many respects, in appearance, as to what he imagined a
ruined castle to be, from books and pictures. It is a fine old building,
clad inside and out with ivy, situated near a river of the same name,
and on a high limestone rock; it was built in the year 1300. In the
reign of Elizabeth it was the strongest fortress in Munster, and at
different periods has withstood regular sieges; it was demolished, all
but the central tower, in the year 1646.
The celebrated Blarney Stone is about two feet below the summit of the
tower, and held in its place by iron stanchions; and as one is obliged
to lie at full length, and stretch over the verge of the parapet, having
a friend to hold upon your lower limbs, for fear an accidental slip or
giddiness may send you a hundred feet below, it may be imagined that the
act of kissing the Blarney Stone is not without its perils. However,
that duty performed, and a charming view enjoyed of the rich undulating
country from the summit, and inspection made of some of the odd little
turret chambers of the tower, and loopholes for archery, we descended,
gratified the old woman who acts as key-bearer by crossing her palm with
silver, strolled amid the beautiful groves of Blarney for a brief
period, and finally rattled off again in our jaunting-cars over the
romantic road.
The Shelborne House, Dublin, is a hotel after the American style, a good
Fifth Avenue sort of affair, clean, and well kept, and opposite a
beautiful park (Stephens Green). Americans will find this to be a house
that will suit their tastes and desires as well, if not better, than any
other in Dublin. Sackville Street, in Dublin, is said to be one of the
finest streets in Europe. I cannot agree with the guide-books in this
opinion, although, standing on Carlisle Bridge, and looking down this
broad avenue, with the Nelson Monument, one hundred and ten feet in
height, in the centre, and its stately stores on each side, it certainly
has a very fine appearance. Here I first visited shops on the other side
of the water, and the very first thing that strikes an American is the
promptness with which he is served, the civility with which he is
treated, the immense assortment and variety of goods, and the effort of
the salesmen to do everything to accommodate the purchaser. They seem to
say, by their actions, "We are put here to attend to buyers' wants; to
serve them, to wait upon them, to make the goods and the establishment
attractive; to sell goods, and we want to sell goods." On the other
hand, in our own country the style and manner of the clerks is too often
that of "I'm just as good, and a little better, than you--buy, if you
want, or leave--we don't care whether we sell or not--it's a
condescension to inform you of our prices; don't expect any attention."
The variety of goods in the foreign shops is marvellous to an American;
one pattern or color not suiting, dozens of others are shown, or
anything will be made at a few hours' notice.
Here in Dublin are the great Irish poplin manufactures; and in these
days of high prices, hardly any American lady leaves Dublin without a
dress pattern, at least, of this elegant material, which can be
obtained in the original packages of the "Original Jacobs" of the trade,
Richard Atkinson, in College Green, whose front store is a gallery of
medals and appointments, as poplin manufacturer to members of royal
families for years and years. The ladies of my party were crazy with
delight over the exquisite hues, the splendid quality, the low
prices--forgetting, dear creatures, the difference of exchange, and the
then existing premium on gold, and sixty per cent. duty that had to be
added to the rate before the goods were paid for in America.
Notwithstanding the stock, the hue to match the pattern a lady had in
her pocket was not to be had.
"We can make you a dress, if you can wait, madam," said the polite
shopman, "of exactly the same color as your sample."
"How long will it take to make it?"
"We can deliver it to you in eight or ten days."
"O, I shall be in London then," said the lady.
"That makes no difference, madam. We will deliver it to you anywhere in
London, carriage free."
And so, indeed, it was delivered. The order was left, sent to the
factory by the shopman, and at the appointed time delivered in London,
the lady paying on delivery the same rate as charged for similar quality
of goods at the store in Dublin, and having the enviable satisfaction of
showing the double poplin that was "made expressly to her order"--one
dress pattern--"in Dublin."
I mention this transaction to show what pains are taken to suit the
purchaser, and how any one can get what he wants abroad, if he has the
means to pay.
This is owing chiefly to the different way of doing business, and also
to the sharper competition in the old countries. For instance, the
Pacific Mills, of Lawrence, Mass., would never think of opening a retail
store for the sale of their goods on Washington Street, Boston; and if
an English lady failed to find a piece of goods of the color that suited
her, of manufacturing sixteen or eighteen yards to her order, and then
sending it, free of express charge, to New York.
The quantity and variety of goods on hand are overwhelming; the prices,
in comparison with ours, so very low that I wanted to buy a ship-load.
Whole stores are devoted to specialities--the beautiful Irish linen in
every variety, Irish bog-wood carving in every conceivable form,
bracelets, rings, figures, necklaces, breast-pins, &c. I visited one
large establishment, where every species of dry goods, fancy goods,
haberdashery, and, I think, everything except eatables, were sold. Three
hundred and fifty salesmen were employed, the proprietors boarding and
lodging a large number of them on the premises.
The shops in Dublin are very fine, the prices lower than in London, and
the attendance excellent.
"But Dublin--are you going to describe Dublin?"
Not much, dear reader. Describing cities would only be copying the
guide-book, or doing what every newspaper correspondent thinks it
necessary to do. Now, if I can think of a few unconsidered trifles,
which correspondents do not write about, but which tourists, on their
first visit, always wish information about, I shall think it doing a
service to present them in these sketches.
The Nelson Monument, a Doric column of one hundred and ten feet high,
upon which is a statue eleven feet high of the hero of the Nile, always
attracts the attention of visitors. The great bridges over the Liffey,
and the quays, are splendid pieces of workmanship, and worth inspection,
and of course you will go to see Dublin Castle.
This castle was originally built by order of King John, about the year
1215. But little of it remains now, however, except what is known as the
Wardrobe Tower, all the present structure having been built since the
seventeenth century. Passing in through the great castle court-yard, a
ring at a side door brought a courteous English housekeeper, who showed
us through the state apartments. Among the most noteworthy of these was
the presence-chamber, in which is a richly-carved and ornamental throne,
frescoed ceilings, richly-upholstered furniture, &c., the whole most
strikingly reminding one of those scenes at the theatre, where the
"duke and attendants," or the "king and courtiers," come on. It is here
the lord lieutenant holds his receptions, and where individuals are
"presented" to him as the representative of royalty. The great ball-room
is magnificent. It is eighty-two feet long, and forty-one wide, and
thirty-eight in height, the ceiling being decorated with beautiful
paintings. One represents George III., supported by Liberty and Justice,
another the Conversion of the Irish by St. Patrick, and the third, a
very spirited one, Henry II. receiving the Submission of the Native
Irish Chiefs. Henry II. held his first court in Dublin in 1172.
The Chapel Royal, immediately adjoining, is a fine Gothic edifice, with
a most beautiful interior, the ceiling elegantly carved, and a beautiful
stained-glass window, with a representation of Christ before Pilate,
figures of the Evangelists, &c. Here, carved and displayed, are the
coats-of-arms of the different lord lieutenants from the year 1172 to
the present time. The throne of the lord lieutenant in one gallery, and
that for the archbishop opposite, are conspicuous. This edifice was
completed in 1814, and cost forty-two thousand pounds. It was the first
Church of England interior I had seen over the ocean, and its richness
and beauty were impressive at the time, but were almost bleached from
memory by the grander temples visited a few weeks after. The polite
housekeeper, whom, in my inexperience, I felt almost ashamed to hand a
shilling to, took it, nevertheless, very gratefully, and in a manner
that proved that her pride was not at all wounded by the action.
In obedience to the advice of an Emeralder, that we must not "lave
Dublin widout seein' St. Patrick's Church," we walked down to that
celebrated cathedral. The square which surrounds it is as much a
curiosity in its way as the cathedral itself. The whole neighborhood
seemed to consist of the dirtiest, quaintest tumble-down old houses in
Dublin, and swarmed with women and children.
Hundreds of these houses seemed to be devoted to the sale of old junk,
sixth-hand clothing, and fourth-hand articles of every description
one could name or think of--old tin pots and kettles, old rope,
blacking-jugs, old bottles, old boots, shoes, and clothing in every
style of dilapidation--till you could scarcely say where the article
ended being sold as a coat, and became rags--iron hoops, old furniture,
nails, old hats, bonnets, cracked and half-broken crockery. It verily
seemed as if this place was the rag fair and ash-heap of the whole
civilized world. The contents of six American ash-barrels would have
given any one of these Cheap John stores a stock that would have dazzled
the neighborhood with its magnificence.
You could go shopping here with two-pence. Costermongers' carts, with
their donkeys attached, stood at the curbstones, ragged and half-starved
children played in the gutters, great coarse women stood lazily talking
with each other, or were crouched over a heap of merchandise, smoking
short pipes, and waiting or chaffering with purchasers. Little filthy
shops on every hand dealt out Ireland's curse at two-pence a dram, and
"Gin," "Choice Spirits Sold Here," "Whiskey," "Spirits," were signs that
greeted the eye on their doorposts. The spring breeze was tainted with
foul odors, and there was a busy clatter of tongues from the seething
and crowded mass of humanity that surged round in every direction.
Upon the farther corner of the third side of the square, where the
neighborhood was somewhat better, we discovered the residence of the
sexton who had charge of the church--a strong Orangeman, bitterly
opposed to the Romish church, and with a strong liking for America,
increased by the fact of having a brother in the American Union army,
who rose from sergeant to colonel in one of the western regiments.
"Think o' that, sir! Ye might be as brave as Julyus Sayzer in the
English army, and sorra a rise would ye get, except ye'd be sated on a
powdher magazine whin it exploded."
The legend is, that this church was originally built by St. Patrick,
and the sexton took me into a little old crypt at the end of one of the
aisles of the nave--all that remains of that portion of the church,
which it is averred was built A. D. 540. This crypt was floored with
curious old tiles, over a thousand years old, put down and the fragments
matched together with great labor and expense, and the flooring worth
more money than a covering of an "aven layer o' guineas" upon it.
The old stone font, A. D. 1190, the old carved chest for vestments,
and the curious stone coffins, relics of the old church, were
interesting. Among the monuments in the church, Archbishop Whately's
magnificently-carved marble sarcophagus, surmounted by his full-length
effigy, was particularly noticeable; Swift's monument, Stella's tablet,
and the economical tablet put up in memory of Duke Schomberg by Swift.
Here in St. Patrick's Cathedral are displayed the stalls, arms, and
banners of the Knights of St. Patrick, the army "memorials" of the India
and China British regiments, with the flags they carried from 1852 to
1857 in their campaigns. Upon the wall was suspended the cannon shot
that killed Schomberg at the memorable battle of the Boyne in 1690, and
the spurs that he wore at the time. Schomberg's remains are interred at
Westminster Abbey.
My first ride in an old country park was in the Phoenix Park, Dublin
a--beautiful pleasure-ground of over eighteen hundred acres in extent. I
imagined how laughable it must have seemed to the Prince of Wales, when,
at the review he attended on Boston Common, he politely assented to the
remark of a militia officer, that "this great area" (the Common parade
ground) "was well adapted for displays of large bodies of troops," as I
sat looking at the parade ground of _this_ park, a clear, unbroken
greensward of six times the size.
Think of riding over drives or malls fifty feet wide, and from three to
five miles in length, lined with gas-lights to illuminate it at night,
herds of hundreds of deer sporting on the open sward, or under the
great, sturdy trees, which are grouped in twos, threes, or clusters, for
landscape effect, and the turf beneath them thick, green, and
luxuriant; and then, again, there are rustic, country-like roads, shady
dells, and rustic paths in the beautiful park; a great monument erected
to Wellington by his countrymen at a cost of one hundred thousand
pounds, will attract attention, and so will the numerous fashionable
turnouts that roll over the well-kept roads every pleasant spring
afternoon.
From Dublin to Kingston is a pleasant little ride by rail. Kingston is
on St. George's Channel, or the lower part of the Irish Sea, and
directly opposite Holyhead, Wales. At Kingston we took steamer for the
passage across. The steamers of this line carry the royal mail, are
built for strength and speed, and are splendid boats, of immense power,
said to be the strongest and swiftest in Great Britain, and run at
the rate of sixteen miles an hour. Fortunately, the passage was
comparatively a smooth one, and we disembarked in good condition upon
the opposite shore, where we took train for Chester. An English railway
carriage--its form is familiar to all from frequent description; but
think of the annoyance of having to look after your luggage, to see it
safely bestowed on the top of the car, or in a luggage van, and to be
obliged to look out that it is not removed by mistake at any of the
great stations you do not stop at, or that it _is_ removed when you _do_
stop.
A few words on railway travelling in England: it differs from ours
essentially. First, the cars on English roads are not so convenient,
comfortable, or even so private as the American car. In the English
first-class carriage, four persons must sit facing four persons;
consequently four must perforce ride backwards, and the four are placed
so as to stare directly at their opposite neighbors,--sometimes
unpleasant, if all are not acquainted, especially at lunch time, &c.
Then, in the English carriage, four persons only of the eight can get a
fair view of the scenery, and two of these are riding backwards. These
four "govern" the windows, and lower or close at their pleasure. I have
been nearly smothered, as well as thoroughly chilled, by happening to
have people of adverse temperaments get the window seats, till I
learned how to travel by rail in England, of which, hints anon.
There are no means of heating the English railway carriage, and they are
not tightly joined, especially the second-class ones. Hence the "railway
rugs," &c., one hears so much about. But then, it must be confessed, the
danger of the American stove renders it a rather unpopular affair. The
second-class car is a plain, substantial carriage, and the larger
portion of the passengers travel in it. The first-class car is more
luxurious, upholstered more plentifully, supplied with racks for light
baggage, and curtains at the windows. The English have not even reached
the improvement of the sliding blind, which we have in America, so
useful in excluding the sun's rays and admitting the air, the substitute
being a flapping silk curtain. The second-class car has no curtain or
shade to the window whatever. The absence of the signal rope is
noticeable, and no man nowadays will remain in an English railway
carriage, if one or two other men come in that he does not know. Is it
not singular that so simple an arrangement as the signal rope to the
engine driver should not have been applied, after all the murders, and
assaults, and casualties, that have occurred on English railway trains,
and proved its necessity?
Not at all. It is an American invention--a novelty. An Englishman does
not believe in novelties, in innovations, or in American inventions.
After he has tried every other thing he can think of as a substitute,
and finds he can get nothing so simple and effectual, he will adopt it;
and then it will be claimed as an English invention--invented by an
Englishman; just as they claim the invention of the revolver, steamboat,
and I don't know but the sewing-machine.
The English locomotives have no protection upon them for the
engine-driver and fireman. These men are exposed, without shelter, and
must have a rough time of it in bad weather. The "guard," who occupies
the place of the American conductor, but by no means fills it, is always
recognizable by his uniform; and at the stations, the numerous porters
which it is necessary for the company to employ to handle baggage, owing
to the absence of the check system, are also in uniform. These men are
invariably civil, ready to serve, and understand their position and
duties thoroughly.
On some of the English railroads that I travelled over, it seemed as
though the only duty the company thought they had to perform, was to
simply carry you over their road; and the ignorance of some of the under
employés was positively amazing. Seated in the carriage, you might ride
twenty miles past the station at which you wished to stop without
knowing it, if you chanced to be on the off side.
There was no conductor to pass and repass _through_ the train, to look
out that you debarked at the proper station; no list of towns on the
back of your railroad check; no shout of "Passengers for Chester!
Chester!" when the train stopped; and the guard knew nothing of any
other train except his own, or any other distance over the road, or of
how to connect with any other train.
The passenger is left to himself, and is never told by the guard to
"change cars here for ----." That, you have to know yourself, and look
out and have the railway porter get your luggage (not _baggage_) off, or
it will carried on, as they have no check system--another American
affair, which it won't do to adopt too readily.
Luggage is weighed, and, beyond a certain amount, charged for; but any
portmanteau one can get under the seat is free; and it is astonishing
what big valises some men carry. And in the absence of the check system,
this is, of course, the safest way.
Comparatively little luggage is lost or stolen. One reason why it is not
stolen is, that there is a law here which _punishes_ thieves, and does
not allow them liberty for a stipulated sum, known as _bail_ in America.
The price in the first-class carriage, on the fast or express trains, is
about a third higher than the second. A third class is still cheaper.
The parliamentary or slow trains have cheaper rates than the express.
The division of "classes" is, in many respects, an excellent
arrangement. It affords to him who desires better accommodations, and
has the means to pay for them, the opportunity of enjoying them; and it
does not force the poor man, the laborer or emigrant, to ride in a
richly upholstered carriage, where he feels he is out of place, when he
would prefer to save his money, and have less gilding and upholstery.
One very soon finds, in England, the deference paid to class and to
wealth, and nowhere sooner than on the railway train. It is presumed, on
the expensive routes, that those riding in first-class carriages are
"first-class" people, and the guard's manner to the passengers in the
different carriages is an index of English education in this matter. As
he appears at the window of the first-class carriage, he politely
touches his hat:--
"All are for London in this compartment? Thank you."
To the second-class: "Tickets, please."
To the third-class: "Now, then, tickets. Look alive here, will you?"
The first-class passenger finds that his wants are better attended to,
his questions answered deferentially; he is allowed to take almost any
amount of small luggage into the car with him, much of which would be
excluded from the second-class, if an attempt were made to carry it in.
And O, the potency of the English shilling!
Each car seats eight; but we will suppose that there are a party of four
travelling together, and desire no more passengers in the compartments.
Call the guard to the window, put your hand in your pocket, looking him
in the eye significantly. He will carelessly drop his own hand within
the window opening inside the car. You drop a shilling in the hand.
"This car is occupied."
"Quite so, sir."
Touching his hat, he locks the car door, and when other people come
trying the door, he is conveniently out of the way, or informs the
applicant, "Third carriage forward for London, sir," and by a dozen
ingenious subterfuges keeps you free from strangers, so much that you
betray yourself to him as an American by giving him another shilling at
your journey's end; and, although smoking "is strictly forbidden in
first-class carriages," a party of three or four smokers, by the
judicious use of a couple of shillings, may have one all to themselves
for that purpose.
The railway stations in England are very fine, and much superior to
those in America, although we are improving ours, especially in the
great cities. In the great English cities and towns, the stations are
vast iron, glass-roofed structures, kept in excellent order. The
waiting-rooms are divided into first, second, and third class, and the
door opening upon the platform is not opened until a certain time before
the train starts. Porters in uniform take the luggage to the train, and
the "guard" who acts as conductor knows nothing about any railway train
connections or line beyond his own. The passenger is supposed to know
all that sort of thing, and he who "wants to know, you know," is at once
recognized as an American.
The country stations are beautiful little rustic affairs, with gardens
of roses and sweetbrier, honeysuckles and flowering shrubs about them.
Some have the name of the station sown in dwarf flowers upon the bank
outside, presenting a very pretty appearance in spring and summer, and
contrasting very agreeably with the rude shanties we find in America,
with their tobacco-stained floors within, and bare expanse of yellow
sand outside.
We rattled through Wales in an express train, a romantic view of wild
Welsh mountains on one side, and the beating and heaving ocean dashing
up on the other, sometimes almost to the very railway track. We ran
through great tunnels, miles in length, whirled at the rate of fifty
miles an hour through the great slate-quarrying district and Bangor,
past the magnificent suspension bridge over Menai Straits, by the
romantic old castle of Conway, with its shattered battlements and
turrets looking down at the sea, which dashes up its foam-crested waves
ceaselessly at its rocky base, the old red sandstone walls worn and
corroded with time; on, past thatched huts, rustic cottages, and green
landscape, till the panting train halted at the great modern railway
station in that oldest of English cities, Chester.
This station is one of the longest in England, being ten hundred and
fifty feet long, and having wings, a kind of projecting arcades, with
iron roofs, to shelter vehicles waiting for trains. From this
magnificent modern-built station a cab carried us, in a few minutes, on
our route to the hotel (Grosvenor House), into an old street that looked
as though we had got into a set scene at the theatre, representing a
street in Windsor for Falstaff and the Merry Wives to appear in; houses
built in 1500, or years before, the street or sidewalks passing right
under some of them; quaint old oddities of architecture, with curious
inscriptions in abbreviated old English on their carved cross-beams, and
their gables sticking out in every direction; curious little windows
with diamond-shaped panes set in lead; and houses looking as though the
hand of time had squeezed them together, or extracted the juice from
them like sucked oranges, and left only the dried rind, half shrunken
from its original shape, remaining.
The great curiosity, however, in Chester, is the Chester Cathedral, and
the old walls that encompass the city. I never realized the force of the
expression "the corroding tooth of time" till I saw this magnificent old
cathedral: portions of it which were once sharply sculptured in various
designs are now worn almost smooth by age, the old red sandstone looking
as though time had sand-papered it with gritty hail and honeycombed its
stones with melting rains; but the whole was surrounded with a mellow,
softened beauty of groined arches, beautiful curves, dreamy old
cloisters, and quaint carving, that invested even the ruined portion
with a hallowed beauty. The stained-glass windows, both old and modern,
are glorious colored wonders; the chapel where the services are now held
is the same where, a thousand years ago, dreamy old monks told their
beads; and there are their stalls or seats, so contrived as to afford
but partial rest, so that if the sitter slumbered they fell forward with
his weight, and threw him to the floor.
The antique wood carving upon the seats and pews here, now blackened and
hardened almost to ebony in appearance, is very fine, excellently
executed, and well preserved. High above ran around the nuns' walk, with
occasional openings, whence the meek-eyed sisterhood could hear service
below without being seen themselves as they came from their quiet
cloisters near at hand, a quadrangle of one hundred and ten feet square,
in which were four covered walks looking upon the enclosed garden, now a
neglected greensward, where several forgotten old abbots slumber
peacefully beneath great stone slabs with obliterated inscriptions.
The curious grope into some of the old cells, and most of us go down
under the building in the crypt, where the massive Gothic pillars, that
support the pile, still in perfect preservation, bring vividly to mind
those canvas representations of prison scenes one sees upon the stage.
Inside the cathedral were numerous very old monuments and mementos of
the past; among others an immense tapestry wrought by nuns hundreds of
years ago, and representing Elymas struck with blindness. The enormous
size of these cathedrals strikes the "fresh" American tourist with
wonder. Fancy churches five times as large as ours, and the height
inside from sixty to one hundred feet from the stone floor to the arched
ceiling, lighted with glorious great windows of stained glass, upon
which the stories of the Bible are told in colored pictures, and south,
east, west, transepts, nave, and choir, crowded with relics of the past,
that you have read of in the story-books of youth, and again upon the
pages of history in maturer years; artistic sculptures, old monuments,
statues, carvings, and curious remains.
In the chapter-house connected with the cathedral, we were shown the
colors carried by the Cheshire regiment on the field of Waterloo; and it
was interesting for me to grasp with my sacrilegious American hand one
of the colors borne by a British regiment in America during the war of
the Revolution.
We also visited the ecclesiastical court-room in which the Bishop of
Chester, in 1554, tried a Protestant minister, George Marsh, and
sentenced him to be burned for heresy. The seats of the judges and chair
of the accused are still preserved and shown to the visitor, who
generally desires to sit in the martyr's seat, and finds it, even for a
few minutes, an uncomfortable one.
The Chester Cathedral is said to have been founded in the year 200, and
was used as a place of safety against the Danes in 800. It was well
kept, and ruled by abbots, and its history well preserved from the time
of King William Rufus, who was killed in New Forest, 1093, down to 1541.
The old walls of Chester are the great attraction of the city; in fact,
Chester is the only city in Great Britain that has preserved its old
walls entire: they enclose the city proper, and are about two miles in
circumference, affording a delightful promenade and prospect of the
surrounding country. The walls are squarely built of a soft red
freestone, something like that used for our "brown stone front" houses,
though apparently not so hard a material, and vary from twelve to forty
feet in height. A fresh tourist from a new country like our own begins
to feel he is communing with the past, as he walks over these old walls,
erected A. D. 61, and finds their chronology to read thus:--
A. D.
61--Walls built by Romans.
73--Marius, King of the Britons, extended the walls.
607--The Britons defeated under the walls.
907--The walls rebuilt by daughter of Alfred the Great.
1224--An assessment for repairing the walls.
1399--Henry of Lancaster mustered his troops under these walls.
1645--The Parliamentary forces made a breach in these walls.
So that it will be seen they have looked down upon some of the most
eventful scenes of history; and as we strolled along, thinking what a
feeble obstacle they would prove against the formidable engines of
modern warfare, we came to a tower called the Phoenix Tower; and an
inscription upon it informs the visitor that upon this tower King
Charles I. stood in 1645, and witnessed the defeat of his army on Rowton
Moor, four miles off, then a barren field, but now a smiling plain of
fields and cottages, looking very unlike a barren moor, or the scene of
a sanguinary combat. In this old tower a curious, antiquary sort of old
fellow keeps a motley collection of curiosities, among which were
Havelock's spurs, buckles of Queen Mary's time, bean from tree planted
by Washington (!), and a great, staring, size-of-life wood-cut of
Abraham Lincoln, besides coins, relics, &c., that were labelled to
interest, but whose genuineness might not stand the test of too close an
investigation.
CHAPTER II.
It is a comparatively short ride from Chester to Liverpool, and of
course we went to the Adelphi Hotel, so frequently heard mentioned our
side of the water; and if ever an American desires a specimen of the
tenacity with which the English cling to old fashions, their lack of
what we style enterprise, let him examine this comfortable, curious,
well kept, inconvenient old house, or rather collection of old
residences rolled into a hotel, and reminding him of some of the
old-fashioned hotels of thirty years ago at the lower part of the city
of New York.
Upon the first day of my arrival I was inexperienced enough to come down
with my wife to the "ladies' coffee-room" as it is called, before
ordering breakfast. Let it be kept in mind that English hotels generally
have no public dining and tea rooms, as in America, where a gentleman
with ladies can take their meals; that solemn performance is done by
Englishmen in the strictest privacy, except they are travelling alone,
when they take their solitary table in "the coffee-room," and look glum
and repellent upon the scene around at intervals of the different
courses of their well-served solitary dinner. Public dining-rooms,
however, are gradually coming into vogue at English hotels, and at the
Star and Garter, Richmond, I dined in one nearly as large as that of the
St. Nicholas, Fifth Avenue, or Parker House, crammed with chattering
guests and busy waiters; but that was of a pleasant Sunday, in the
height of the season, and the price I found, on settling the bill, fully
up to the American standard.
But at the Adelphi I came down in the innocence of my heart, expecting
to order a breakfast, and have it served with the American promptitude.
Alas! I had something to learn of the English manner of doing things.
Here was the Adelphi always full to overflowing with new arrivals _from_
America and new arrivals _for_ America, and here was its ladies'
coffee-room, a small square parlor with five small tables, capable of
accommodating, with close packing, fifteen people, and the whole room
served by one waiter. The room was full on my arrival; but fortunately,
while I was hesitating what course to pursue, a lady and gentleman who
had just finished breakfast arose, and we sat down at the table they had
vacated.
In the course of ten minutes the waiter cleared the table and spread a
fresh cloth. "'Ave you hordered breakfast, sir?"
"No! Bring me mutton chops, coffee, and boiled eggs, and hot biscuit,
for two."
"Beg pardon, sir; chops, heggs, coffee--a--biscuits, aren't any
_biscuits_, sir; send out and get some, sir."
Biscuits. I reflected; these benighted Britons don't understand what an
American hot biscuit is. "No biscuits! Well, muffins, then."
"Muffins, sir; yes, sir;" and he hastened away.
We waited five, ten, fifteen minutes; no breakfast. One party at another
table, who were waiting when we came in, were served with their
breakfast; in five minutes more a fresh plate of muffins to another
party; five more, and the waiter came to our table, put on two silver
forks, a salt-cellar, and castor, and smoothed out some invisible
wrinkles in the table linen, and went away; five minutes more, and he
was hustling among some knives at a sideboard.
"Waiter!"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you going to bring my breakfast?"
"Yes, sir; d'reckly, sir; chops most ready, sir."
Chops, always call 'em chops; never call for a _mutton_ chop in England;
the word is superfluous, and stamps you as an untravelled, inexperienced
Yankee at once.
Five minutes more, and he appeared, bearing a tray with the breakfast,
just thirty-five minutes after the order had been given for it. How long
would a hotel in America be patronized that made its guest wait one half
that time for four times as elaborate a repast?
I soon learned how to manage this matter better, especially as there are
no printed bills of fare, and the list comprises a very few standard
dishes. My plan was, on first rising in the morning, to write my order
for breakfast on a scrap of paper, ring for the chambermaid, hand it to
her with instructions to have that breakfast ready in the ladies'
coffee-room directly.
The English "directly" signifies the "right away" of America, or, more
correctly, immediately.
In half an hour afterwards, when we descended, the waiter, whose memory
had been strengthened by the judicious investment of a shilling, had the
cloth laid, and met us with, "Breakfast d'reckly, sir; Number 19; yes,
sir."
The breakfast, when it _did_ come, was perfect; the coffee or tea
excellent, pure and unadulterated; the chops,--not those American
affairs with one bite of meat the size of half a dollar, tough and ill
cooked, but large as the palm of one's hand,--cooked as they can only be
cooked in England; the muffins hot and smoking; the eggs fresh and
excellent; so that the old-fashioned framed engravings, mahogany
furniture, cramped quarters, and style of the past were forgotten in the
appeal to that god of the Englishman, the stomach.
All the viands at the Adelphi were of the best description, and
admirably cooked, but the bill of fare was limited to very few articles.
A sight of one of the printed bills of our great American hotels would
have driven the waiter crazy, while the utter disregard of time, or
rather of the value of time, in an English hotel, is the first thing
that strikes a newly-arrived American and stirs up his irritability.
Eating, with a Briton, is a very serious and solemn thing, and the
dinner one of the most important social ceremonies in the kingdom. You
cannot, if you will, in England, precipitate yourself into dyspepsia
with the ease that it is possible to do it in America. First, because
people will not be hurried into eating at railroad speed, and next,
because there is better cooking of standard dishes and fewer knickknacks
at the hotel tables than in America.
That inevitable pork fat that flavors everything after one gets west of
Buffalo, and a little off the line of travel that leads you through the
great hotels in the great cities in America,--that saleratus bread,
hayey tea, clammy pie-crust, and great whity-gray, soury baker's
bread,--that we, who have travelled at home, are so familiar with, give
place in England to articles prepared in a very different style. I have
often thought, when travelling at the West, that it was a sin for people
in the midst of such luxurious plenty to abuse it so abominably in
preparing it for the table.
With all the prejudices of a raw tourist upon his first visit, I must
acknowledge that during two months' constant travel in England and
Scotland, I never sat down to a single ill-cooked or badly-served meal;
and I have tested humble roadside inns in the country, as well as the
more pretentious hotels of the great cities. The bread of all kinds is
close-grained, sweet, well baked, and toothsome; the chops served
sometimes on napkins in hot dishes; muffins hot, with fresh, sweet
butter; butter served in thin pats, ornamented with parsley; broiled
chicken garnished with thin slices of delicately broiled ham, so thin
and free from grease as not to make a spot upon the pure damask table
linen; the dropped eggs upon crisp toast, are a triumph of gastronomic
art, and I need say no word in praise of English roast beef.
But there is one dish which can be had in perfection only in America,
and that is an American beefsteak. It is almost impossible to get a
decent beefsteak in England, out of the city of London, and there only
at a few well-known restaurants celebrated for that specialty. They
would think it almost sacrilege to cut beef into what is known in
America as sirloin or tenderloin steaks; and, with the few exceptions
above named, the art of broiling a steak in the American style, and
serving it with the thin, dry-fried potatoes, is unknown. But a truce to
the department of _cuisine_.
The one thing we all have most heard of in Liverpool is its great docks,
which are the grand and characteristic feature, indicating forcibly its
great commercial activity and enterprise by their magnitude, solidity,
and extent. These immense receptacles of merchandise extend for six
miles along the river, and have an enclosure of two hundred and
fifty-four acres, a quay space of over eighteen miles; then upon the
other side of the river are the Birkenhead docks, enclosing one hundred
and sixty-seven acres, and having a quay space of over nine miles,--thus
giving to Liverpool four hundred and twenty-one acres of enclosed docks,
and twenty-seven miles of quay space.
The enormous heaps of every species of merchandise seen at these places,
great ships from every part of the world, the perfect forest of masts,
immense storehouses, cargoes that in the general mass seem but mounds of
tea-chests, hillocks of coffee-bags, heaps of grain, piles of lumber, or
fragments of machinery in these great areas, but which in reality would
provision an army, build a navy, and outfit a manufacturing city, give
one the impression that Liverpool is the _entrepôt_ of the world, and
some idea of the enormous commerce of Great Britain.
Each dock has a chief, or master, who directs the position of all ships,
and superintends the flood-gates at the docking and undocking of
vessels; and strict regulations are enforced for the prevention of fire
and the preservation of property. The sea walls in front of some of
these docks are magnificent specimens of masonry, and each dock is
designated by a name; our American ships, I believe, favor that known as
Waterloo Dock. All the docks are surrounded by huge bonding warehouses
and merchandise sheds.
The Free Museum, which we visited in Liverpool, contains the largest and
finest collection of ornithological specimens in the world. It was
indeed superb, and I never saw such splendid taxidermical skill as was
displayed in the mounting and arranging of this vast collection of
thousands and thousands of birds, of every species (it seemed), from
every country in the known world.
For instance, there was every species of eagle known to exist,--gray,
white, bald, harpy, &c.,--poised, at rest, in flight, and in various
positions, as in life; every species of owl,--the gigantic, judge-like
fellow, horned, snowy, gray, black, white, and dwarf; every falcon,--a
magnificent set of specimens of this kind, as there was also of the crow
family, which were represented not only by elegant black specimens, but
by light-blue, and even white ones; every species of sea bird, from the
gigantic albatross to the Mother Cary's chicken; rare and curious birds;
great cassowaries; the biggest ostrich I ever saw,--he could have
carried a full-grown African upon his back with ease; great emus; a
skeleton of the now extinct dodo; a collection of every species of
pheasant, including specimens of the Himmalayan pheasant, the most
gorgeous bird in the whole collection, whose plumage actually glistened
and sparkled with glorious tints, like tinsel or precious stones--a
gorgeous combination of colors. Over _one hundred different varieties_
of humming-birds were displayed, and the same of parrots, who were in
green, blue, yellow, white, pink, and every uniform of feather that
could be imagined; magnificent lyre-birds, with tall, erected tail, in
exact form of Apollo's fabled lyre.
Great condors from South America; a brilliant array of every species of
birds of paradise; a whole army of toucans; a brilliant array of
flamingoes and all the vulture tribe; in fact, every kind of a bird you
had ever heard, seen pictures or read of, and very many you never had
heard of, were presented in this most wonderful collection; and one
pleasing feature besides the astonishing life-like positions they were
placed in, was the admirable neatness and order of the whole; not a
stain marred the clear plate glass of the great cases, not a speck of
dust could be seen in or about them; and upon the pedestal of each
specimen was pasted a label, in good plain English characters, giving
the English name of it, the country it came from, and, in many
instances, its habits, &c., so much better than the presumption acted
upon in some museums, that all the visitors are scientific Latin
scholars.
Besides this collection in the Museum, was one of minerals and corals,
and another of preserved specimens of natural history. In this last we
saw the entire skeleton of a large humpback whale, an entire skeleton of
the gigantic Irish elk (species extinct) discovered in an Irish bog, a
two-horned rhinoceros's head as big as a common hogshead, an enormous
and splendidly-mounted specimen of the gorilla, larger than any, I
think, that Du Chaillu exhibited in America, and a vast number of other
interesting curiosities I have not space to enumerate, the whole of
which was open free to the public, for pleasure or scientific study.
St. George's Hall, Liverpool, occupies a commanding position, and
presents a fine architectural appearance; the eastern side of it is four
hundred and twenty feet long, and has fifteen elegant Corinthian
columns, each forty-five feet in height. Within the portico are some
fine specimens of sculpture; the great saloon is one hundred and
sixty-seven feet long by seventy-seven feet high, and, it may be
interesting to Bostonians to know, contains the great organ of
Liverpool, which is _not so fine_ a one as the Boston one. The hall is
used for public meetings, musical festivals, &c.,--very much for the
same purposes as Boston Music Hall. In the immediate vicinity of St.
George's Hall are the famous Liverpool lions, colossal stone monsters,
the equestrian statue of Prince Albert, and other objects of interest.
It was in Liverpool that I first saw that evidence of real, terribly
suffering poverty that we read so much of as prevailing in the streets
of some of the great cities of England. I don't know but as squalid
misery might be found in New York city; but there need be but very
little of suffering by any one in America who has health and strength
sufficient to do a day's work. In Liverpool I saw groups of poor
creatures in the street, with starvation written in their countenances;
and one evening, having occasion to go to the telegraph office from the
hotel, I found that the streets absolutely swarmed with women, who were
actually annoying to the stranger by their persistent importunities.
Upon one occasion, being awakened by the sound of voices at one o'clock
at night, I looked across the square from my window, and there, opposite
an illuminated gin-shop, stood a group of three poor children, droning
through a song, in hopes of extracting a penny or two from those in or
about it; the oldest of the three could not have been a dozen years old,
and the youngest a little ragged girl of six.
There are people that one meets here whose appearance is an anguish to
the aching heart. We saw a poor woman, in a sleazy calico dress, with a
colorless, wan face, walking wearily up an ascent in one of the streets,
one afternoon, looking as if hope were dead within her heart; and
thinking it a case of need, my friend thrust a half crown into her hand,
saying, "Here! I think you need that." The poor creature looked at him
for a moment, and, without saying a word, burst into a flood of tears.
My experience with a little youngster of six, whose whole clothing was a
sort of tow shirt, and who persistently begged for a penny, which I at
last gave him, was somewhat different, for he dashed off with a shout,
and, as I paused on the corner of the street, an army of young
ragamuffins seemed to start out from every nook and cranny, with
outstretched arms and rags fluttering in the breeze, and shrill cries of
"Gi' me one, gi' me a penny," so that I was glad to take refuge in the
cab I had signalled.
From Liverpool, instead of starting directly for London, I concluded to
go to Scotland, passing through the Lake district _en route_. If the
reader will look at a good map of England and Scotland, and find Solway
Firth, which is on the west coast, and then look at the country
immediately south of it, occupying a portion of the counties of
Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancaster, he will see that it is full of
lakes and mountains, and will find, on visiting it, that its picturesque
attractions are unequalled in any other part of England. Additional
interest is imparted to the Lake district from its being the haunt and
home of many of England's most celebrated modern poets; and inspired,
doubtless, by its lovely views and quiet beauty of landscape, from here
have emanated some of their best compositions.
We left the main road in our journey westward at a place called
Oxenholme, and there took a 'bus, which carried us down to Lake
Windermere. This lake is a beautiful, irregular sheet of water, eleven
miles in length and about a mile wide, and numerous little islands add
to its picturesque appearance, the scenery being soft and graceful; the
gentle slopes and eminences that surround it, and the numerous
country-seats and cottages peeping from the wooded slopes, combining to
render it one of those pictures of quiet beauty that English poets
delight to sing of. The hotel that we rested at was perched upon a
commanding eminence, from which a delightful view of the lake and
surrounding scenery was obtained.
The pretty village of Bowness, near by, attracted my attention, this
being my first experience in an English country village; and its
appearance was in many respects novel, and unlike what I had expected.
First, I was struck at the entire absence of wooden houses; wood is
scarce here; the houses are all built of stone, about the color of our
stone walls in the country towns of New England, the stones about two
feet square, and irregular in shape. A little rustic porch of wood, with
the bark on, is sometimes built before the door, and this is overrun
with ivy, or some climbing and flowering plant. Some of the more
pretentious houses had stone porches; but all round and about them was
twined the beautiful ivy, honeysuckle, or other plants, from in and out
of which hopped and twittered the sparrows.
The village streets were quite narrow, and some as crooked as the letter
S, but all scrupulously clean. There were no great brush heaps, chips,
dirt-piles, or worn-out tin ware about any of these charming little
cottages or their vicinity; the appearance is as if the place had just
been thoroughly swept up and put in holiday trim. One reason for this
is, I suppose, that everything here is utilized that a penny can be
realized upon, and what we make a litter with about an American house of
the kind, is here either sold, or turned to account in some other way;
but certainly this air of extreme neatness, which I noticed in many
English villages, must, in a degree, account for some of their tourists'
disgust in America. I have not seen a man spit on the floor here since I
set foot in England, and the floors even of the village ale-houses are a
striking contrast to those of our New England country taverns: spitting
appears to be an American national habit.
After a quiet rest at this charming spot, we chartered a "dog cart," and
started on a ride of twenty-three miles, for Keswick; and of the
charming drives I have had, this surpasses all. The road ran along Lake
Windermere to Ambleside, Grassmere to Rydal Lake and Rydal Mount,
Nab-Scar up Dunmail Rise, in sight of Helvellyn, and past Thirlemere.
The views were beautiful--high hills, with little green-shored lakes set
in among them, like flashing brilliants; pretty little English villages,
like those already described; country-seats; little rustic arched stone
bridges, with dark, cool trout-streams running beneath them; grand
country-seats, with their imposing entrances and porters' lodges; old
ivy-clad churches, and here and there a tall grove of trees, with the
rooks cawing in their branches. The bridges, walls, cottages, and
churches, with their dark stone-work relieved by clustering ivy, had a
softened and pleasing appearance to the eye, while the fields and
meadows were a vivid green, and swarming with sheep and young lambs
frisking about them, or on the lawns and hill-sides.
The road continually gave us long reaches of these views, such as I had
never seen before, except in paintings, or in the better class of
English illustrated books. We passed Dove's Nest, where Mrs. Hemans
lived for a year; saw Miss Martineau's pleasant and picturesque
residence, Wordsworth's house at Rydal Mount, and went to the little
cottage on the borders of Grassmere Lake, where he dwelt when young, and
wrote much of his best poetry; then to the humble cottage, not far from
the lake shore, where De Quincey lived.
We drove to the churchyard in the little village of Grassmere, to visit
Wordsworth's grave,--a charming spot,--the little church situated near a
swift little stream, spanned by arched stone bridges, and surrounded by
scenery of rustic beauty. The grave of the poet is marked by a plain
stone, upon which are inscribed his own and his wife's name; and not far
from it is the grave of Hartley Coleridge. The secluded and beautiful
spot seemed a fitting resting-place for the poet; the gentle babble of
the little stream, the peaceful rustle of the grass in the churchyard,
and the modest little daisies that bloomed upon the graves, all seemed
to lend a tranquil and dreamy calm to the place, that made it appear as
if hallowed to the poet's repose.
Keswick, our next halting-place, is situated in a delightful vale,
between Derwentwater, or Keswick Lake, and Bassenthailewater, and
surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills. The elegant Keswick Hotel is
situated in a charming position, just out of the town, and in the centre
of the great circle of hills--one of the finest and best-kept houses of
the kind in all England. From its great coffee-room, or, as we should
call it, dining-room, which runs nearly half the length of one side of
the house, and the promenade, or balustrade, which extends the whole
length, is a most charming view, and the grounds of the house, which are
quite extensive, are laid out quite handsomely. First came an elegant,
close-shaven lawn, running one hundred feet from the hotel walk; then a
green terrace, descended by ornamental stone steps; then a broad gravel
walk, or mall, running round the estate; and from this another broad,
green lawn, sloping gently down to the little Greta River, a stream of
about twenty feet in width at this point, spanned, here and there, with
arched stone bridges, and dashing off into several noisy little
waterfalls.
From this little park of the hotel there is a pretty view of the village
of Keswick, with its dark stone-work houses, and English church tower,
rising above. Beyond, on every side in the huge circle, rise the lofty
hill-tops, and here and there elegant country-seats and villas sit
enthroned, midway as it were in the mountain's lap, and some high up
towards the breezy peaks. The verdant sides of the hill are pencilled
off, as it were, with hedges, marking the division lines of property,
and a winding road occasionally throws its brown tracks out amid the
green.
The Keswick Hotel is built of lighter colored stone than is generally
used for houses there, and is finished off in such an expensive and
ornamental style as to look quite like an English hall or country-seat.
It is owned, I think, by the railroad company whose road passes here.
The station is directly adjoining the house, and is reached by a
glass-roofed walk, thirty or forty feet long. And here let me remark,
that the excellent system, good management, and entire absence of noise,
shrieking, puffing, blowing, whistling, and all sorts of disturbance
that render a location near a railroad station in America so
objectionable, were most striking. I never should have taken note of any
arrival or departure of trains from any noise of them; for, save the
distant whistle as they approached, there was nothing to indicate their
presence.
The house is kept admirably. Such neatness, such thoroughness, and such
courteous attention, and such an incomparable _cuisine_ are, after one
gets accustomed to English deliberation, most gratifying to the tourist.
There can be but few better places for the American traveller to see and
enjoy English country life, and beautiful English scenery, than Keswick,
and at this beautiful house, in the month of May.
We rambled round through the quaint village of Keswick, and of a Sunday
morning took our way over two little stone bridges, on through a deep,
shady English lane, with the trees arching overhead, and the hedges
green at its side, to Crossthwaite Church, built several hundred years
ago, and with its rustic churchyard, beautiful and green, containing the
graves of the poet Southey and his wife. I sat upon an old slab in the
churchyard, and watched the pretty, rustic picture, as the bells sweetly
chimed, and the villagers came to church; some up the green lane by twos
and threes, others across the fields and over stiles, threading their
way among the churchyard mounds to the rural church.
Wordsworth describes in one of his poems the English rural church so
perfectly that I cannot forbear making the extract, it was so
appropriate to this, which stood amid
"The vales and hills whose beauties hither drew
The poet's steps."
In fact, Wordsworth's description might well be taken as a correct one
of almost any one of the picturesque English country churches that the
tourist sees here in the rural districts.
"Not framed to nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy, for duration built;
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld
By naked rafters, intricately crossed,
Like leafless underboughs in some thick grove,
All withered by the depth of shade above.
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls,
Each in its ornamental scroll enclosed;
Each also crowned with winged heads--a pair
Of rudely painted cherubim. The floor
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged
In seemly rows; the chancel only showed
Some inoffensive marks of earthly state
And vain distinction. A capacious pew
Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined;
And marble monuments were here displayed
Upon the walls; and on the floor beneath
Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven,
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small
And shining effigies of brass inlaid."
The marks of earthly state and vain distinction in the church were two
old stone effigies of Lord Derwentwater and his wife, died in 1527, with
a very legible inscription in brass setting forth that fact, and a white
marble effigy and monument to Southey.
In the churchyard is a plain black slate tombstone over the poet's
grave, on which is inscribed, "Here lies the body of Robert Southey, LL.
D., Poet Laureate. Born August 12, 1774; died March 21, 1843. For forty
years resident in this parish. Also, of Edith, his wife, born May 20,
1774; died November 16, 1837." Returning home, we passed "Greta Hall,"
the poet's residence, situated in Keswick, a plain mansion, upon a
slight elevation just back from the street, commanding a good view of
the surrounding scenery, and with a pleasant, grassy slope in front, and
beautiful shrubbery round and about its well-kept grounds.
Another pleasant walk was one taken up a winding road on the hill-side,
to a spot containing some of the Druidical remains found in different
parts of England. This is known here as the Druids' Temple, and consists
of a great circle of upright stones, six or eight feet in height, and
set up at regular intervals, with two or three placed together at one
side of the circle, as if for a gigantic altar. The spot for this temple
was admirably chosen by the ancient priests of the oak and mistletoe for
their mysterious rites, being upon a sort of natural platform, or hill
shaped like a truncated cone, while all round rises a natural circle of
lesser hills.
From Keswick to Penrith is a pleasant ride by rail. Near the station in
Penrith are the ruins of an old castle, for a long time the residence of
the Duke of Gloster, afterwards Richard III. From this spot we started
on a pleasant walk for Brougham Hall, the seat of Lord Brougham, about
two and a half miles distant, passing on the way a curious formation in
a field, denominated King Arthur's Round Table. It very much resembles
places in waste land in America, where a travelling circus has left its
ring-mark, that becomes overgrown with turf, only the circle was much
larger. This field and formation were carefully preserved by the owner,
it being, as we were informed, one of those places where the Knights of
King Arthur's time used to exercise themselves in the practice of
horsemanship and feats of arms. Perhaps it was.
Brougham Hall is situated upon a hill not far from the ruins of Brougham
Castle, and is an old and picturesque building, commanding, from its
elevated position, extensive views of the surrounding country. The place
was invested with a peculiar interest, as being the residence of one of
England's greatest orators and statesmen. His voice, since our visit to
his beautiful home, however, has been hushed forever, and he has laid
him down to sleep with the humblest.
Owing to its situation and prospects, the English guide-books style this
castle the "Windsor of the North." The grounds are beautifully laid
out--a broad lawn, bounded by a grove of old trees, with the rooks
cawing and circling about them; the great paved court-yard of the
castle, upon which the stables and servants' rooms looked out; a tower
on the stables, with clock and bell. From this, a Gothic arched gateway
opened into another square and more pretentious court-yard, upon which
the inner windows of his lordship's family looked. On one side of this
court-yard, the castle wall was completely covered with a thick, heavy
mass of beautiful ivy, the window spaces and turrets all being cut out
in shape, giving it a novel and picturesque appearance. In the centre of
this court-yard was a pretty grass plat.
The other front of the castle looked out upon the estate, and the view
from the windows upon this side was lovely. The fine lawn and trimly
laid out grounds, the gradually sloping landscapes stretching down to
the little River Eamont, winding on its tortuous way, and spanned, as
usual, by the pretty arched bridges, and the hills of Ullswater for a
background, made a charming prospect. There were so many novel and
interesting things to see in the different apartments of the castle,
that description will in some degree appear but tame.
We first went into the armor-room, used on great occasions as a
dining-hall. The apartment was not very large, but the walls and niches
were filled with rare and curious arms and armor of various periods, and
that had been used by historic personages. Here we were shown the skull
of one of Lord Brougham's ancestors, carefully preserved under a glass
case--a Knight Templar, who fought in the first crusade; this skull was
taken, together with a spur, from his coffin a few years ago, when the
tomb was opened, where he was found lying with crossed feet, as a good
Knight Templar should lie. At one end of this hall was a little raised
gallery about five feet from the floor, separated from the room by a
high Gothic screen, through which a view of the whole could be obtained.
This platform led to an elegant little octagon chamber, a few steps
higher up, occupied by Lord Brougham's son as a sort of lounging and
writing room. In this apartment were a few choice and beautiful
pictures; one of dogs fighting, presented to Lord Brougham by Louis
Napoleon, some original Titians, Vandykes, Tintorettos, Hogarth, &c.
We next visited the drawing-room, which was hung all over with beautiful
Gobelin tapestry, wrought to represent the four quarters of the globe in
productions, fruit, flowers, vegetation, and inhabitants--a royal gift
and an elegant sight. Here were also displayed a fine Sevres dessert
service, the gift of Louis Philippe, the great purses of state presented
to Lord Brougham when he was chancellor, as a sort of badge or insignia
of office. These were rigged on fire-frame screens, and were heavily
gold-embroidered affairs, twenty-four inches square or more, and worth
over three hundred pounds each. Here also was a glass case filled with
gifts made to Lord Brougham by different distinguished personages, such
as gold snuff-boxes from different cities, watches, a miniature, taken
from life, of the great Napoleon, presented by Joseph Bonaparte, &c.
The library, which was well stocked with choice books, was another
elegant room, most artistically arranged. Here portraits of great
writers, by great artists, occupied conspicuous positions; and among
other noteworthy pictures in this room was one of Hogarth, painted by
himself, a portrait of Voltaire and others.
The ceilings of these apartments were laid out in squares or diamond
indentation, elegantly frescoed, or carved from the solid oak, the color
formed to harmonize with the furniture and upholstery. The ceiling of
the drawing-room was occupied by the different quarterings of the coat
of arms of the Brougham family, in carved work of gold and colors, one
to each panel, very elaborately finished.
When we were escorted to the sleeping apartments, new surprises awaited
us. Here was one complete suite of rooms,--chambers, dressing-room,
closet, &c.,--all built and furnished in the early Norman style; the
old, carved, black, Norman bedstead, hundreds of years old; gilt leather
tapestry on the walls, decorated with Norman figures of knights, horses
and spearmen; huge Norman-looking chairs; great brass-bound oaken
chests, black with age and polished by the hand of time; rude tables;
chests of drawers; the doors and windows with semicircular arched
head-pieces, the former of massive black oak, with huge brass
chevron-shaped hinges, quaint door-handles, and bolts of the period
represented, and the various ornaments of zigzag, billet, nail-head,
&c., of Norman architecture appearing in every direction. Something of
the same style is seen in some of our Episcopal churches in America, but
it is more modernized. Here the Norman rooms were Norman in all details,
the dark, old wood was polished smooth as steel, the brass work upon the
doors and old chests gleamed like beaten gold, and the whole picture of
quaint, old tracery of arches and narrow windows, tapestry, carving, and
massive furniture, conveyed an impression of wealth, solidity, and
substantial beauty.
From the Norman rooms we passed into the Norman gallery, a corridor of
about fifty feet long and sixty feet wide, upon the sides of which are
painted a complete copy of the wonderous Bayeaux tapestry, wrought by
Matilda, queen of William I., and representing the conquest of
England--the only perfect copy said to have been made. The different
sleeping apartments were each furnished in different styles; in one was
an elegantly carved bedstead, of antique design, which cost four hundred
guineas, and was a present to Lord Brougham.
Lord Brougham's own study, and his favorite resort for reading, writing,
and thinking, was one of the plainest, most unpretending rooms in the
whole building; the furniture of the commonest kind, the pictures old
impressions of Hogarth's, Marriage a la Mode, and the Industrious and
Idle Apprentice, in cheap frames, and that familiar to Americans, of
Humboldt in his study. Two battered hats, hung upon a wooden hat-tree in
the corner,--hats that Punch has made almost historical, and certainly
easily recognizable wherever seen,--completed the picture of the simple
apartment where one of the greatest statesmen of the present generation
was wont to muse upon the affairs of one of the mightiest nations of the
world, at whose helm his was the guiding hand.
Returning on our way to the railway station, we lunched in the tap-room
of a little wayside inn, "The White Hart," just one of those places that
we Americans read of in English novels, and which are so unlike anything
we have at home, that we sometimes wonder if the description of them is
not also a part of the writer's creation. But here was one just as if it
had stepped out of an English story book; the little room for guests had
a clean tile floor ornamented with alternate red and white chalk
stripes, a fireplace of immense height and width, round which the
village gossips probably sipped their ale o' winter nights, the wooden
chairs and benches and the wooden table in the centre of the room,
spotlessly clean and white from repeated scrubbings; half a dozen long
clay tobacco pipes were in a tray on the table for smokers, clustering
vines and snowy curtains shaded the windows, and there was an air of
quiet comfort and somnolency about the place quite attractive to one who
was fatigued with a long and dusty walk.
The landlady entered with snowy apron, broad, clean cap, and of a figure
suggestive of the nutritious quality of English ale or good living, and,
like the Mrs. Fezziwig of Dickens,--
"One vast, substantial smile."
"What will you please to horder, sir?"
"Can we have some ale and crackers?"
"Hale, sir? Yes, sir. Bread and cheese, sir?" (_interrogatively_).
"Yes; bread and cheese."
"Two mugs and bread and cheese, Mary," said the landlady, as she bustled
out through the passage to a little wicket enclosure, behind which we
caught through the opening door the flash of tankards in gleaming rows,
and in a moment more "Mary" tripped in with two beer mugs, shining like
silver, and the snowy foam rising high and bubbling in creamy luxuriance
over their brims upon the little tray that bore them.
Good English home-brewed is said to be better than that served in
America; perhaps it may be that we "'aven't got the 'ops" to make as
good as they brew in England, or it may be that tasting it while the
spring breeze is blowing the perfume from the hedgerows and meadows in
at the windows of little road-side inns, which command a pretty rustic
view of gentle slope, green valley, and cool shade trees, has something
to do with one's judgment of it. The attack upon the ale of old England
and the loaf of sweet, close-grained bread and cheese, involved the
enormous outlay of ten pence, to which we added two more for Mary, an
even shilling, for which she dropped a grateful courtesy, and we
strolled on through the antiquated little town of Penrith, visiting the
churchyard and seeing the giant's grave, a space of eight feet between a
gigantic head and foot stone, each covered with nearly obliterated Runic
inscriptions.
CHAPTER III.
From Penrith we were whirled away over the rails to Edinburgh. Edinburgh
is certainly a wonder--a wonder of historic interest, a wonder of
curious old buildings, and a wonder of magnificent new ones. Here we
were in the very place that Walter Scott has made us long and long to
see, and were to visit the scenes that were sung in his matchless
minstrelsy, and painted in his graphic romances. Here was the city where
Knox, the Reformer, preached, and Mary, Queen of Scots, held her brief
and stormy reign. Here we were to see Holyrood, Edinburgh Castle, and a
hundred scenes identified with Scottish history, the very names of which
served to help the melodious flow of the rhythm of Scott's entrancing
poems. With what wondrous charms does the poet and novelist invest
historic scenes! How memory carried us back to the days when the Tales
of a Grandfather held us chained to their pages, as with a spell! How
the Waverley Novels' scenes came thronging into imagination's eye, like
the half-forgotten scenes of happy youth, when we read of the bold
Scottish champions, the fierce Highlanders, and the silken courtiers,
the knights, battles, spearmen, castles, hunts, feasts, and pageants, so
vividly described by the Wizard of the North!
Here we are at a hotel on Princes Street, right opposite the Scott
Monument, a graceful structure of Gothic arches and pinnacles, and
enshrining a figure of Sir Walter and his favorite dog. The view, seen
from Princes Street, reminds one very much of the pictures of Athens
Restored, with its beautiful public buildings of Grecian architecture.
Between Princes Street, which is in the new, and the old city is a deep
ravine or valley, as it were, now occupied by the tracks of the
railroad, and spanned by great stone-arched bridges. An immense
embankment, called the Mound, also connects the old and new city, its
slopes descending east and west into beautiful gardens towards the
road-bed. Upon the Mound are the Royal Institution, Gallery of Fine
Arts, the former a sort of Pantheon-looking building, and both with
plenty of space around them, so that they look as if placed there
expressly to be seen and admired.
Princes Street, which is one of the finest in Great Britain, runs east
and west. It is entirely open upon the south side, and separated only by
a railing from the lovely gardens that run down into the hollow I have
mentioned, between the old and new town. Looking across the hollow, we
see the old city, where the historic steeples of St. Giles and others
mingle among the lofty houses in the extended panoramic view, the
eastern end of which is completed by the almost impregnable old castle,
rich in historic interest, which lifts its battlements from its rocky
seat two hundred feet above the surrounding country, and is a grand and
picturesque object. The city, both old and new, appears to be built of
stone resembling our darkest granite. The old town is built upon a
ridge, gradually ascending towards the castle, and is a curious old
place, with its lofty eight and ten-story houses, its narrow lanes,
called "wynds," or "closes," and swarming population.
The "closes" are curious affairs, being sort of narrow enclosures,
running up in between lofty buildings, with only one place of ingress
and egress, that could, in old times, be closed by a portcullis, the
remains of some of them being still in existence, and were built as
defences against incursions of the Highlanders.
Here in the old town are many streets, the names of which will be
recognized by all familiar with Scott--the High Street, Grass Market,
Cow Gate, and Canon Gate. We went, one afternoon, and stood in the Grass
Market, amid a seething mass of humanity that fills it. Lofty old houses
rise high about on all sides, every one with a history, and some of them
two or three hundred years old--houses the windows of which were oft
packed with eager faces to see the criminal executions here. Some of
these houses, Scott says in his Heart of Mid-Lothian, were formerly the
property of the Knights Templars and Knights of St. John, and still
exhibit, on their points and gables, the cross of those orders in
iron--houses that looked down on the furious mob that hung Captain
Porteous upon the dyer's pole, over the very spot where we stood. Then,
walking down towards the other extremity, we entered the Canon Gate,
extending down the hill towards Holyrood Palace--Canon Gate, which was
the residence of the wealthy canons of the church when Holyrood was an
abbey, and after the Reformation the abode of the Scottish aristocracy.
At one end of the old city stands Holyrood, at the other the castle rock
rears its rugged height.
The new city is beautifully laid out in broad streets and squares, which
are adorned with imposing buildings, monuments, and bronze statues of
celebrated men; but I am not to give a guide-book description of
Edinburgh, although there is so much that interests in its streets and
buildings that one is almost tempted to do so.
The very first visit one desires to make is to the lofty old castle that
overlooks the city. It is situated on an elevated basaltic rock, and is
separated from the town by an esplanade about three hundred feet wide,
and three hundred and fifty long. The castle is said to have been
founded in the year 617, and contains many curious relics of antiquity,
and is fraught with historic interest, having been the scene of so many
crimes, romantic adventures, captivities, and sieges, within the past
three or four hundred years--scenes that have been the most vivid in the
pages of history, and formed an almost inexhaustible theme for the most
graphic pictures of the novelist.
Among the most notable captures will be recollected that of the Earl of
Randolph, nephew to Robert Bruce. And also, when in the possession of
the English King Edward I., thirty brave fellows, guided by a young man
called William Frank, who had often climbed up and down the Castle Rock
to visit his sweetheart, ventured one night, in their heavy iron armor,
with their swords and axes, to scale the most precipitous side
overhanging the West Princes Street Gardens, and, succeeding, quickly
overcame the garrison. In 1341, when the castle was again held by the
English, Sir William Douglas and Sir Simon Fraser took it by stratagem
and surprise in broad daylight, having sent in a cart loaded with wine,
which was dexterously overturned in the gateway, so that the gate could
not be closed when the Scottish soldiers rushed forward to the attack.
The broad esplanade before the castle affords a fine view, and is used
as a place for drilling the troops, the castle having accommodations for
two thousand men. We passed across this, and by the statue of the Duke
of York, son of George III., and uncle of Queen Victoria, and the
monumental cross, erected in memory of the officers of the Highland
regiment who fell in the years 1857 and 1858, in the Indian Rebellion
War. On over the moat and drawbridge, and through the old portcullis
gate, over which was the old prison in which the Earl of Argyle, and
numerous adherents of the Stuarts, were confined previous to their
execution, and after passing beneath this, were fairly within the
castle. One point of interest was the old sally-port, up which Dundee
climbed to have a conference with the Duke of Gordon, when on his way to
raise the Highland clans in favor of King James II., while the
convention were assembled in the Parliament House, and were proceeding
to settle the crown upon William and Mary.
Dundee, accompanied by only thirty picked men, rode swiftly along a
street in the old city, nearly parallel to the present line of Princes
Street, while the drums in the town were beating to arms to pursue him;
and leaving his men in a by-place, clambered up the steep rock at this
point, and urged the duke to accompany him, but without effect. Scott's
song of "Bonnie Dundee" tells us,--
"Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
The bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat;
But the provost, deuce man! said, 'Just e'en let him be,
For the town is well rid of that de'il o' Dundee.'"
Dundee rode off towards Stirling, with the threat that,--
"If there's lords in the Southland, there's chiefs in the North;
There are wild dunnie vassals, three thousand times three,
Will cry, 'Hey for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!'"
From what is known as the Bomb Battery an excellent view of Edinburgh is
obtained. Here is a curious piece of early artillery, of huge size,
designated Mons Meg, made at Mons in Brittany, in 1476, of thick iron
bars hooped together, and twenty inches diameter at the bore. Near this
is the Chapel of Queen Margaret, a little Norman building eight hundred
years old, used by Margaret, Queen of Malcolm III., daughter of Edward
the Outlaw, and granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, who, it will be
remembered, disputed the crown of England for so many years with Canute.
One of the most interesting, as well as one of the oldest rooms, was a
little irregular-shaped apartment, known as Queen Mary's Room, being the
room in which James VI. was born, in 1566. The original ceiling remains,
with the initials J. R. and M. R., surmounted by a crown, and wrought
into the panels. From the window of this little room, it is said, the
infant king was let down to the street, two hundred and fifty feet
below, by means of a rope and basket, and carried off secretly to
Stirling Castle, to be baptized in the Roman Catholic faith. When James
made his first visit to Scotland, in 1617, after his accession to the
English throne, he caused the royal arms to be elaborately painted on
the wall, and underneath his mother's prayer, which still remains in
quaint old English letters, somewhat difficult to decipher:--
"Lord Jesu Chryst that crownit was with Thornse
Preserve the birth quhais Badyie heir is borne.
And send hir Sonne successive to reigne stille
Lang in this Realme, if that it be Thy will.
Als grant O Lord quhat ever of Hir proseed
Be to Thy Glorie, Honer and Prais sobied."
The view from the windows, here at the east and south sides of the old
castle, is varied and romantic. The curious old houses in the Grass
Market, far down below; the quaint, blackened old streets of the old
city; the magnificent towers of Herriot's Hospital against the blue sky;
and stretching beyond the city, the fine landscape, with the familiar
Borough moor, where the Scottish hosts were wont to muster by clans and
chieftains,--form a scene of picturesque beauty not soon forgotten.
The armory of the castle contains many interesting weapons of ancient
warfare. Among the most notable was a coat of mail worn by one of the
Douglases in Cromwell's time; Rob Roy's dagger; some beautiful steel
pistols, used by some of the Highland followers of Prince Charles Stuart
at the battle of Culloden; and cuirasses worn by the French cuirassiers
at Waterloo. The crown room contains the regalia of Scotland, and the
celebrated crown of Robert Bruce. The regalia of Scotland consist of a
crown, sceptre, and sword of state, the latter a most beautiful piece of
workmanship, the scabbard elegantly ornamented with chased and wrought
work, representing oak leaves and acorns, and which was a present from
Pope Julius II. to James IV. Particular interest attaches to these
regalia, from the fact of their discovery through Scott's exertions, in
1818, after a disappearance of about one hundred and eleven years. The
crown is the diadem that pressed the valiant brow of Robert the Bruce,
and the devoted head of Mary, and was placed upon the infant brow of her
son. Charles II. was the last monarch who wore this regal emblem, which
is connected with so many stirring events in Scottish history.
From Edinburgh Castle, a gradually descending walk, through some of the
most interesting portions of the old city, will take the visitor to
Holyrood Palace and Abbey,--quite a distance, but which should be walked
rather than rode, if the tourist is a pedestrian of moderate powers, as
it is thronged with so many points of historic interest, to which I can
only make a passing allusion. The High Street, as it is called, is one
of the principal through which we pass, and in old times was considered
very fine; but its glory departed with the building of the new portion
of the city, and the curious old "closes," in the streets diverging from
it, are the habitations of the lowest class of the population.
Bow Street, which, if I remember rightly, runs into Grass Market from
High Street, was formerly known as West Bow, from an arch or bow in the
city wall. We passed down this quaint old street, which used to be the
principal avenue by which carriages reached the upper part of the city.
It was a curve of lofty houses, filthy kennels, and noisy children,
spirit-shops, groceries, and garbage; yet up this street had ridden, in
old times, Anne of Denmark, James I., Charles I., Oliver Cromwell,
Charles II., and James II. It was down this street that the Earl of
Argyle and Marquis of Montrose were dragged, in the hangman's cart, to
execution in the Grass Market, which is situated at its foot, and to
which I have previously alluded. Porteous was also dragged down through
this street to execution, by the rioters who took him from his jailers.
In the old city we visited a court called Dunbar's Close, where, after
the victory of Dunbar, some of Cromwell's soldiers were quartered. Here
remains a carved inscription, said to bear the oldest date in the city.
It reads as follows:
=Y faith in Christ.
Onlie Savit, MDCLII.=
St. Giles Church, in High Street, is a notable building, and was, in
popish times, the cathedral of the city, named after St. Giles,
Edinburgh's patron saint. I will not tire the reader with a visit to its
interior; but it was here that took place that incident, which every
school-boy recollects, of Jenny Geddes throwing her stool at the head of
the officiating clergyman, upon his attempt to read the liturgy as
prescribed by Archbishop Laud, and which it was proposed to introduce
into Scotland.
The "Solemn League and Covenant" was sworn to and signed in this church,
in 1643. Just within the railings surrounding the old church stands the
shaft of the old cross of Edinburgh; and the site of the Tollbooth,
which figures in Scott's novels, is marked, near by, by the figure of a
heart in the pavement--"The Heart of Mid-Lothian." Numerous other points
of historic interest might be enumerated, did space permit. We must, as
we pass rapidly on, not forget to take a view of the quaint old
rookery-looking mansion of John Knox, the Reformer, with a steep flight
of steps, leading up to a door high above the sidewalk, and the
inscription upon it, which I could not read, but which I was informed
was
=Lufe God above all, and
Your Neighbour as Yourself=,
and the massive-looking old Canon Gate Tollbooth, erected in the reign
of James VI. On we go through the Canon Gate, till we emerge in the open
space in front of that ancient dwelling-place of Scottish royalty,
Holyrood Palace.
Holyrood Palace is interesting from the numerous important events in
Scottish history that have transpired within its walls. It is a great
quadrangular building, with a court-yard ninety-four feet square. Its
front is flanked with double castellated towers, the tops peaked, and
looking something like the lid of an old-fashioned coffee-pot, or an
inverted tin tunnel, with the pipe cut off. The embellishments in front
of the entrance to the palace and the beautiful fountain were completed
under the direction, and at the expense, of the late Prince Albert. The
palace is said to have been founded by James IV., quite early in the
year 1500, and it was his chief residence up to the time of his death,
at Flodden, in 1513. Some of the events that give it its historic
celebrity are those that transpired during the life of Mary, Queen of
Scots, who made it her ordinary residence after her return to her native
country, in 1561. It was here that Mary was married to Darnley, and we
were shown the piece of stone flagging upon which they knelt during the
ceremony, and which we profaned with our own knees, with true tourist
fervor; here that Rizzio, or, as they spell it in Scotland, Riccio, was
murdered in her very presence; here that she married Bothwell, endured
those fiery discussions with the Scotch Reformers, and wept at the rude
and coarse upbraidings of John Knox; here that James VI. brought his
queen, Anne of Denmark, in 1590, and had her crowned in the chapel;
here, also, was Charles I. crowned, and here, after the battle of
Dunbar, in 1650, did Cromwell quarter a part of his forces.
In modern times, George IV. visited the palace in 1822, granting, after
his departure, over twenty thousand pounds for repairs and improvements;
and in 1850, Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and the royal children made
a visit there, and since that time she stops annually on her way to and
from her Highland residence at the Castle of Balmoral, for a brief
period here at old Holyrood.
To those familiar at all, from reading history or the romances and
poems, with those events in which this old pile occupies a prominent
position, it of course possesses a great interest.
In the broad, open space before the palace, the elaborate fountain, with
its floriated pinnacles, figures, &c., will attract attention, although
it ill accords with the old buildings. The most interesting apartments
in the palace are those of Mary, Queen of Scots.
Passing in at the entrance gate, and buying tickets at a little office
very much like a theatrical ticket office, we visited the more ancient
part of the palace, and entered first Lord Darnley's rooms. These were
hung with fine specimens of ancient tapestry, upon which Cupids are
represented plucking fruit, and throwing it down to others; oak trees
and leaves, Cupids plucking grapes, &c. Another scene was a lake and
castle, with fruit trees and Cupids; also figures of nude youngsters,
turning somersaults and performing different antics. Another room
contains two pieces of tapestry, telling the story of the flaming cross
that appeared to Constantine the Great, the motto, _In hoc signo
vinces_, embroidered on the corner of the hangings; Darnley's elegant
armor, &c. Other fine pieces of tapestry are in Darnley's bed-room and
dressing-room. Portraits of Scottish kings also adorn the walls.
We were then shown Queen Mary's private staircase, that by which Darnley
admitted the conspirators up from a little turret room to assassinate
Rizzio. Mary's audience chamber is a room about twenty feet square, the
ceiling divided into panelled compartments, adorned with initials and
armorial bearings, and the walls hung with tapestry, upon which were
wrought various scenes, now sadly faded by the withering breath of time.
These tapestry hangings the curious traveller soon becomes accustomed
to, and the more, I think, one sees of them, the more he admires
them--the scenes of ancient mythology or allegorical design so
beautifully wrought as to rival even oil paintings in beauty of color
and design, and exciting a wonder at the skill and labor that were
expended in producing with many colored threads these wondrous loom
mosaics. In the audience chamber stands the bed of Charles I., and upon
this couch Prince Charles, the unfortunate descendant of the former
occupant, slept in September, 1745, and the Duke of Cumberland, his
conqueror, rested upon the same couch. Cumberland, yes, we recollect
him; he figured in Lochiel's Warning, Campbell's beautiful poem--
"Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain."
Some rich old chairs of the same period, and other furniture, are also
in this room, which was the scene of Mary's altercation with Knox.
Looking upon the antique bed, one can see how, despite care, the hand of
time leaves its indelible impress upon all that is of man's creation.
You can scarcely imagine how time affects an old state bed. No matter
what be the care or exclusion from sunlight, the breath of time leaves
its mark; the canopy and hangings gradually fade and deaden, the very
life seems to be extracted, and they look like an old piece of husk or
dried toast, light, porous, and moulding; the wood-work, however, grows
dark, and apparently as solid as iron; the quaint carving stands out in
jetty polish, rich and luxuriant--a study and a wonder of curious and
fantastic art and sculpture in wood.
Queen Mary's room is hung with a beautiful piece of tapestry,
representing the fall of Phaeton; half hidden by this tapestry is the
door opening upon the secret stair by which Rizzio's murderers entered;
upon the wall hang portraits of Mary at the age of eighteen, portraits
of Queen Elizabeth and King Henry VIII., presented her by Elizabeth;
here also was furniture used by the queen, and the baby linen basket
sent her by Elizabeth.
From here we enter that oft-described apartment so celebrated in
Scottish history--the queen's supper room, where Rizzio was murdered.
Its small size generally excites astonishment. Here, into this little
room, which half a dozen persons would fill, rushed the armed
conspirators, overturning the table and dragging their shrieking victim
from the very feet of the queen, as he clung to her dress for
protection, stabbing him as they went beneath her very eyes, forcing him
out into the audience chamber, and left him with over fifty ghastly
wounds, from which his life ebbed in a crimson torrent, leaving its
ineffaceable stain, the indelible mark upon the oaken floor, not more
indelible than the blackened stain which rests upon the names of the
perpetrators of this brutal murder.
Adown the little staircase which the conspirators passed, we go through
a low door into the court-yard. Over the top of this little door, a few
years ago, in a crevice of the masonry, an antique dagger-blade was
discovered by some workmen; and as the murderers escaped through this
door, it was surmised that this was one of the very daggers used in the
assassination.
But we leave the place behind, and enter the romantic ruins of the old
abbey. How interesting are these picturesque ruined remains of the
former glory and power of the church of Rome in England! Their
magnificent proportions, beauty of architecture, and exquisite
decoration bespeak the wealth of the church and the wondrous taste of
those who reared these piles, which, in their very ruin, command our
admiration. The abbey is immediately adjoining the palace,--its front a
beautiful style of early English architecture, and the noble,
high-arched door, with cluster pillars, elaborately sculptured with
fret-work figures of angels, flowers, vines, &c.,--one of those
specimens of stone carving that excite wonder at the amount of patient
work, labor, and skill that must have been required in their production.
The abbey was founded in 1128, and the fragment which remains formed the
nave of the ancient building. Here are the graves of David II., James
II., Darnley, and that of the ill-starred Rizzio, and other eminent
personages, some of whom, judging from the ornaments upon the marble
slabs of their graves, were good Freemasons and Knights Templars,--the
perfect ashler, setting maul, and square upon the former, and the
rude-cut figures of reclining knights, with crossed feet and upraised
hands, upon others, indicating the fact.
But the gairish sun shines boldly down into the very centre of what was
once the dim-lighted, solemn old abbey, with its cool, quiet cloisters,
that scarce echoed to the monk's sandalled footstep, and the
gracefully-pointed arches, supported by clusters of stone pillars, throw
their quaint shadows on the greensward, now, where was once the chapel's
stone pavement; the great arched window through which the light once
fell in shattered rainbows to the floor, stands now, slender and
weird-like, with its tracery against the heaven, like a skeleton of the
past; and the half-obliterated or undecipherable vain-glorious
inscriptions upon the slabs, here and there, are all that remain of this
monument of man's power and pride--a monument beautiful in its very
ruins, and romantic from the halo of associations of the dim past that
surround it.
The new city, to which I have referred, is a creation of the last
hundred years, the plans of it being published in 1768. The two great
streets are George Street and Princes Street, the former filled with
fine stores, and adorned with statues of William Pitt, George IV., and
many public buildings and beautiful squares.
Here, in Edinburgh, we began to hear the "burr" of the Scotch tongue.
Many of the salesmen in the stores where tourists go to buy Scotch linen
or Scotch pebble jewelry, the Scotch plaids which were temptingly
displayed, or the warm under-clothing which New Englanders appreciate,
seemed to have their tongues roughened, as it were, to a sort of
pleasant whir-r in speaking the English language.
Up from one end of Princes Street rises Calton Hill, with its unfinished
national monument, designed to represent the classical Parthenon at
Athens; and in one respect it does, being a sort of ruin, or, I may say,
a fragment of ruin, consisting of a dozen splendid Doric columns,--for
the monument which was to commemorate the Scotchmen who fell at Waterloo
was never finished. Here also is a round monument to Nelson, and a dome,
supported by pillars, a monument to Professor Dugald Stewart; while a
monument to Burns is seen upon the Regent's Road, close at hand. The
view of the long vista of Princes Street from Calton Hill, in which the
eye can take in at one sweep the Scott monument, the splendid
classical-looking structures of the Royal Institution and National
Gallery, the great castle on its rocky perch, and then turning about on
the other side and viewing the square, solid old palace of Holyrood,
with the fragment of ruined abbey attached, and rising high above them
the eminence known as Arthur's Seat, and the winding cliffs of Salisbury
Crags, forms a panoramic scene of rare beauty and interest.
Speaking of interest, I cannot leave Edinburgh without referring to the
interesting collection of curious relics at the Antiquarian Museum.
Think of standing in John Knox's pulpit, and thumping, with your
curious, wonder-seeking hand, the same desk that had held his Bible, or
been smitten by his indignant palm, as he denounced the church of Rome,
nearly three hundred years ago; of looking upon the very stool that
Jenny Geddes launched at the head of the Dean of St. Giles, when he
undertook to introduce the liturgy into Scotland, in 1565; and seeing
one of the very banners of the Covenanters that had been borne amid the
smoke and fire of their battles; nay, there, in a glass case, we saw the
old Scotch Covenant itself, with the signatures of Montrose, Lothian,
and their associates. Here also were Gustavus Adolphus's spurs, Robert
Burns's pistols, the very glass that Prince Charlie drank from before
the disastrous battle of Culloden; the original draft of inquiry into
the massacre of Glencoe, dated 1656, original autographic letters from
Charles VI., Prince Charles Edward Stuart, Cromwell, and Mary, Queen of
Scots. This was reading Scottish history from the original documents.
Here was the flag of Scotland that flouted the breeze at the battle of
Dunbar, in 1650, the pikes of Charles II.'s pikemen, and the old
Scottish six-ell spears; nails from the coffin and a portion of the very
shroud of Robert Bruce, the blue ribbon of Prince Charlie, worn as
Knight of the Garter, in 1745, and the very ring given to him by Flora
Macdonald at parting. Among the horrors of the collection is "the
Maiden," a rude guillotine of two upright posts, between which a loaded
axe blade was hoisted by a cord, and let fall upon the devoted neck
beneath. By this very instrument fell the Regent Morton, in 1581, Sir
John Gordon, in 1644, the Earl of Argyle, in 1685, and many others--a
bloody catalogue.
The collection of ancient implements, coins, seals, medallions, weapons,
&c., was interesting as well as valuable and extensive, comprising many
that have been exhumed from ancient ruins, and antique relics, more or
less connected with the history of the country. The Free National
Gallery contains a noble collection of elegant pictures by eminent
artists of old and modern times, and a fine statue of Burns.
The ride up Salisbury Crags to the eminence known as Arthur's Seat,
which rises behind Holyrood eight hundred feet high, is one of the great
attractions to the tourist; the drive to it by the fine carriage road,
known as "Queen's Drive," is delightful, and the view of the city and
surrounding country from the elevated road very picturesque. There is a
romantic little path here, on Salisbury Crags, running by the ruins of
St. Anthony's Chapel, that Walter Scott used to walk when working out
the plot of some of his novels, and the now broad road was then but a
winding path up the crags; the chapel, it will be remembered, figures in
the Heart of Mid-Lothian.
The elegant monument, nearly in front of the Royal Hotel, in the Princes
Street Gardens, erected in memory of Walter Scott, and known as the
Scott Monument, is familiar to most American readers, from engravings.
It is a splendid Gothic tower, and said to be "a recollection of the
architectural beauties of Melrose Abbey."
I cannot help reflecting here, in the native land of Scott, what the
present generation owes to him for preserving the history, traditions,
and romance of their country to undying fame; for investing them with
new interest to the whole civilized world; for strengthening Scottish
national traits, inculcating new pride to preserve the relics of their
bravery and noble deeds among all classes, high and low.
Thousands and thousands of the Scotch people are to-day indebted to the
labors of this indefatigable, industrious, and wonderful man for their
daily bread. I have been through enormous publishing houses here, or, I
might more appropriately style them, vast book factories, where editions
of his works, in every conceivable style, are issued. Year after year
the never-tiring press throws off the same sheets, and yet the public
are unsatisfied, and call for more; new readers step yearly into the
ranks vacated by those who went before them; and the rattle of the press
readily beats to quarters, each season, a fresh army of recruits.
The poems, couplets, pictures, carved relics, guide-books, museums,
ruins, &c., which his magic pen has made profitable property, are
something marvellous. Fashions of brooches, jewelry, plaids, dress, and
ornaments to-day owe their popularity to his pen, and what would be
forgotten ruins, nameless huts, or uninviting wastes, it has made the
Meccas of travellers from all nations.
As an illustration of the latter fact, I met a man upon the battlements
of Edinburgh Castle, from Cape Town, Africa, whose parents were Scotch,
but who for years had been an exile, who in far distant countries had
read Scott's Waverley novels and Scott's poems till the one wish of his
heart was to see old Scotland and those scenes with which the Wizard of
the North had inflamed his imagination, and who now, at fifty years of
age, looked upon his native land the first time since, when a boy of
eight years, he
"ran about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine."
He was now realizing the enjoyment he had so many years longed
for,--looking upon the scenes he had heard his father tell and his
mother sing of, enjoying the reward of many years of patient toil, made
lighter by the anticipation of visiting the home of his fathers; and I
was gratified to find that, unlike the experiences of many who are so
long in exile, the realization of his hopes was "all his fancy painted"
it, and he enjoyed all with a keen relish and enthusiastic fervor.
It is a pleasant seven mile ride from Edinburgh out to Rosslyn Castle,
and the way to go is to take Hawthornden, as most tourists do, _en
route_. This place--a delightful, romantic old ivy-covered mansion--is
perched upon a high precipice, eighty or one hundred feet above the
River Esk ("where ford there was none"), in a most delightfully romantic
position, commanding a view of the little stream in its devious windings
in the deep, irregular gully below; the gardens and walks, for a mile
about and above the river, are charmingly rural and tastefully arranged.
One can well imagine that Drummond, the Scottish poet and historian, the
friend of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Drayton, drew inspiration from
this charming retreat. Jonson is said to have walked all the way from
London to make a visit here.
Under the mansion we visited a series of curious caves, hollowed from
the solid rock, and connected with each other by dark and narrow
passages, very much like those subterranean passages told of in
old-fashioned novels, as existing beneath old castles. One of these
rocky chambers had a little window cut through its side, half concealed
by ivy, but commanding a view of the whole glen. Here, the guide told
us, Robert Bruce hid for a long time from his enemies; and I was
prepared to hear that this was the scene of the celebrated spider
anecdote of the story-books. We got no such information, but were shown
a long, two-handed sword, however, said to have belonged to the Scottish
king, which I took pleasure in giving a brandish above my head, to the
infinite disgust of the guide, who informed me, after I had laid down
this formidable weapon, that visitors were not allowed to handle it.
It may be as well to state that the authenticity of this sword, and also
the correctness of the story that Bruce ever hid there, are questioned.
One of the chambers has regular shelves, like book-shelves, cut in the
rock, and this is styled Bruce's Library. Passing out into the grounds
of the house, we descended, by a pretty rustic pathway, to the valley,
and along by the side of the Esk River, which babbled over its rocky bed
at our feet. If this Esk is the same one that Young Lochinvar swam, he
did not accomplish anything to boast of; for during a walk of over two
miles at its side, I saw no part over twenty feet wide, and no very
dangerous depth or current.
Our romantic walk brought us to the ruins of Rosslyn Castle, but little
of which remains, except a triple tier of vaults and some masses of
masonry, its position being on a sort of peninsular rock, overhanging
the picturesque glen of the Esk we had just traversed; and the massive
stone bridge which spans the ravine forms the only connection between
the opposite bank and the castle.
Rosslyn Chapel, or Roslin,--for they spell it both ways here,--was
founded by William, the third earl of Orkney, in 1446, who had conferred
on him by James II. the office of Grand Master of the Scottish
Freemasons, which continued hereditary in the family of his descendants
till 1736, when it was resigned into the hands of the Scottish Lodges.
The chapel is one of the most elaborately decorated specimens of
architecture in the kingdom, and, besides its celebrity in history, and
the interest that Scott has invested it with, is a building of peculiar
interest to members of the fraternity of Freemasons. It is impossible to
designate the architecture by any familiar term; it is distinguished,
however, by its pointed Gothic arches and a profusion of ornament, the
interior being a wonder of decoration in stone carving, particularly the
pillars, which are pointed out to the visitor as its chief wonders, and
some of which bear the mark master mason's "mark."
The interior of the chapel is divided into a centre and two side aisles,
and the two rows of clustered pillars which support the roof are only
eight feet in height. The capitals of these pillars are decorated with
the most beautifully chiselled foliage, running vines, and ornaments,
and on the friezes masonic brethren are represented feeding the hungry,
clothing the naked, visiting the sick, &c.; there are also a number of
allegorical figures, representing the seven deadly sins.
But the marvel of the whole is the Apprentices' Pillar, which, according
to the familiar legend, was left unfinished by the master mason, while
he went to Rome to study designs to enable him to perfect it in a
suitable manner. During his absence, an "entered apprentice," fired with
ambition, completed it after designs of his own, which so enraged the
master on his return, that, in a fit of rage, he killed him with a blow
on the head with a setting-maul. The pillar is a clustered column,
surrounded by an exquisitely-wrought wreath of flowers, running from
base to capital, the very poetry of carving. Above this pillar is the
following inscription:--
=Forte est vinum, fortior est rex, fortiores sunt mulieres;
super omnia vincit veritas.=
Which is, "Wine is strong, the king is stronger, women are strongest;
above all things, truth conquers."
We stood upon the ponderous slab that was the door to the vault beneath,
in which slumber the barons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of
James VI., were buried uncoffined, but in complete armor--helm,
corselet, and gauntlets. Scott's familiar lines came to mind,--
"Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply."
It seems, however, that some of the descendants of the "barons" had a
more modern covering than their "iron panoply;" for, about two years
ago, upon the death of an old earl, it was decided to bury him in this
vault; and it was accordingly opened, when two huge coffins were found
at the very entrance, completely blocking it up, and which would have
broken in pieces in the attempt to move them. The present earl,
therefore, ordered the workmen to close the old vault, and his father's
remains were interred in a new one in the chancel, built about eighty
years ago, where the inscription above his remains tells us that "James
Alexander, third Earl, died 16th June, 1866."
Bidding adieu to this exquisite little building, we will take a glance
at another, or rather the ruins of another, that owes much of its fame
also to the interest with which Walter Scott has invested it--one which
he loved to visit, and much of whose beautiful architectural
ornamentation he caused to be copied into his own Abbotsford. I refer to
Melrose Abbey; and, as no tourist ever thinks of leaving Scotland
without seeing it, a sketch of our visit may possibly be but a new
version of an oft-told story; but now that I have seen it, I am never
tired of thinking and reading of its wondrous beauty.
Melrose is thirty-five miles from Edinburgh by rail; and on arrival at
the station, we were at once pounced upon by a number of drivers of
vehicles in waiting, who were desirous of securing us, or of having us
secure them, for a drive to Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, or Dryburg Abbey,
and if we had not been cautioned, we should have been warned by a card
which was thrust into my hand, and which I give for the benefit of other
tourists who may go that way, informing them that the "Abbey Hotel,"
herein mentioned, is less than five minutes' walk from the little
railroad station.
"THE ABBEY HOTEL, ABBEY GATE, MELROSE.
"This hotel is situated upon the abbey grounds, and at the
entrance to the 'far-famed ruins.' Parties coming to the hotel,
therefore, are cautioned against being imposed upon by
cab-drivers at the railroad station and elsewhere, as this is
the only house which commands the views of Melrose Abbey.
"An extensive addition having been lately built to this
establishment, consisting of suites of sitting and bed-rooms,
it is now the largest and most handsome hotel in Melrose.
"One-horse carriage to Abbotsford and back 6s. 6d.
" " to Dryburg and back 7s. 6d.
"These charges include everything."
Upon the reverse we were treated to a pictorial representation of this
"most handsome hotel," an unpretending, two-story mansion, which, we
were informed, was kept by Archibald Hamilton, who also kept various
"horses, gigs, and phaetons for hire; wines and foreign and British
spirits for sale." A rush of twenty visitors would have overrun the
"establishment," to which "an extensive addition" had been made. The
Abbey Hotel was a comfortable English inn, and we found, on arriving at
it, that it almost joined on to the very abbey itself; while another
little building, the dwelling of the widow and two daughters who showed
the ruins, as we found, for a consideration, was close by--too close, it
seemed to us, to this glorious old structure, which, even in its ruins,
is an object of universal admiration, its magnificence and gracefulness
entitling it to be ranked as one of the most perfect works of the best
age of this description of ecclesiastical architecture.
Melrose was built in 1146, destroyed by the English in 1322, and rebuilt
with two thousand pounds sterling, given by Robert Bruce, in 1326--a sum
of money equal to about fifty thousand pounds at the present time. So
much for its history. But let us pay the sexton's pretty daughter her
shilling, for here she is with the key that unlocks the modern
iron-railing gate that excludes strangers who do not pay for the
privilege; and following her a few steps, we are in the midst of the
grand and glorious ruins of the old abbey that we are familiar with in
song and story, and from the many counterfeit presentments that we have,
time and again, gazed upon in luxurious illustrated books, or upon the
walls of art galleries at home.
"The darkened roof rose high aloof,
On pillars lofty, light, and small;
The key-stone that locked each ribbed aisle
Was a fleur-de-lis, or a quatre-feuille.
The corbels were carved grotesque and grim,
And the pillars with clustered shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourished around,
Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound."
As we came into the midst of this glorious old structure, we actually
stood silent for some time, so filled were we with admiration at its
wondrous beauty. To be sure, the blue arch of the heavens is now its
only roof, and from the shattered walls rooks or jackdaws fly noisily
overhead; but, then, the majestic sweep of the great Gothic arches, that
vista of beauty, a great Gothic aisle still standing, fifty feet long,
and sixty feet from floor to key-stone, the superb columns, and the
innumerable elegant carvings on every side, the graves of monarch,
knight, and wizard, marked with their quaint, antique inscriptions at
your feet, and
"The cloister galleries small,
Which at mid height thread the chancel wall,"
all form a scene of most charming and beautiful effects.
And we stood there, with the blue sky looking in through the shattered
arches, the noisy rooks flying hither and thither on their morning
calls, the turf, soft, green, and springy, sprinkled here and there with
wild flowers, in the centre of the ruin, while festoons of ivy waved in
the breeze, like tapestry hung about the shattered windows and crumbling
columns.
Here was the place, and the day was one of those quiet, dreamy spring
days, on which tourists could sit
"Them down on a marble stone,"
and read bold Deloraine's visit to the wizard's grave, as described by
Scott in the Lay of the Last Minstrel. And here is his grave, an
unpoetical-looking place enough now, and perhaps less wonderful since
Branksome's knight wrenched it open, and took away the magic volume from
Michael Scott's dead clasp. Here is the spot where Robert Bruce's heart
was buried; here the grave of the Earl of Douglas, "the dark Knight of
Liddesdale," and of Douglass, the hero of Chevy Chase; while quaint and
Latin inscriptions on the walls and the time-worn slabs record the
resting-place of once proud, but now extinct families and forgotten
heroes, all now one common dust.
We must not forget the great windows of the abbey, more especially the
EAST WINDOW. I write it in large letters, for it is an architectural
poem, and it will live in my memory as a joy forever, it is such a thing
of beauty. The lightness of its proportions and beauty of its tracery at
once impress the beholder; and all around the sides and above it are
quaint and wonderfully-executed sculptures in the stone-work--statues,
chain and crown; figures on carved pedestals, beneath canopies of
wrought stone, while wreaths and sculptured flowers are artistically
wrought in various directions.
The exterior of the abbey presents remarkable symmetry, and a profusion
of embellishment in sculptured stone-work, and is built in the usual
form of such structures--a Latin cross. The nave, in its present ruined
condition, is two hundred and fifty-eight feet long, by seventy-nine in
breadth. The transept is one hundred and thirty feet long, and
forty-four in breadth, which will give some idea of the size of these
splendid old edifices of the Romish church. The ornamental carving, with
which the whole edifice is so profusely decorated, would afford study
for a month, and consists, besides delicately-chiselled flowers and
plants, of grotesque and curious figures of monks, saints, nuns, demons,
&c.
Among other sculptures is that of a man seated cross-legged, upholding a
pedestal on his shoulders, his features expressing pain at the heavy
weight; a group of musicians playing on various instruments and
performing different antics; a man with his head in his hand; monks with
rosaries, cooks with knife and ladle, grinning heads, and women with
faces veiled and busts displayed; effigies of the apostles, rosettes,
ribbed work, bouquets of flowers, scallop shells, oak leaves, acorns,
lilies and plants; in fact, the faithfulness with which well-known
plants have been represented by the sculptor has long been the subject
of comment of the historian and antiquarian; and "in this abbey," says
an historian, "there are the finest lessons and the greatest variety of
Gothic ornaments that the island affords, take all the religious
structures together."
What must it have been when nave, and transept, and aisle were perfect,
when the great windows were perfect glories of colored glass, the
carvings fresh from the sculptor's chisel, and the chant of a hundred
monks floated through the lofty arches! In those times when these holy
men gave their hearts and hands to the extending and embellishing of
those temples erected to the great Architect of the Universe, by that
wonderful order of men, the Freemasons, and did it with an enthusiasm
and taste which proved that they deemed a love of the beautiful not
incompatible with the love of religion! It was then that religious
fervor expressed itself in grand creations, and all the arts of the age
were controlled and made to contribute to the one great art of the age,
Architecture, as evinced in these wondrous works of their hands that
they have left behind--models of artistic skill and beauty unexcelled as
yet by those who have come after them.
Melrose Abbey is a place that I would have enjoyed spending a week at
instead of a single day, which was all too short for proper study and
examination of the curious specimens of the sculptors' and builders'
arts one encounters in every part of the ruins; but we must up and away.
A carriage to Abbotsford and back was chartered, and we were soon
rattling over the pleasant road on our way to the home of Sir Walter
Scott, about three miles distant. It is in some respects a curious
structure, half country-seat, half castle, "a romance of stone and
lime," as its owner used to call it. We did not catch sight of its
castellated turrets, till, driving down a slight declivity from the main
road, we were at the very gates; entering these, a beautiful walk of a
hundred and fifty feet, along one aisle of the court-yard, and
commanding a fine view of a portion of the grounds, the garden front,
led us to the house itself.
At different points about the grounds and house are various stone
antiquities, and curiosities gathered from old buildings, which one must
have a guide-book to explain. Melrose Abbey and the old city of
Edinburgh appear to have been laid under contribution for these
mementos--the door of the old Tollbooth from the latter, and a stone
fountain, upon which stood the old cross of Edinburgh, being conspicuous
objects. Abbotsford is a lovely place, and seems to be situated in a
sort of depression among the hills, and by them, in some degree,
sheltered from any sweeping winds. Besides being of interest as the
residence of Scott, it is a perfect museum of curiosities and relics
identified with Scottish history.
The entrance hall is richly panelled in oak taken from the palace of
Dunfermline, and the roof with the same. All along the cornice of the
roof of this hall are the coats of arms of the different clans of the
Border, painted in colors, on small armorial shields, an inscription
stating,--
"=These be the coat armoires of the clanns and chief men of name, wha
keepit the marchys of Scotland in the auld tyme for the Kynge. Trewe men
were they in their defence. God them defendyt.="
Here are also three or four complete suits of tilting armor, set up and
looking as though still occupied by the stern warriors who once owned
them: one grasps a huge two-handed sword, captured at the battle of
Bosworth Field; another a broad claymore taken from the dead grasp of a
Highlander, who fell with
"His back to the field and his feet to the foe,"
on the disastrous field of Culloden; the breastplates and trappings of
two of Napoleon's celebrated French cuirassiers, whose resistless charge
trampled down whole battalions, but who were swept from their saddles by
hundreds, as these two were by the leaden hail of the English infantry
squares at Waterloo. Here also were stout old lochaber axes, English
steel maces, battle-axes, and other weapons, many with histories, and
from the bloody fields whose horrors are a prominent feature on the
pages of history.
But the most interesting rooms of all, to me, were the study and library
of Sir Walter; and among the most interesting relics were the plain,
unpretending suit of clothes last worn by him, his walking-sticks, his
shoes, and his pipes; and in his study the writing-table at which he
wrote, and the great leather-covered chair in which he sat. The library
is quite a large apartment, some fifty or sixty feet in length,
handsomely decorated, and with its deep, broad windows looking out upon
the River Tweed. It is completely lined with books from floor to
ceiling--in all, some twenty thousand.
Here are also many curiosities; among others, the silver urn presented
by Lord Byron, which rests on a stand of porphyry; Marie Antoinette's
clock; very curious and richly carved ebony arm-chairs, presented by
George IV.; a glass case contained Rob Roy McGregor's purse, a piece of
Robert Bruce's coffin, a purse wrought by Joanna Baillie, a small case
by Miss Martineau, two gold bees, each as big as a hen's egg, taken from
Napoleon's carriage, a portfolio that once belonged to Napoleon,
miniature portrait of Prince Charlie, ("Wha'll be King but Charlie?"),
snuff-box of George IV., the seal of Mary, Queen of Scots, a little box
from Miss Edgeworth, and other relics and momentos.
In the armory, among other curiosities, we saw the musket of that
redoubtable outlaw Rob Roy, Claverhouse's pistol, a sword that was given
to the Marquis of Montrose by Charles I., James VI.'s hunting flask,
pair of pistols found in Napoleon's carriage at the battle of Waterloo,
the armor of one of the old Scottish kings, General Monk's pistols, keys
of the old Tollbooth, &c.
Among the more striking pictures upon the walls of the different rooms
were the portrait of the head of Mary, Queen of Scots, upon a charger,
said to have been taken a few hours after her execution, the sad, pale
features of which haunted my imagination for many an hour afterwards.
Then there were the stern, heavily-moulded features of Cromwell, Charles
XII., the lion of Sweden, and Claverhouse, Charles II., and a
long-bearded old ancestor of Sir Walter's, who allowed his beard to grow
after the execution of Charles I.; and a collection of original etchings
by Turner and other artists, the designs for the "Provincial Antiquities
of Scotland." But from all these we sauntered back reverentially to the
little study, with its deep arm-chair, and its table and books of
reference, and its subdued light from the single window; for here was
the great author's work-room. A garrulous guide and three or four
curious friends allow a dreamer, however, no time for thought and
reflection while there is sight-seeing to be done; so we were escorted
over a portion of the prettily laid-out grounds, and then took our
leave, and our carriage, and soon left Abbotsford behind us.
Edinburgh, Melrose, and Abbotsford seen, we must next have a look at
Stirling Castle. So, after a ride of thirty-six miles from Edinburgh, we
are eating the well-cooked mutton chops that they serve at the Golden
Lion, in Stirling, and, after being duly fortified with good cheer, wend
our way up through the steep streets to the castle on its rocky perch.
This strong old castle, standing directly upon the brow of a precipitous
rock, overlooks one of the most extended and beautiful landscapes in the
kingdom--the beautiful vale of Menteith, the Highland mountains in the
distance, Ben Lomond, Benvenue, Ben Lodi, and several other "Bens;" the
River Forth, winding its devious course through the fertile valley, the
brown road, far below at our feet, running along to the faintly-marked
ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey, and the little villages and arched
bridges, form a charming view.
The eye here takes in also, in this magnificent prospect, no less than
twelve of Scotland's battle-fields, including one of Wallace's fierce
contests, and Bannockburn, where Bruce gained the independence of
Scotland in 1314.
James II. and James V. were born in Stirling; and I looked at the little
narrow road which goes down behind the castle with some interest, when I
was told it furnished King James V. the fictitious name, "Ballangeich,"
he was in the habit of assuming when he went among his subjects in
disguise. Theatre-goers will remember the play of the "Gude Man of
Ballangeich," and the "King of the Commons," and that he was the king
who was hero in those plays, and also the "James Fitz-James" of Scott's
Lady of the Lake. And, speaking of the Lady of the Lake, the beautiful
view from the battlements of Stirling Castle, three hundred feet above
the valley, recalled Roderic Dhu's reply to James:--
"Saxon, from yonder mountain high,
I marked thee send delighted eye
Far to the south and east, where lay,
Extended in succession gay,
Deep waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes and groves between;
Those fertile fields, that softened vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael."
The outer gates of the castle are said to have been built by the old
Romans, and were strong enough for ancient batteries, but not for modern
artillery. The marks of the cannon shot fired by General Monk when he
attacked the castle, directing the whole fire of his artillery at one
point till he battered down a portion of the wall, and the breach
through which William Wallace entered, are points of interest. So was
the dark, secure, stone cell into which we peeped, where Rob Roy is said
to have been confined. The outer works of the castle were erected in
Queen Anne's time, and that known as the Palace, built by James V. The
little room known as the Douglass Room, with its adjoining closet, is
one of the "lions" of the castle, for it was here that the Earl of
Douglass--the "Black Douglass"--met King James II. under promise of safe
conduct; and after a fierce discussion, in which the king vainly tried
to induce him to abandon a compact he had made with other chiefs, he
stabbed the earl, in a fit of passion. The nobles attendant on the king,
concealed in the little antechamber, rushed in and completed the murder,
throwing the body from the window--which is pointed out to us--into the
garden beneath.
Not far from the castle is the "Lady's Rock," a small hill from which
the ladies of the Scottish court, and other favored ones, could look
down upon the tournament field, a hundred feet below. And as we sat
there, and looked upon the form of the lists, still visible upon the
turf below, marked by the green ridges, it was easy to imagine what an
animated and beautiful scene it must have presented when filled with
knights and squires, steeds and men; for it was here that James was
forced to award Douglass the prize, as the victor in the feats of
strength at the Scottish sports.
"The gray-haired sires, who know the past,
To strangers point the Douglass cast,
And moralize on the decay
Of Scottish strength in modern day."
This beautiful vale has witnessed many a joust and tournament. This vale
at our feet, this "Lady's Rock," and the lady's seat, which makes for us
a sort of rocky throne, as we sit here and muse on Scotland's history
and Scotland's poet, are the very ones he speaks of as
"The vale with loud applauses rang,
The Lady's Rock sent back the clang."
Near the Lady's Rock is a modern cemetery, beautifully laid out, and
containing statues of Knox and Henderson, and other handsome monuments.
The old churchyard of Grayfriars contains many curious monuments, and
here, on an old sun-dial, I found this inscription:--
"I mark time; dost thou?
I am a shadow; so art thou."
It was in Grayfriars that James VI. was crowned, and Knox preached the
coronation sermon.
No tourist will think of leaving Stirling without taking a ride to the
field of Bannockburn, a short distance. The scene of a battle which
occurred more than five hundred and fifty years ago cannot be expected
to preserve many features of its former character; the only one which is
of particular interest is the "Bore Stone," a fragment of rock with a
small cavity, in which the Scottish standard is said to have been
raised; it is clamped all over with iron bars, to prevent relic-hunters
from carrying what remains of it away.
The story of the battle is one of the most familiar ones in Scottish
history to both young and old readers, and your guide will indicate to
you points where the Scotch and English forces were disposed, where the
concealed pits were placed into which plunged so many of the English
cavalry, the point where Bruce stood to watch the battle, nay, the very
place where
"The monarch rode along the van,
The foe's approaching force to scan,"
when Sir Henry Boune, thinking, as the Bruce was mounted on a slight
palfrey, far in advance of his own line, to ride him down with his heavy
war horse, set his lance in rest, and dashed out from the English lines
with that intent.
"He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once,"
thinking to distinguish himself and have his name in history. He did so,
but not in the manner, probably, he had anticipated; for
"While on the king, like flash of flame,
Spurred to full speed, the war horse came!
But swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.
* * * * *
High in his stirrups stood the king,
And gave his battle-axe the swing;
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet cracked like hazel-nut;"
and so began the battle of Bannockburn, which ended in the defeat of one
hundred thousand English by thirty thousand Scots, raising Bruce from a
hunted rebel to the rank of an independent sovereign. It was the most
important battle the Scots ever won, and the most severe defeat the
English ever experienced in Scotland.
Another pleasant little excursion was a walk to Cambuskenneth Abbey,
crossing the River Forth by an old ferry, where we had to hail the
ferry-man from the other side. We did not have to say,--
"Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry,"--
for the old fellow came over, rowed three of us across, and demanded
_three half-pence_ for the service; so we were liberal, and gave him
double fare. The only part of the abbey remaining is a Gothic tower, and
a few remnants of walls, and the foundation lines of nave and transept,
which are visible. A few years ago, when some excavations were being
made here, the site of the high altar was found, and beneath it the
supposed coffin and skeleton of James III. They were re-interred, and a
handsome square sarcophagus marks the spot, bearing an inscription,
which tells the visitor that Queen Victoria erected it in 1861, in
memory of her ancestors.
While at Stirling we had the opportunity of seeing a real Highland
regiment, who were quartered there, in their picturesque, unmilitary
dress,--kilt, bare legs, plaid stockings, crown of feathers, &c.,--a
most uncomfortable and inconvenient dress for service in the field, I
should imagine. I also had an opportunity of hearing native Scotch
songs, sung by a Scotch minstrel, as I never heard them sung before. It
was a still, quiet moonlight night, in one of the streets, and the
wandering minstrel accompanied himself on a violin. I never heard
ballad-singing better or more effectively rendered. The singer's voice
was a pure, flexible tenor, and as he sung, "Flow gently, sweet Afton,"
there was hardly a finger moved in the crowd that stood about him; but
when he gave a pathetic Scotch ballad, in which the tear was in his
voice, he brought it into the eye of more than one of his auditors; and
the hearty manner in which many a poor, ragged fellow crowded up to give
him a ha'penny at the close, showed how deeply they were touched, and
how grateful they felt towards one who could interpret their national
melodies so well.
From Stirling we will make a detour through that charming scenery of
Scotland which Scott so frequently mentions in his Lady of the Lake,
especially in the ride of Fitz-James after the stag, which at eve had
"drunk his fill,"
"Where danced the moon on Monan's rill."
But first an unromantic railroad ride of sixteen miles must be taken;
and not unromantic, either, for there are many pleasant spots and points
of historic interest on the route,--the Bridge of Allan, a pleasant
village, which is a popular watering-place not far from Stirling, being
one;--through Donne,
"The bannered towers of Donne,"
and on by the rippling stream of the River Forth.
"They bathe their coursers' sweltering sides,
Dark Forth, within thy sluggish tides."
And we might go on with half the poem in the same manner, such is the
charm which Scott's poetry has lent to this part of the country.
At the rugged-looking little stone-built town of Callander we left the
train, and climbed into a sort of open wagon stagecoach, similar to
those sometimes used at the White Mountains, which held sixteen of us,
and had a spanking team driven by an expert English "whip;" and we were
whirled away, for a ride of twenty miles or more, through the lake
country and "the Trossachs" to Loch Katrine. The word "trossachs," I was
told by a communicative Scotchman, signified "bristles," and the name
was suggested by the species of coarse furze which abounds in the passes
of this rough and hilly country. The wild mountain scenery reminded me
often of our own White Mountains; and the reaches of view, though giving
pretty landscape scenes, showed a country rather sterile for the
husbandman--better to shoot over than plough over.
At last we reached a little sort of hollow in the hills, where Lake
Vennachar narrows down to the River Teith, and came to where the stream
swept round a little grassy point of land; and here our coach stopped a
moment for us to look,--
"For this is Coilantogle Ford,"--
which, it will be recollected, was
"Far past Clan Alpine's outmost guard,"
and the scene of the combat between Fitz-James and Roderic Dhu. "And
there," said an old Scotchman, pointing to the little grassy peninsula,
"is the very place where the fight took place"--a borrowed stretch of
the imagination, inasmuch as the poet himself imagined the combat.
But we whirled away past Vennachar, mounted a little eminence, from
whence we had a grand panoramic view of hills, lake, road, and river,
with Benvenue rising in the background; and as we rattled down the hill
the road swept round with a curve near to a little village that I
recognized at once from the pictures in illustrated editions of Scott's
poems--Duncraggan's huts, one of the points at which the bearer of the
fiery cross paused on his journey to raise the clans.
"Speed, Malise, speed! the lake is past,
Duncraggan's huts appear at last."
And passing this, we soon rolled over a little single-arched bridge--the
bridge of Turk.
"And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone."
On over the Brigg of Turk, past Loch Achray, and we come to the
Trossachs Hotel, commanding a good view of the black-looking "loch," and
the rocky peak of Ben A'an. Between this point and Loch Katrine, a mile,
are the "Trossachs." All the drives and scenery in the immediate
vicinity are delightful; and the hotel, which is a fine castellated
building, must be a most pleasant place for summer resort.
Embarking upon a little steamer named Rob Roy, on Loch Katrine, we sail
close by Ellen's Isle, and sweep out into the middle of the lake--a
lovely sheet of water, and reminding the American tourist of Lake
George. A delightful sail on this lake carried us to Stronachlachar.
There we disembark, and take carriage again through the valley to Loch
Lomond, passing on the road the hut in which Helen McGregor, Rob Roy's
wife, was born, and also a fort built to check the incursions of the
McGregors, and at one time commanded by General Wolfe--the same who
afterwards fell at the capture of Quebec. Then, descending to
Inversnaid, we came to Loch Lomond, with the dark mountains looking down
upon its waters.
That there is some wind among these Scotch hills we had ample
opportunity of ascertaining; for so furiously did the gusts pour down
upon the lake, that they lashed it into foam-capped waves, and sent the
sheets of spray so liberally over the boat as to make us glad to
contemplate this pride of the Scottish lakes, its hills, and thirsty
islands from the cabin windows. Disembarking once more at Balloch,
situated at the southern extremity of the lake, the train was in waiting
which took us to Glasgow, passing Dumbarton on our route, and giving us
a fine view of Dumbarton Castle, situated upon the two high peaks of
Dumbarton Rock, five hundred and sixty feet high, and noted as being the
place of confinement of William Wallace. The highest peak of the rock is
called Wallace's Seat, from this circumstance.
CHAPTER IV.
Glasgow Cathedral, situated on the highest ground in the metropolis of
Scotland, looks over the spires, domes, and crowded masonry of a city of
half a million inhabitants. A view from its tower, over two hundred feet
in height, takes in the valley of the River Clyde, with woods, and
hedges, and pleasant meadows, and the river itself rolling on its way
towards the ocean. The Renfrewshire Hills, the neighboring town of
Paisley, Dumbarton Rock, and the Argyleshire Mountains, and a ruin or
two, with the waving ivy, green upon the shattered walls, complete the
distant picture; while spread beneath, at our very feet, is the busy
city itself, with its factories, its furnaces, and great masses of
high-storied houses, and stretching along by the water side the great
quay wall of fifteen thousand feet in length, with vessels ranged two or
three abreast before it.
This fine old cathedral is an elegant Gothic structure, and was built in
1136. It is remarkable from being one of the few churches in Scotland
that have been preserved in a comparatively perfect state, and its
annals for the past seven hundred years have been well preserved and
authenticated; but with these I must have but little to do, for once
immersed in the curious records of these old ecclesiastical edifices, so
celebrated in history, and so wondrous in architectural beauty, and we
shall get on all too slowly among the sights and scenes in foreign
lands.
The grand entrance to the Glasgow Cathedral is at the great doorway at
one end of the nave, and we enter a huge church, three hundred and
nineteen feet long by about sixty wide, divided by a splendid screen, or
rood loft, as it is called, separating the nave from the choir, that
most sacred part of the Roman Catholic edifices, where the principal
altars were erected, and high mass was performed. The carving and
ancient decoration here are in a fine state of preservation, and
the majestic columns which support the main arches, with their
beautifully-cut foliaged capitals of various designs, are an
architectural triumph.
The crypts beneath this cathedral are in an excellent state of
preservation, and at one time were used for purposes of worship. In
Catholic times these old crypts were used for the purposes of sepulture
for prelates and high dignitaries of the church; but nearly all traces
of the monuments of these worthies were swept away in the blind fury
which characterized the Reformation in its destruction of "monuments of
idolatry;" and so zealous, or, we may now say, fanatical, were the
Reformers, that they swept to swift destruction some of the finest
architectural structures in the land, and monuments erected to men who
had been of benefit to their race and generation, in one general ruin.
The tourist, as he notes the mutilation of the finest works of
architectural skill, and the almost total destruction of exquisite
sculpture and historical monuments, which he constantly encounters in
these ecclesiastical buildings, finds himself giving utterance to
expressions anything but flattering to the perpetrators of this
vandalism.
An effigy of a bishop, with head struck off and otherwise mutilated, is
now about all of note that remains of the monuments here in the crypt.
It is supposed to be the effigy of Jocline, the founder of this part of
the cathedral, which is about one hundred and thirty feet in length, and
sixty-five wide, with five rows of columns of every possible form, from
simple shaft to those of elaborate design, supporting the structure
above. The crypts are, it is said, the finest in the kingdom. But the
great wonder of Glasgow Cathedral is its stained-glass windows, which
are marvels of modern work, for they were commenced in 1859, and
completed in 1864, and are some of the finest specimens of painted-glass
work that the Royal Establishment of Glass Painting, in Munich, has ever
produced.
These windows are over eighty in number; but forty-four of them are
_great_ windows, twenty-five or thirty feet high, and each one giving a
Bible story in pictures. The subjects begin with the Expulsion from
Paradise, and continue on in regular order of Bible chronology. Besides
these are coats of arms of the different donors of windows, in a circle
of colored glass at the base, as each was given by some noted person or
family, and serves as a memento of relatives and friends who are
interred in the cathedral or its necropolis. Besides the leading events
of biblical history, from the Old Testament portrayed, such as Noah's
Sacrifice, Abraham offering Isaac, the Offer of Marriage to Rebekah, the
Blessing of Jacob, the Finding of Moses, &c., there are figures of the
apostles, the prophets, illustrations of the parables of our Saviour,
and other subjects from the Holy Scriptures, all beautifully executed
after designs by eminent artists.
But space will not permit further description of this magnificent
building. Scott says this is "the only metropolitan church, except the
Cathedral Kirkwall, in the Orkneys, that remained uninjured at the
Reformation." It owes its preservation from destruction somewhat to the
fact that James Rabat, who was Dean of Guild when its demolition was
clamored for, was a good Mason, and saved this work of the masters' art
by suffering the "idolatrous statues" of saints to be destroyed on
condition of safety to the building.
At the rear of the cathedral rises the Necropolis, a bold, semicircular
eminence, some three hundred feet in height, and formed in regular
terraces, which are divided into walks, and crowded with elegant and
costly modern monuments; too crowded, in fact, and reminding one more of
a sculpture gallery than a cemetery. Among the most conspicuous of these
monuments was a fine Corinthian shaft and statue to John Knox, and on
the shaft was inscribed,--
"When laid in the ground, the regent said, 'There lieth he who
never feared the face of man, who was often threatened with dag
and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and honor.'"
A magnificent square sarcophagus, erected to James Sheridan Knowles,
bore his name.
"Died November, 1862."
A fine monument to John Dick, Professor of Theology and Minister of
Grayfriars Church, Edinburgh; another to William McGarvin, author of the
"Protestant." One erected to a favorite Scotch comedian attracted my
attention from the appropriateness of its design and epitaph. The
designs were elegantly-cut figures of Comedy and Tragedy, in marble, a
medallion head in bass-relief, probably a likeness of the deceased, and
the mask, bowl, and other well-known emblems of the histrionic art. The
epitaph was as follows:--
"Fallen is the curtain; the last scene is o'er,
The favorite actor treads life's stage no more.
Oft lavish plaudits from the crowd he drew,
And laughing eyes confessed his humor true.
Here fond affection rears this sculptured stone,
For virtues not enacted, but his own--
A constancy unshaken unto death,
A truth unswerving, and a Christian's faith.
Who knew him best have cause to mourn him most;
O, weep the man more than the actor lost.
Unnumbered parts he played, yet to the end
His best were those of husband, father, friend."
The deceased's name was John Henry Alexander, who died December 15,
1851.
From Glasgow we took rail to Ayr, on a pilgrimage to Burns's birthplace,
and, at five o'clock of a pleasant afternoon, arrived at that little
Scotch town, and as we rode through the streets, passed by the very
tavern where "Tam O'Shanter" held his revel with "Souter Johnny"--a
clean little squat stone house, indicated by a big sign-board, on which
is a pictorial representation of Tam and his crony sitting together, and
enjoying a "wee drapit" of something from handled mugs, which they are
holding out to each other, and, judging from the size of the mugs, not a
"wee drapit" either; for the old Scotsmen who frequent these taverns
will carry off, without winking, a load beneath their jackets that would
floor a stout man of ordinary capacity.
A queer old town is Ayr, and at the hotel above mentioned the curious
tourist may not only sit in the chairs of Tam and Johnny, but in that
Burns himself has pressed; and if he gets the jolly fat old landlord in
good humor,--as he is sure to get when Americans order some of his best
"mountain dew,"--and engages him in conversation, he may have an
opportunity to drink it from the very wooden cup, now hooped with
silver, from which the poet himself indulged in potations, and drained
inspiration.
As we ride over the road from the town of Ayr--
"Auld Ayr, whom ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonnie lasses"--
to Burns's birthplace, and Alloway Kirk, we find ourselves upon the same
course traversed by Tam O'Shanter on his memorable ride, and passing
many of those objects which, for their fearful associations, gave
additional terror to the journey, and kept him
"glowering round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares."
A pleasant ride we had of it, recalling the verses, as each point
mentioned in the ballad, which is such a combination of the ludicrous
and awful, came into view and was pointed out to us.
"The ford
Whare in the snaw the Chapman smoored,
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brake neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn;
And near the thorn aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel."
But let us stop at the poet's cottage--the little one-story
"clay-biggin" it originally was, when, in 1759, Robert Burns was born
there, consisting only of a kitchen and sitting-room; these still
remain, and in a little recess in the former is a sort of bunk, or bed,
where the poet first saw light; that is, what little of it stole in at
the deep-set window of this little den; additional rooms have been built
on to the cottage, including a large one for society meetings and
anniversary dinners; the little squat thatched cot is the Mecca of
thousands of travellers from all parts of the world, as the visitors'
book reveals.
An old Scotch woman, who was busy with her week's ironing, her work, for
a few moments, to show us the rooms and sell a stereoscopic view, and
then returned to her flat-irons. An old fellow, named "Miller" Goudie,
and his wife, used to occupy the cot. He now rests in Alloway
churchyard, and, as his epitaph says,--
"For forty years it was his lot
To show the poet's humble cot;
And, sometimes laughin', sometimes sobbin',
Told his last interview with Robin:
A quiet, civil, blithesome body,
Without a foe, was Miller Goudie."
A framed autograph letter of Burns, and a picture of him at a masonic
assembly, adorn the walls of the large room, and are about all of
interest in it. A short distance beyond the cottage, and we come to
"Alloway's auld haunted Kirk,"--a little bit of a Scotch church, with
only the walls standing, and familiar to us from the many pictures we
had seen of it.
Here it was that Tam saw the witches dance; and there must have been the
very window, just high enough for him to have looked in from horseback:
just off from the road is the kirk, and near enough for Tam to hive seen
the light through the chinks, and bear the sound of mirth and dancing.
Of course I marched straight up to the little window towards the road,
and peeped in at the very place where Tam had viewed the wondrous sight;
but such narrow and circumscribed limits for a witches' dance! Why,
Nannie's leap and fling could not have been much in such a wee bit of a
chapel, and I expressed that opinion audibly, with a derisive laugh at
Scotch witches, when, as if to punish scepticism, the bit of stone
which I had propped up against the wall to give me additional height,
slipped from beneath my feet, bringing my chin in sharp contact with the
window-sill, and giving me such a shock altogether, that I wondered if
the witches were not still keeping guard over the old place, for it
looks weird enough, with its gray, roofless walls, the dark ivy about
them flapping in the breeze, and the interior choked with weeds and
rubbish.
In the little burial-ground of the kirk is the grave of the poet's
father, marked by a plain tombstone, and bearing an epitaph written by
Burns. Leaving the kirk, a few hundred yards' walk brings us to
"The banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,"
and the "auld brigg" spanning it, over which Tam O'Shanter's mare
Maggie, clattered just in time to save him from the witch's vengeance,
losing her tail in the struggle on the "keystane." The keystone was
pointed out to us by a little Scotch lassie, as we stood on the bridge,
admiring the swift stream, as it whirled under the arches, and the old
Scotch guide told us "Tam had eight mair miles to gang ere he stopit at
his own door-stane."
Near this bridge is the Burns Monument, a sort of circular structure,
about sixty feet high, of Grecian architecture. In a circular apartment
within the monument is a glass case, containing several relics, the most
interesting of which is the Bible given by Burns to his Highland Mary.
It is bound in two volumes, and on the fly-leaf of the first is
inscribed the following text, in the poet's handwriting: "And ye shall
not swear by my name falsely; I am the Lord." (Levit. xix. 12.) And on
the leaf of the second, "Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt
perform unto the Lord thine oaths." (Matt. v. 33.) In both volumes the
poet has inscribed his autograph, and in one of them there rests a
little tress of Highland Mary's hair.
The grounds--about an acre in extent around the monument--are prettily
laid out, and in a little building, at one extremity, are the original,
far-famed figures of Tam O'Shanter and Souter Johnny, chiselled out of
solid freestone by the self-taught sculptor Thom; and marvellously
well-executed figures they are, down to the minutest details of hose and
bonnet, as they sit with their mugs of good cheer, jollily pledging each
other. This group, and that of Tam riding over the bridge, with the
witch just catching at Maggie's tail, are both familiar to almost every
American family, and owe their familiarity, in more than one instance,
to the representations of them upon the cheap little pitchers of
Wedgwood ware, which are so extensively used as syrup pitchers wherever
buckwheat cakes are eaten.
The ride back to Ayr, by a different route, carries us past some
pleasant country-seats, the low bridge of Doon, and a lovely landscape
all about us.
But we visited the classic Doon, with its banks and braes so "fresh and
fair," as most of our countrymen do--did it in a day, dreamed and
imagined for an hour in the little old churchyard of Kirk Alloway,
leaned over the auld brig, and looked down into the running waters, and
wondered how often the poet had gazed at it from the same place, or
sauntered on that romantic little pathway by its bank, where we plucked
daisies, and pressed them between the leaves of a pocket edition of his
poems, as mementos of our visit. We did not omit a visit to the "twa
brigs" that span the Ayr. The auld brig,--
"Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,"--
was erected in the fourteenth century, and was formerly steep and
narrow, but has been widened and improved within the past fifteen years.
The new one, which is about two hundred yards from it, was built in
1788, and from it a good view of the river and the old bridge is
obtained.
A ride round the town shows us but little of special interest to write
of; a fine statue of William Wallace, cut by Thom, in front of a Gothic
building, known as Wallace Tower, being the most striking object that
met our view. From Ayr to Carlisle, where we saw the castle which Bruce
failed to take in 1312, which surrendered to Prince Charles Stuart in
1745, and which was the scene of such barbarities on the conquered on
its being retaken by the Duke of Cumberland. The old castle, or that
portion of it that remains, with its lofty, massive tower and wall,
makes an imposing appearance, and is something like the pictures of
castles in the story-books. In one portion of it are the rooms occupied
by Mary, Queen of Scots, on her flight to England, after the battle of
Langside.
The old red freestone cathedral, built in the time of the Saxons, where
sleeps Dr. Paley, once archdeacon, and where is a monument erected to
his memory, claimed a modicum of our time, after which we passed through
Newcastle-on-Tyne, celebrated, as all know in these modern days, as a
port of shipment for coal, and busy with its glass-houses, potteries,
iron and steel factories, and machine shops, and owing its name to the
fact that Robert, son of William the Conqueror, built a new castle here
after his return from a military expedition. The old donjon keep and
tower still stand, massive and blackened, not with the smoke of battle,
but of modern industry, which rises, in murky volumes, from many
chimneys.
On we speed, leaving Newcastle, its dingy buildings and murky cloud,
behind, and whirl over the railroad, till we reach the beautiful vale
that holds the "Metropolis of the North of England," as the guide-books
style it,--the ancient city of York,--with its Roman walls, and its
magnificent minster; a city, which, A. D. 150, was one of the greatest
of the Roman stations in England, and had a regular government, an
imperial palace, and a tribunal within its walls. York, which carries us
back to school-boy days, when we studied of the wars of the Roses, and
the houses of York and Lancaster--York, whose modern namesake, more than
seventeen hundred years its junior, in the New World, has seventeen
times its population.
York--yes, in York one feels that he is in Old England indeed. Here are
the old walls, still strong and massy, that have echoed to the tramp of
the Roman legions, that looked down on Adrian and Constantine the Great,
that have successively been manned by Britons, Picts, Danes, and Saxons,
the latter under the command of Hengist, mentioned in the story-legends
that tell of the pair of warlike Saxon brothers, Hengist and Horsa, the
latter, whose name in my youthful days always seemed to have some
mysterious connection with the great white-horse banner of the Saxon
warriors, that was wont to float from the masts of their war ships.
It was in York that the first Christmas was ever kept in England. This
was done by King Arthur and his nobility when he began to rebuild the
churches, in the year 500, that the Saxons had destroyed.
York was once a place where many Jews dwelt. We all remember Isaac of
York, in the story of Ivanhoe; and the great massacre of this people
there in 1490, when over two thousand fell victims to popular fury.
But I am not going to give a chronological history of this interesting
city, for there is scarcely an American reader of English history but
will recall a score of noteworthy events that have occurred within its
ancient walls.
The great and crowning wonder here to the tourist is, of course, the
cathedral, or the minster, as it is called. This magnificent and
stupendous pile, which occupied nearly two hundred years in erection,
and has stood for three hundred years since its completion, is, without
doubt, one of the most magnificent Gothic structures in the world, and
excels in beauty and magnificence most ecclesiastical buildings of the
middle ages. After a walk through a quaint old quarter of the city, and
a stroll on the parapets of the great wall, through some of the gates,
with the round, solid watch-towers above them, pierced with arrow-slits
for crossbowmen, or having, high above, little turrets for sentinels, I
was in the mood for the sight of the grand old cathedral, but not at all
prepared for the superb and elegant proportions of the pile which
suddenly appeared to view, as I turned a corner of a street.
The length of this majestic pile is five hundred and twenty-four feet,
and its breadth two hundred and twenty-two, and the height of its two
square and massive towers one hundred and ninety-six feet. I got a west
view of the building first, which is what I should suppose was properly
its front, consisting of the two tall square towers, with the main
entrance between them, surmounted by a great Gothic window, exhibiting a
magnificent specimen of the leafy and fairy-like tracery of the
fourteenth century. Tall, pointed arches are above it, and the two
towers are also adorned with windows, and elaborate ornamentation. To
the rear of them, at the end of the nave and between the two transepts,
rises the central tower two hundred and thirteen feet. There is a fine
open space in front of this glorious west front, and no lover of
architecture can come upon it for the first time without standing
entranced at the wondrous beauty of the building in proportion,
decoration, and design.
Churches occupied the site of York Cathedral centuries before it. One
was built here by King Edwin, in 627; another in 767, which stood till
1069; but the present building was founded in 1171, and completed in the
year 1400.
The expectations created by an external view of its architectural
grandeur and rich embellishments are surpassed upon an examination of
the interior, a particular description of which would require almost a
volume to give space to. We can only, therefore, take a glance at it.
First, there is the great east window, which, for magnitude and beauty
of coloring, is unequalled in the world. Only think of a great arch
_seventy-five feet high_, and over thirty feet broad, a glory of stained
glass! The upper part is a piece of admirable tracery, and below
it are over a hundred compartments, occupied with scriptural
representations--saints, priests, angels, &c. Each pane of glass is a
yard square, and the figures two feet three inches in length. Right
across this great window runs what I supposed to be a strong iron rod,
or wire, but which turned out to be a stone gallery, or piazza, a bridge
big enough for a person to cross upon, and from which the view that is
had of the whole interior of this great minster--a vista of Gothic
arches and clustered columns of more than five hundred feet in length,
terminated by the great west window, with its gorgeous display of
colored glass--is grand beyond description. The great west window
contains pictured representations of the eight earliest archbishops of
York, and eight saints, and other figures. It was put up in 1338, and is
remarkable for its richness of coloring.
Besides the great east and west windows, there are sixteen in the nave
and fifteen in the side aisles. In the south transept, which is the
oldest part of the building, high up above the entrance, in the point of
the arch, is the great "marigold window," formed of two concentric
circles of small arches in the form of a wheel, the lights of which give
it the appearance of the flower from which it is named, the diameter of
this great stone and glass marigold being over thirty feet. Then, in the
north transept, opposite, is another window of exquisite coloring--those
warm, deep, mellow hues of the old artisans in colored glass, which the
most cunning of their modern successors seek in vain to rival. It
appears, as it were, a vast embroidery frame in five sections, each
section a different pattern of those elaborate traceries and exquisite
hues of needle-work with which noble ladies whiled away their time in
castle-bower, while their knights fought the infidel in distant clime.
This noble window is known as the "Five Sisters," from the fact that the
pattern is said to have been wrought from designs in needle-work of five
maiden sisters of York.
The story of these sisters is told by Dickens in the sixth chapter of
Nicholas Nickleby. This magnificent window is fifty-seven feet in
height, and it was put in in the year 1290. The other windows I cannot
spare space to refer to; suffice it to say the windows of this cathedral
present a gorgeous display of ancient stained glass not to be met with
in any similar building in the world. In fact, the minster exhibits more
windows than solid fabric to exterior view, imparting a marvellous
degree of lightness to the huge structure, while inside the vastness of
the space gives the spectator opportunity to stand at a proper distance,
and look up at them as they are stretched before the view like great
paintings, framed in exquisite tracery of stone-work, with the best
possible effect of light. The glass of these windows, I w
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41233