The Lure of the Camera

By Charles S. Olcott

THE LURE OF THE CAMERA

THE LURE OF THE
CAMERA

BY

CHARLES S. OLCOTT

Author of “George Eliot: Scenes and People of
her Novels” and “The Country
of Sir Walter Scott”

ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
BY THE AUTHOR

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge 1914

COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published September 1914

TO MY BOYS
GAGE, CHARLES, AND HOWARD
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED

PREFACE

The difference between a ramble and a journey is about the same as that between pleasure and business. When you go anywhere for a serious purpose, you make a journey; but if you go for pleasure (and don’t take the pleasure too seriously, as many do) you only ramble.

The sketches in this volume, which takes its name from the first chapter, are based upon “rambles,” which were for the most part merely incidental excursions, made possible by various “journeys” undertaken for more serious purposes. It has been the practice of the author for many years to carry a camera on his travels, so that, if chance should take him within easy distance of some place of literary, historic, or scenic interest, he might not miss the opportunity to pursue his favorite avocation.

If the reader is asked to make long flights, as from Scotland to Italy, then back, across the Atlantic, to New England, and thence overland to Wyoming and Arizona, he must remember that ramblers take no account of distance or direction. In this case they must take no account of time, for these rambles are but the chance happenings that have occurred at intervals in a period of more than a dozen years.

People who are in a hurry, and those who in traveling seek to “do” the largest number of places in the shortest number of days, are advised not to travel with an amateur photographer. Not only must he have leisure to find and study his subjects, but he is likely to wander away from the well-worn paths and use up his time in making inquiries, in a fashion quite exasperating to the tourist absorbed in his itinerary.

The rambles here chronicled could not possibly be organized into an itinerary or moulded into a guidebook. The author simply invites those who have inclinations similar to his own, to wander with him, away from the customary paths of travel, and into the homes of certain distinguished authors or the scenes of their writings, and to visit with him various places of historic interest or natural beauty, without a thought of maps, distances, time-tables, or the toil and dust of travel. This is the real essence of rambling.

The chapter on “The Country of Mrs. Humphry Ward” was published originally in The Outlook in 1909, and “A Day in Wordsworth’s Country,” in the same magazine in 1910.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

I
THE LURE OF THE CAMERA

THE LURE OF THE
CAMERA

I

Two pictures, each about the size of a large postage-stamp, are among my treasured possessions. In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, in a white dress, is vigorously kicking a football. The second depicts a human wheelbarrow, the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, whose two plump arms serve admirably the purpose of a wheel, his stout legs making an excellent pair of handles, while the motive power is supplied by an equally robust lad of eight, who grasps his younger brother firmly by the ankles.

These two photographs, taken with a camera so small that in operation it was completely concealed between the palms of my hands, revealed to me for the first time the fascination of amateur photography. The discovery meant that whatever interested me, even if no more than the antics of my children, might be instantly recorded. I had no idea of artistic composition, nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, and printing papers. Still less did I foresee that the tiny little black box contained the germ of an indefinable impulse, which, expanding and growing more powerful year by year, was to lead me into fields which I had never dreamed of exploring, into habits of observation never before a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of countless places of historic and literary interest as well as natural beauty and grandeur, which would never have been mine but for the lure of the camera.

The spell began to make itself felt almost immediately. I determined to buy a camera of my own,—for the two infinitesimal pictures were taken with a borrowed instrument,—and was soon the possessor of a much larger black box capable of making pictures three and a quarter inches square. The film which came with it was quickly “shot off,” and then came the impulse to go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend a day at a pretty little inland lake, a few hours’ ride from our home. I hastened to the druggist’s to buy another film, and without waiting to insert it in the camera, off we started. Arrived on the scene, our first duty was to “load” the new machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow the directions did not seem to fit. But we got it in place finally and began to enjoy the pleasures of photography.

Our first view was a general survey of the lake, which is nearly twelve miles long, with many bays and indentations in the shore-line, making a rather large subject for a picture only three and a quarter inches square. But such difficulties did not seem formidable. The directions clearly intimated that if we would only “press the button” somebody would “do the rest,” and we expected the intangible somebody to perform his part of the contract as faithfully as we were doing ours. Years afterward, chancing to pass by the British Museum, which stretches its huge bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of nearly four hundred feet, we saw a little girl taking its picture with a “Brownie” camera. “That reminds me of ‘Dignity and Impudence,’” said my wife, referring to Landseer’s well-known painting which we had seen at the National Gallery that afternoon. This is the mistake which all amateurs make at first—that of expecting the little instrument to perform impossible feats.

But to resume my story. We spent a remarkably pleasant day composing beautiful views. We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the steamers and the sail-boats and at everything else in sight except the huge ice-houses which disfigure what would otherwise be one of the prettiest lakes in America. We posed for each other in picturesque attitudes on the rocks and in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had a delightful outing and only regretted when, all too soon, the last film was exposed. But we felt unusually happy to think that we had a wonderful record of the day’s proceedings to show to our family and friends.

That night I developed the roll, laboriously cutting off one exposure at a time, and putting it through the developer according to directions. Number one was blank! Something wrong with the shutter, I thought, and tried the next. Number two was also blank!! What can this mean? Perhaps I haven’t developed it long enough. So into the fluid went another one, and this one stayed a long time. To my dismay number three was as vacant as the others, and so were all the rest of the twelve. Early the next morning I was at the drug store demanding an explanation. The druggist confessed that the film-roll he had sold me was intended for another camera, but “It ought to have worked on yours,” he said. Subsequent investigation proved that on my camera the film was to be inserted on the left, while on the other kind it went in on the right. This difference seemed insignificant until I discovered that in turning the roll to insert it on the opposite side from what was intended, I had brought the strip of black paper to the front of the film, thus preventing any exposure at all! Thus I learned the first principle of amateur photography:—Know exactly what you are doing and take no chances with your apparatus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted to explain the use of the various “stops” on her camera, impatiently interrupted me with the remark, “Well, that’s the way it was set when I got it and I’m not going to bother to change it. If the pictures are no good, I’ll send it back.” It is such people who continually complain of “bad luck” with their films.

It was two or three years after the complete failure of my first expedition before the camera again exerted its spell, except that meanwhile it was faithfully recording various performances of the family, especially in the vacation season. It was in the autumn of 1898. The victorious American fleet had returned from Santiago and all the famous battleships and cruisers were triumphantly floating their ensigns in the breezes of New York Harbor. “Here is a rare opportunity. Come!” said the camera. Taking passage on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by the lifeboats, outside the rail, where the view would be unobstructed. We passed in succession all the vessels, from the doughty Texas, commanded by the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Oregon, with the laurels of her long cruise around Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by one I photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, are some pictures worth while. I had been in the habit of doing my own developing—with indifferent success, it must be confessed. These exposures, made under ideal conditions, were too precious to be risked, so I took the roll to a prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, for developing and printing. Every one was spoiled! Not a good print could be found in the lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had left yellow spots and finger-marks on every negative! Subsequent investigation revealed the fact that a negro janitor had been entrusted with the work. Here, then, was maxim number two for the amateur—Do your own developing, and be sure to master the details of the operation. The old adage, “If you want a thing well done, do it yourself,” applies with peculiar force to photography.

Another experience, which happened soon after, came near ending forever all further attempts in photography. This time I lost, not only the negatives, but the camera itself. Having accomplished very little, I resolved to try no more. But a year or two later a friend offered to sell me his 4 × 5 plate camera, with tripod, focusing-cloth and all, at a ridiculously low price, and enough of the old fever remained to make me an easy—victim, shall I say? No! How can I ever thank him enough? I put my head under the focusing-cloth and for the first time looked at the inverted image of a beautiful landscape, reflected in all its colors upon the ground glass. At that moment began my real experience in photography. The hand camera is only a toy. A child can use it as well as an expert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of a prison yard, and beyond them one cannot go. All is guesswork. Luck is the biggest factor of success. Artistic work is practically impossible. It is not until you begin to compose your pictures on the ground glass that art in photography becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing to see how many variations of the same scene may be obtained, how many different effects of light and shade, and how much depends upon the point of view. Then, too, one becomes more independent of the weather, for by a proper use of the “stop” and careful application of the principles of correct exposure, it is possible to overcome many adverse conditions.

An acquaintance once expressed surprise that I was willing to spend day after day of my vacation walking about with a heavy camera case, full of plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky tripod slung over my shoulder. I replied that it was no heavier than a bagful of golf-sticks, that the walk took me through an endless variety of beautiful scenery, and that the game itself was fascinating. Of course, my friend could not appreciate my point of view, for he had never paused on the shore of some sparkling lake to study the ripple of the waters, the varying shades of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the pebbly beach with smooth flat stones whitening in the sun, but looking cooler and darker where seen through the transparent cover of the shallow water, the deep purple of the undulating hills in the distance, and above it all the canopy of filmy, foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the loveliest cerulean blue. He had never looked upon such scenes as these with the exhilarating thought that something of the marvelous beauty which nature daily spreads before us can be captured and taken home as a permanent reminder of what we have seen.

To catch the charm of such a scene is no child’s play. It requires the use of the best of lenses and other appliances, skill derivable only from long study and experience, and a natural appreciation of the artistic point of view. It requires even more, for the plate must be developed and the prints made, both operations calling for skill and a sense of the artistic.

The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and in many forms of recreation is the overcoming of obstacles. The football team must defeat a heavy opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. If the opponents are “easy,” there is no fun in the game. The hunter who incurs no hardship complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman would rather land one big black bass after a long struggle than catch a hundred perch which almost jump into your boat without an invitation.

Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for the purpose of taking the animal’s picture than they would get if they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes—and in this class I include myself—can find all the sport they want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out the attractive scenes,—the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook; the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of some noteworthy historical event,—but the art of photography itself presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select the right point of view; to secure an artistic “balance” in all parts of the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired transparency in the shadows,—these and a hundred other considerations give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the never-ending fascination of the game.

I have noticed that the camera does not lure one into the beaten tracks which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many people are around, especially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always felt a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable jargon of the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not only with a sense of complete satisfaction, but with a new friendship to add to the pleasure of future memories.

To visit the places made famous by their associations with literature and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and awe-inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast depths of the Grand Cañon, or restful in their sweet simplicity like the quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people in their homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages; to find new beauty daily, whether at home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds; to gain that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the picturesque and beautiful,—these are the possibilities offered by amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera.

II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN

II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN

I

Emerson said of the English people, “Every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable,” and that “It is almost an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced.” Holmes, on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were “received with nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate kindness.” Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as “the only real thing in a wilderness of shams,” and thought his patronage “divertingly insufferable.” On the other hand, he praised the genuineness of the better men of England, as “so manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than water.” Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days what he called “the two opposite poles of English character.” One of them was “taciturn, reserved, fastidious” and without “power of enjoyment”; the other was “expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laughing loud and long.” All of this suggests that in attempting to write one’s impressions of the English or any other people, one must remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great emphasis—“some people are not all alike!”

I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland, manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to another, until, continuing to pass “higher up,” I was at last photographing everything of interest, including the “Beef-Eater” who obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should not be disappointed.

An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s writings, and on the day of our arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully preserved.

Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial smile, calling me by name and saying, “I have something I want to show you, if you would care to see it.” Considerably surprised, I saw him touch a button as he resumed,—“It’s a picture of George Eliot,—at least we think it is, but we are not sure,—we bought it from the executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist.” Here the attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to be a large painting in water-colors of a woman’s face, with remarkably strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say, “If any woman in the world can do a man’s thinking, I’m that person.” A letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered portrait was a “study” for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true womanliness of George Eliot’s character, for he certainly softened the expression of those determined-looking eyes.

After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s novels and to photograph all the various places of interest. “Of course you’ll go to Nuneaton?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, in a tone of assurance; “I expect to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor.” “I suppose, then, you are acquainted with Mr. Newdegate,” said he, inquiringly. I had to confess that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise. “Why, you can’t get in if you don’t know him. Arbury is a private estate.” This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I could go anywhere. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very beginning appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. Of course, I could not expect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs, and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. “I happen to know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.—No, I’ll do better. I’ll write and tell him you’re coming.”

This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and added, “Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture”; and the interview ended with his promise to have the official photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and the next morning received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall cordially inviting us to visit him.

Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging side by side in the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I was, therefore, eager to find them.

We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster’s conviviality. Readers of “Janet’s Repentance” will recall that the great “man of deeds” addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of the “Red Lion,” protesting against the “temptation to vice” involved in the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He brought the meeting to a close by calling for “Three cheers for True Religion”; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the inn, he caused “the most capacious punch-bowl” to be brought out and continued the festivities until after midnight, “when several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter.”

The old tavern, one of the few which still retain the old-fashioned arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change horses, boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept since Shakespeare’s time.

In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the private grounds of which make a beautifully wooded park of three hundred acres. The mansion is seen to the best advantage from the opposite side of a little pool, where the surrounding trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are waving gently in the summer air, and the pond-lilies spread their round green leaves to make a richer, deeper background for their blossoms of purest white. On a green knoll behind this charming foreground stands a gray stone mansion of rectangular shape, its sharp corners softened with ivy and by the foliage at either end. Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each with a double-storied oriel, and a multitude of pinnacles surmounting the walls on every side, give a distinguished air to the building, as though it were a part of some great cathedral. This Gothic aspect was imparted to the mansion something over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdigate, who was the prototype of George Eliot’s Sir Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist describes the place as if in the process of remodeling.

We were cordially welcomed by the present owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose hospitality doubly confirmed our first impressions of British courtesy. After some preliminary conversation we rose to begin a tour of inspection. Our host threw open a door and instantly we were face to face with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel, which for so long had stood in my mind as the only known objects of interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the way, not of Sir Joshua Reynolds, but of George Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory, probably a full score of years after her last visit to the place, and this is one of several slight mistakes. These fine portraits, really representing Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the end of a large and sumptuously furnished room, with high vaulted ceiling in the richest Gothic style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster Abbey. The saloon, as the apartment is called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window, the very one through which Sir Christopher stepped into the room and found various members of his household “examining the progress of the unfinished ceiling.”

Looking out through these windows, our host noticed some gathering clouds and suggested a drive through the park before the shower. Soon his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty little horse appropriately named “Lightheart,” for no animal with so fond a master could possibly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few minutes at Astley Castle, the “Knebley Abbey” of George Eliot, an old but picturesque mansion, once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour and his ill-fated protégée, Lady Jane Grey. Then, after a brief pause at the parson’s cottage, we proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building with a square tower such as one sees throughout England.

A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure suggested George Eliot’s bucolic parson, the Reverend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the farmers and talked of “short-horns” and “sharrags” and “yowes” during the week, and on Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old sermons to the ever-increasing satisfaction of his parishioners. We photographed this ancient temple on the inside as well as outside, for it contains some curious frescoes representing the saints holding ribbons with mottoes from which one is expected to obtain excellent moral lessons.

Our next objective was the birthplace of George Eliot, a small cottage standing in one corner of the park. We were driving rapidly along one of the smooth roads leading to the place, when the pony made a sudden turn to the right. I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, camera and tripod in hand. The cart went down a steep embankment, then up again, and the next instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the ground, while near by lay the tripod, broken into a hundred splinters. Scrambling to my feet, I saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on the seat, and nobody the worse for the accident except poor Lightheart, who was almost overcome with excitement. He had encountered some men on the road leading a bull, and quickly resolved not to face what, to one of his gentle breeding, seemed a deadly peril.

Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked back to the house, and in due season sat down to luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought “looked less like a place to dine in than a piece of space inclosed simply for the sake of beautiful outline.” A cathedral-like aspect is given to the room by the great Gothic windows which form the distinguishing architectural feature of the building. These open into an alcove, large enough in itself, but small when compared with the main part of the room. The ecclesiastical effect is heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of the canopies built over various niches in the walls, or rather it would be, were it not for the fact that the latter are filled with life-size statues in white marble, of a distinctly classical character. Opposite the windows is a mantel of generous proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations of which would not be inappropriate for some fine altar-piece; but Cupid and Psyche, standing in a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any churchly thoughts, though they seem to be having a heavenly time.

After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, in the left wing of the building, examining a first folio Shakespeare, while our host busied himself with various notes of introduction and other memoranda for our benefit. As we sat in the oriel window of this room,—the same in which Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp,—we noticed what appeared to be magazines, fans, and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It is related that Sir Roger Newdigate—“Sir Christopher Cheverel,” it will be remembered—used to remonstrate with his lady for leaving her belongings scattered over his library. She—good woman—was not only obedient, but possessed a sense of humor as well, for she promptly removed the articles, but later took advantage of her lord’s absence to leave their “counterfeit presentment” in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a century.

The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that in the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel “standing with one arm akimbo,” exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember that “arm akimbo,” if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for more than twenty years?

It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played—her name was Sally Shilton—is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only that interesting instrument, but also the “queer old family portraits ... of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly developed head-dresses—of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards.”

Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness that we had met in his friend Mr. Colvin, informed us that he had invited the Reverend Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were invited, however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, and later did so, receiving a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various mementoes of her husband’s distinguished relative, including a lace cap worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess Czerlaski of “The Sad Fortune of the Reverend Amos Barton.” I can still hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, “And here is Aunt Glegg!” There she was, sure enough, with the “fuzzy front of curls” which were always “economized” by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this point the canon suddenly asked, “Have you seen the stone table?” I had been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically told in “Middlemarch.” I had expected to find it at Griff House, near Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot’s girlhood, but the arbor at the end of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident.

Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing, while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr. N——, who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in the neighborhood. We accordingly stopped our little coupé at the doctor’s door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify nearly all the localities of “Amos Barton” and “Janet’s Repentance.” He also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made no objection.

On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice. The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known George Eliot’s father and mother, and had been interested to paint various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call, because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when, upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear people seemed determined to make our quest a success.

We now turned our attention to “Adam Bede,” traveling into Staffordshire and Derbyshire, where Robert Evans, the novelist’s father and the prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera, and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some surprise at the pile of luggage.

In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only way to reach Ellastone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning to rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though we might be obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the good-natured agent, whose day’s work was now done, and who was anxious to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a fire, at our disposal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for us. A long wait of an hour ensued, during which we congratulated ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, it would at least be dryer than the platform. At last the boy returned with the news that the inn was not open, but that a carriage would be sent for us! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived! It was a butcher’s cart. When the baggage was thrown in, there was but one seat left—the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went, twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces from one direction and the rain from another, but happy in the hope and expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night’s lodging than a country railway station.

In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson, the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to “step in an’ tek somethink.” We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord’s wife, who ushered us into the “best parlor,” kindled a rousing fire in the grate (English fires are not usually “rousing”), and asked what we would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the eyes of the cook—none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. “Oh, no, sir, the inn is not open,” explained our good Samaritan, “but we ’re always glad to make strangers comfortable.” These words indicate the spirit of the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady’s eyes, her smile, and her gestures. I cannot set down the exact words for the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot’s landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam: “They ’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country; the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em; I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for ‘hev n’t you’?—the gentry, you know, says, ‘hev n’t you’—well, the people about here says, ‘hanna yey.’ It’s what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir.”

It was curious to note, when we explored the village the next morning, that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was in the time of George Eliot’s father. I had never expected to find the real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as represented—except that Adam Bede’s cottage has been enlarged and repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the village as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was the original of the old squire in “Adam Bede.” This fine old estate was the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of a visit. We found the fine old “hoaks” there, which Mr. Casson mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained the hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the place from all the best points of view.

It has not been my intention to follow in detail the events of our exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real pleasure when the people one meets manifest a genuine interest and a spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.

II

There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder. There are surly butlers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we encountered one of the species in the Lake District. I had called at the country residence of Captain ——, a wealthy gentleman and a member of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His High-and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening of the muscles of the back and shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was “not at ’ome.” I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum. “Captain —— is ex-treme-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He’s obliged to be in Lunnun to-day, sir, but he towld me to sai to you, sir, that you’re to taik everythink in the ’ouse you want, sir.” And then the Important One gave me full possession while I photographed the most interesting rooms, coming back occasionally to inquire whether I wished him to move “hany harticles of furniture,” afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the sacred precincts of his own particular domain.

At another time, also in connection with Mrs. Ward’s novels, I came dangerously near to another break. It was down in Surrey, whither we had gone to visit the scenery of “Robert Elsmere.” I knocked at the door of a little stone cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown into the presence of a very old gentleman, who looked suspiciously, first at my card, and then at me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. I explained that I was an American and had come to take a picture of his house. He looked puzzled, and after some further scrutiny of my face, my clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, “Well, you people in America must be crazy to come all the way over here to photograph this house. I have always said it’s the ugliest house in England, owned by the ugliest landlord that ever lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the parish.” Fortunately he was not possessed of the Oriental delusion that a photograph causes some of the virtue of an individual (or of a house) to pass out into the picture, and upon further reflection concluded that if a harmless lunatic wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, it wouldn’t matter much after all.

Not infrequently it happened that the keepers in charge of certain places of public interest, while desiring to be courteous themselves, were bound by strict instructions from their superiors. In the year when we were exploring the length and breadth of England and Scotland in search of the scenes of Sir Walter Scott’s writings, we came one day to a famous hall, generously thrown open to the public by the Duke of ——, who owned it. Here we found a rule that the use of “stands” or tripods would not be permitted in the building. Snap-shots with hand-cameras were freely allowed, but these are always more or less dependent on chance, and for interior views, requiring a long time-exposure, are worthless. The duke, apparently, did not mind poor pictures, but was afraid of good ones. I felt that I really must have views of the famous rooms of that house, and we pleaded earnestly with the keeper. But orders were orders and he remained inflexible, but always courteous. He wanted to help, however, and finally conducted me to a cottage near by where I was presented to his immediate superior, a good-looking and good-natured woman. She, too, was willing and even anxious to oblige, but the duke’s orders were imperative. Finally a thought struck me. “You say stands are forbidden—would it be an infraction of the rules if I were to rest my camera on a table or chair?” “Oh, no, indeed!” she quickly replied; then, calling to the keeper, said, “John, I want you to do everything you can for this gentleman.” John seemed pleased. He first performed his duty to the duke by locking up the dangerous tripod where it could do no harm. Then taking charge of us, he conducted us through the well-worn rooms, meanwhile instructing his daughter to look after other visitors and keep them out of our way. I rested my camera on ancient chairs and tables so precious that the visitors were not permitted to touch them, John kindly removing the protecting ropes. We were taken to parts of the house and garden not usually shown to visitors, so anxious was our guide to assist in our purpose. At last we came to a great ballroom, with richly carved woodwork, but absolutely bare of furniture. Here the forbidden “stand” was sorely needed. My companion promptly came to the rescue. “I’ll be the tripod,” said she. The hint was a good one, so, resting the camera upon her shoulder, I soon had my picture composed and in focus. Then, placing the camera on a convenient window-ledge just above my head, and making allowance for the increased elevation, I gave the plate a long exposure and the result was as good an “interior” as I ever made.

This is one of the best parts of the game—the overcoming of obstacles. Without it, photography would be poor fun, something like the game of checkers I once played with a village rustic. He swept off all my men in half a dozen moves and then went away disgusted. I was too easy. A picture that is not worth taking a little trouble to get is usually not worth having. I have even been known to take pictures I really did not need, just because some unexpected difficulties arose.

Another part of the pursuit, which I have always enjoyed, is the quiet amusement one can often derive from unexpected situations. One day in London, when the streets were pretty well crowded with Coronation visitors, we decided to take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the precaution to secure a permit, so, without asking any questions, proceeded to spread out my tripod and compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate-holder, a “Bobby,” by which name the London policeman is generally known, appeared, advancing with an air that plainly said, “I’ll soon stop that game, my fine fellow!” I expressed my surprise and said I had a permit, at the same time drawing the slide—an action which, not being a photographer, he did not consider significant. He looked scornfully at the permit, and said it was not good after 10 A.M. Here, again, the assistant photographer of our expedition came to the rescue. She exercised the woman’s privilege of asking “Why?” and “Bobby” moved from in front of the camera to explain. “Click” went the shutter, in went the slide, out came the plate-holder, and into the case went the camera. “Bobby” politely apologized for interfering, and expressed his deep regret at being obliged to disappoint us. I solemnly assured him that it was all right, that he had only done his duty and that I did not blame him in the least! But I neglected to inform him that the Victoria Monument was already mine.

One of the pleasures of rambling with a camera is that it takes you to so many out-of-the-way places, which you would not otherwise be likely to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her “Recollections of a Tour in Scotland” complains that all the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad. Dorothy ought to have known, for she and William walked most of the way to save their bones from dislocation by the jolting of their little cart, and their limited resources compelled them to seek the shelter and food of the poorest inns. The modern tourist, on the contrary, will find excellent roads and for the most part hotel accommodations where he can be fairly comfortable. It was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as occasionally happened, we could find nothing but an inn of the kind that flourished a century ago.

On a very rainy morning in May we alighted from the train at the little village of Ecclefechan, known to the world only as the birthplace of Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom we inquired the location of a good hotel, answered in a Scotch dialect so broad that we could not compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, and as it afforded the only escape from the pouring rain, we stepped in and trusted to luck. The vehicle presently drew up before the door of a very ancient hotel, from which the landlady, whom we have ever since called “Mrs. Ecclefechan,” came out to meet us. She was a frail little woman, well along in years, with thin features, sharp eyes, and a bald head, the last of which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort of peaked black bonnet, tied with strings beneath her chin, and suggesting the rather curious spectacle of a bishop’s miter above a female face. Her dress was looped up by pinning the bottom of it around her waist, exposing a gray-and-white striped petticoat that came down halfway between the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a pair of coarse woolen stockings and some heavy shoes. A burlap apron completed the costume.

Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, clerk, porter, cook, chambermaid, waitress, barmaid, and bootblack of the establishment, was possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as comfortable as her limited facilities would permit. We were taken into the public-room, a space about twelve feet square, with a small open fire at one end, benches around the walls and a table occupying nearly all the remaining space. Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where the landlady baked her oatmeal cake and served the regulars who came for a “penny’orth o’ rum” and a bit of gossip. In front was another tiny room where were served fastidious guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. At noon we sat down to a luncheon, which might have been worse, and at five were summoned into the little room again. We thought it curious to serve hard boiled eggs with afternoon tea, and thinking supper would soon be ready, declined them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans with big, healthy appetites, for the supper never came. The eggs were it.

We spent the evening in the public-room sitting near the fire. One by one the villagers dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and spending an hour or two over a very small glass. The evenings had been spent in that way in that place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in the atmosphere of “long ago.” A middle-aged Scotchman, whose name was pronounced, very broadly, “Fronk,” seemed to feel the responsibility of entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly I thought, a song by Lady Nairne, “The Auld Hoose,” and recited with fine appreciation the lines of Burns’s “Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn,” “To a Mouse,” “To a Louse,” and other poems. He related how Burns once helped a friend out of a dilemma. Three women had been buried side by side. The son of one of them wished to put an inscription on his mother’s tombstone, but the sexton could not remember which grave was hers. Burns solved the problem by suggesting these lines:—

Our landlady assured us that Fronk “had the bluid o’ Douglas in his veins,” but he was now only a poor “ne’er-do-weel,” picking up “a bit shillin’” now and then. But he loved Bobbie Burns.

After the evening’s entertainment we were shown to a tiny bedroom. Over the horrors upstairs I must draw the veil of charity, only remarking that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I shall seek out a nice soft pile of old scrap-iron for a couch, rather than risk another night on one of those beds.

Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, which is now one of the “restored” show places, and an interesting one. We also went to the graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we were conducted by an old woman, nearly ninety years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived in the village all her days. We asked if she had ever seen Carlyle. “Oh, yes,” she replied, wearily, “I hae seen ’im. He was a coo-rious mon.” Then brightening she added, with a smile that revealed her heart of hearts, “But we a’ love Bobbie Burns.” And so we found it throughout Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissipated wanderer shared with the intelligent and cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably called, affectionately, “Bobbie.”

It was not long after this that we had occasion to visit the land of Burns, for a trip through Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would scarcely be possible without many glimpses of the places made famous by the elder and less cultured but not less beloved poet. Scott’s intimacy with Adam Ferguson, the son of the distinguished Dr. Adam Ferguson, was the means of his introduction to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it was at the house of the latter, that Scott, then a boy of fifteen, met Burns for the first and only time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet by promptly naming the author of a poem which Burns had quoted, when no one else in the room could give the information. It is a far cry from the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the tavern in the Canongate where the “Crochallan Fencibles” used to meet, but here the lines crossed again, for to this resort for convivial souls Burns came to enjoy the bacchanalian revels known as “High Jinks,” in the same way as did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott’s fictitious Paulus Pleydell.

We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a number of places described by Scott in “Guy Mannering,” “Redgauntlet,” and other novels, and found ourselves in the very heart of the Burns country. In the center of High Street stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which the original Effie Deans, whose real name was Isabel Walker, was tried for child murder. Here the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save her sister’s life, afterward walking to London to secure her pardon. Almost around the corner is the house where Burns’s Jean lived, and where “Bobbie” died. In the same town is the churchyard of St. Michaels where Burns lies buried in a handsome “muselum,” as one of the natives informed us.

Out on the road toward the old church of Kirkpatrick Irongray, where Scott erected a monument to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie Deans, is a small remnant of the house once occupied by that heroine. In the same general direction but a little farther to the north, on the banks of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns attempted to manage a farm, attend to the duties of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at the same time. Out of the last came “Tam o’ Shanter,” but the other two “attempts” were failures.

We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast of Carrick and what is left of the ancestral home of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero landed, with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graphically related by Scott in “The Lord of the Isles.” Here again we were in Burns’s own country. In the city of Ayr we saw the “Twa Brigs” and the very tavern which Tam o’ Shanter may be supposed to have frequented,—

Of course we drove to Burns’s birthplace, about three miles to the south, a long, narrow cottage with a thatched roof, one end of which was dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was built by the poet’s father, with his own hands, and when Robert was born there in the winter of 1759 probably looked a great deal less respectable than it does now.

Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway Kirk for a view of the old church where Tam o’ Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the witches and started on his famous ride. The keeper felt personally aggrieved because I preferred to utilize my limited time to make a picture of the church, rather than listen to his repetition of a tale which I already knew by heart. We traveled over Tam’s route and soon had a fine view of the old “Brig o’ Doon,” where Tam at length escaped the witches at the expense of his poor nag’s tail. I have made few pictures that pleased me more than that of the “auld brig,” which I was able to get by placing my camera on the new bridge near by. Here the memory of Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memorial, in the form of a Grecian temple and very similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh, but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded by a garden of well-trimmed yews, shrubbery of various kinds, and a wealth of brightly blooming flowers, and best of all, stands well above the “banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,” where the poet himself would have been happy to stand and look upon his beloved river.

Whatever may have been “Bobbie’s” faults, and, poor fellow, they were many and grievous, there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle of love beneath which they have been concealed and forgotten. He touched the hearts of his countrymen as none other ever did, and out of the sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung beautiful flowers, laid out along well-ordered and graceful paths, a delight and solace to his fellow-men, like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the lovely garden at the base of his memorial overlooking the Doon.

III
A DAY IN WORDSWORTH’S COUNTRY

III
A DAY IN WORDSWORTH’S COUNTRY

Our arrival on Saturday evening at the village of Windermere was like the sudden and unexpected realization of a dream. On many a winter night, under the light of our library lamp at home, we had talked of that vague, distant “sometime” when we should visit the English Lakes. And now—by what curious combination of circumstances we did not try to analyze—here we were with the whole beautiful panorama, in all its evening splendors, spread out before us. Through our minds passed, as in a vision, the whole company of poets who are inseparably associated with these scenes: Wordsworth, whose abiding influence upon the spirit of poetry will endure as long as the mountains and vales which taught him to love and reverence nature; Southey, who, himself without the appreciation of nature, was the first to recognize Wordsworth’s rare power of interpreting her true meaning; Coleridge, the most intimate friend of the greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be the most wonderful man he ever met, and who, in spite of those shortcomings which caused his life to end in worldly failure, nevertheless possessed a native eloquence and alluring personality.

Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent twenty of the happiest years of his life at Dove Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. His most intimate companion was the famous Professor Wilson of Edinburgh, known to all readers of “Blackwood’s Magazine” as “Christopher North.” Attracted partly by the beauty of the Lake Country, but more by his desire to cultivate the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius he greatly admired, Professor Wilson bought a pretty place in Cumberland, where he lived for several years. He enjoyed the companionship of the friendly group of poets, but, we are told, occasionally sought a different kind of pleasure in measuring his strength with some of the native wrestlers, one of the most famous of whom has testified that he found him “a very bad un to lick.”

At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found himself drawn to the Lakes by the same double attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox How on the River Rothay, where his youngest daughter still resides. He wrote in 1832: “Our intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the brightest spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten.”

It was not alone the beauty of the Westmoreland scenery that had attracted this group of famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. But Wordsworth was here, in the midst of those charming displays of Nature in her most cheerful as well as most soothing moods. Nature’s best interpreter and Nature herself could be seen together. For a hundred years this same influence has continued to exercise its spell upon travelers, and we are bound to recognize the fact that this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from our prearranged path, that we might enjoy the pleasure of a Sunday in the country of Wordsworth.

The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, suggesting that splendid day when Wordsworth, then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed of an irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry:

We resolved that the whole of this beautiful day should be devoted to catching something of that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and through him taught the love of Nature to countless thousands. A few steps took us away from the town, the inn, and the other tourists, into a quiet woodland path leading toward the lake, at the end of which we stood

“On long Winander’s eastern shore.”

“Winander” is the old form of Windermere. The lake was the scene of many of Wordsworth’s boyhood experiences.

Wordsworth’s boyhood was probably very much like that of other boys. He tells us that he was “stiff, moody, and of a violent temper”—so much so that he went up into his grandfather’s attic one day, while under the resentment of some indignity, determined to destroy himself. But his heart failed. On another occasion he relates that while at his grandfather’s house in Penrith, he and his eldest brother Richard were whipping tops in the large drawing-room. “The walls were hung round with family pictures, and I said to my brother, ‘Dare you strike your whip through that old lady’s petticoat?’ He replied, ’No, I won’t.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘here goes!’ and I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat; for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly punished. But, possibly from some want of judgment in the punishments inflicted, I had become perverse and obstinate in defying chastisement, and rather proud of it than otherwise.” Lowell remarks upon this incident: “Just so do we find him afterward striking his defiant lash through the hooped petticoat of the artificial style of poetry, and proudly unsubdued by the punishment of the Reviewers.” When scarcely ten years old, it was his joy

“To range the open heights where woodcocks run.”

He would spend half the night “scudding away from snare to snare,” sometimes yielding to the temptation to take the birds caught in the snare of some other lad. He felt the average boy’s terror inspired by a guilty conscience, for he says:—

Across the lake from where we stood, and over beyond the hills on the other side, is the quaint old town of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth was sent to school at the age of nine years. The little schoolhouse may still be seen, but it is of small import. The real scenes of Wordsworth’s early education were the woods and vales, the solitary cliffs, the rocks and pools, and the Lake of Esthwaite, five miles round, which he was fond of encircling in his early morning walks, that he might sit

In winter-time “a noisy crew” made merry upon the icy surface of the lake.

Nor were the pleasures of social life lacking. Dances, feasts, public revelry, and

all seemed for a time to conspire to lure his mind away from the paths of “books and nature,” which he would have preferred. But, curiously enough, it was after one of these nights of revelry that, on his way home, Wordsworth was so much impressed with the beauties of the dawn that he felt the impulse, previously mentioned, to devote himself to poetry.

No other poet ever gave such an account of the development of his own mind as Wordsworth gives in the “Prelude.” And while he recounts enough incidents like the snaring of woodcock, the fishing for trout in the quiet pools and the cascades of the mountain brooks, the flying of kites on the hilltops, the nutting expeditions, the rowing on the lake, and in the winter-time the skating and dancing, to convince us that he was really a boy, yet he continually shows that beneath it all there was a deeper feeling—a prophecy of the man who was even then developing. No ordinary boy would have been conscious of “a sense of pain” at beholding the mutilated hazel boughs which he had broken in his search for nuts. No ordinary lad of ten would be able to hold

Even at that early age, in the midst of all his pleasures he felt

The secret of Wordsworth’s power lay in the fact that, throughout a long life, nature was to him a vital, living Presence—one capable of uplifting mankind to loftier aspirations, of teaching noble truths, and at the same time providing tranquillity and rest to the soul. As a boy he had felt for nature

But manhood brought a deeper joy.

In these noble lines we reach the very summit of Wordsworth’s intellectual power and poetic genius.

We must now retrace our steps to the village and find a carriage to take us on our journey. For we are not like our English friends, who are good walkers, nor do we care to emulate the pedestrian attainments of our poet, who, De Quincey thought, must have traversed a distance of one hundred and seventy-five thousand to one hundred and eighty thousand English miles. So a comfortable landau takes us on our way, skirting the upper margin of the lake, then winding along the river Brathay, pausing for a moment to view the charming little cascade of Skelwith Force, then on again until Red Bank is reached, overlooking the vale of Grasmere. The first glimpse of this placid little lake, “with its one green island,” its shores well fringed with the budding foliage of spring, the gently undulating hills forming as it were a graceful frame to the mirror of the waters, in which the reflection of the blue sky and fleecy white clouds seemed even more beautiful than their original overhead—the first glimpse could scarcely fail to arouse the emotions of the most apathetic and stir up a poetic feeling in the most unpoetic of natures.

To a mind like Wordsworth’s, such a scene was an inspiration, a revelation of Nature’s charms such as could arouse an almost ecstatic enthusiasm in the heart of one who, all his life, had lived amid scenes of beauty and possessed the eyes to see them. He came here first “a roving schoolboy,” on a “golden summer holiday,” and even then said, with a sigh,—

“What happy fortune were it here to live!”

He had no thought, nor even hope, that he would ever realize such good fortune, but only

Possibly he may have stood on this very knoll where we were enjoying our first view:—

Many years later, in the summer of 1799, Wordsworth and Coleridge were walking together over the hills and valleys of Westmoreland and Cumberland, hoping to find, each for himself, a home where they might dwell as neighbors. Since receiving his degree at Cambridge in 1791 Wordsworth had wandered about in a somewhat aimless way, living for a time in London and in France, visiting Germany, and finally attempting to find a home in the south of England. A small legacy left him in 1795 had given a feeling of independence, and his one consuming desire at this time was to establish a home where his beloved sister Dorothy might be with him and he could devote his entire time to poetry.

A little cottage in a quiet spot just outside the village of Grasmere attracted his eye. It had been a public-house, and bore the sign “The Dove and the Olive Bough.” He called it “Dove Cottage,” and for eight years it became his home. We found the custodian, a little old lady, in a penny shop across the street, and she was glad to show us through the tiny, low-ceilinged rooms. The cottage looks best from the little garden in the rear. The ivy and the roses soften all the harsh angles of the eaves and convert even the chimney-pots into things of beauty. A tangled mass of foliage covers the small back portico and makes a shady nook, where a little bench is invitingly placed. A few yards up the garden walk, over stone steps put in place by Wordsworth and Hartley Coleridge, is the rocky well, or spring, where the poet placed “bright gowan and marsh marigold” brought from the borders of the lake. At the farthest end is the little summer-house, the poet’s favorite retreat. How well he loved this garden is shown in the poem written when he left Grasmere to bring home his bride in 1802:—

Seating ourselves in this garden, we tried to think of the three interesting personages who had made the place their home. Coleridge said, “His is the happiest family I ever saw.” They had one common object—to work together to develop a rare poetic gift. They were poor, for Wordsworth had only the income of a very small legacy, and the public had not yet come to recognize his genius; the returns from his literary work were therefore extremely meager. They got along with frugal living and poor clothing, but as they made no pretensions they were never ashamed of their poverty. Visitors came and went, and at the cost of many little sacrifices were hospitably entertained.

Perhaps the world will never know how much Wordsworth really owed to the two women of his household. They lived together with no sign of jealousy or distrust. The husband and brother was the object of their untiring and sympathetic devotion. They walked with him, read with him, cared for him. Mrs. Wordsworth seems to have been a plain country-woman of simple manners, yet possessed of a graciousness and tact which made everything in the household go smoothly. De Quincey declared that, “without being handsome or even comely,” she exercised “all the practical fascination of beauty, through the mere compensating charms of sweetness all but angelic, of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect and purity of heart speaking through all her looks, acts, and movements.” Wordsworth was never more sincere than when he sang,—

“She was a phantom of delight,”

and closed the poem with that splendid tribute to a most excellent wife:—

He recognized her unusual poetic instinct by giving her full credit for the best two lines in one of his most beautiful poems, “The Daffodils”:—

To the other member of that household, his sister Dorothy, Wordsworth gave from early boyhood the full measure of his affection. She was his constant companion in his walks, at all hours and in all kinds of weather. She cheerfully performed the irksome task of writing out his verses from dictation. Her observations of nature were as keen as his, and the poet was indebted to Dorothy’s notebook for many a good suggestion. He has been most generous in his acknowledgments of his obligation to her:—

In the early days when he was overwhelmed with adverse criticism and brought almost to the verge of despair, it was Dorothy’s helping hand that brought him back to his own.

But it is De Quincey who gives the best statement of the world’s obligation to Dorothy. Said he:—

Whereas the intellect of Wordsworth was, by its original tendency, too stern, too austere, too much enamored of an ascetic harsh sublimity, she it was—the lady who paced by his side continually through sylvan and mountain tracks, in Highland glens, and in the dim recesses of German charcoal-burners—that first couched his eye to the sense of beauty, humanized him by the gentler charities, and engrafted, with her delicate female touch, those graces upon the ruder growths of nature which have since clothed the forest of his genius with a foliage corresponding in loveliness and beauty to the strength of its boughs and the massiveness of its trunks.

Nearly all of Wordsworth’s best poetry was written in this little cottage, or, to speak more accurately, it was composed while he was living here. For it was never his way to write verses while seated at a desk, pen in hand. His study was out of doors. He could compose a long poem while walking, and remember it all afterward when ready to dictate. Thousands of verses, he said, were composed on the banks of the brook running through Easedale, just north of Grasmere Lake. The tall figure of the poet was a familiar sight to farmers for miles around, as he paced the woods or mountain paths, his head bent down, and his lips moving with audible if not distinguishable sounds. One of his neighbors has left on record an impression of how he seemed when he was “making a poem.”

He would set his head a bit forward, and put his hands behind his back. And then he would start in bumming, and it was bum, bum, bum, stop; and then he’d set down, and git a bit o’ paper out, and write a bit. However, his lips were always goan’ whoole time he was upon gress[1] walk. He was a kind mon, there’s no two words about that; and if any one was sick i’ the place, he wad be off to see til’ ’em.

In personal appearance—about which, by the way, he cared little—he was not unlike the dalesmen about him. Nearly six feet high, he looked strong and hardy enough to be a farmer himself. Carlyle speaks of him as “businesslike, sedately confident, no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about being courteous; a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran and on all he said or did.”

On our return from Grasmere we took the road along the north shore of Rydal Water—a small lake with all the characteristic beauty of this fascinating region, and yet not so different from hundreds of others that it would ever attract more than passing notice. But the name of Rydal is linked with that of Grasmere, and the two are visited by thousands of tourists year after year. For fifty years the shores of these two lakes and the hills and valleys surrounding them were the scenes of Wordsworth’s daily walks. As we passed we heard the cuckoo—its mysterious sound seeming to come across the lake—and as our own thoughts were on Wordsworth, “the wandering Voice” seemed appropriate. If we could have heard the skylark at that moment, our sense of satisfaction would have been quite complete, and no doubt we should have cried out, with the poet,—

Just north of the eastern end of the lake, beneath the shadow of Nab Scar, is Rydal Mount, where the poet came to live in 1813, remaining until his death, thirty-seven years later. Increasing prosperity enabled him to take this far more pretentious house. It stands on a hill, a little off the main road, and quite out of sight of the tourists who pass through in coaches and chars-à-bancs. The drivers usually jerk their thumbs in the general direction and say, “There is Rydal Mount,” etc., and the tourists, who have seen only a farmhouse—not Wordsworth’s—are left to imagine that they have seen the house of the poet.

It is an old house, but some recent changes in doors and windows give it a more modern aspect. The unaltered portion is thickly covered with ivy. The ground in front is well planted with a profusion of rhododendrons. A very old stone stairway descends from the plaza in front of the house to a kind of mound or rather a double mound, the smaller resting upon a larger one. From this point the house is seen to the best advantage. In the opposite direction is a landscape of rare natural beauty. Far away in the distance lies Lake Windermere glistening like a shield of polished silver, while on the left Wansfell and on the right Nab Scar stand guard over the valley. In the foreground the spire of the little church of Rydal peeps out over the trees.

At the right of the house is a long terrace which formed one of Wordsworth’s favorite walks, where he composed thousands of verses. From here one may see both Windermere and Rydal Water, with mountains in the distance. Passing through the garden we came to a gate leading to Dora’s Field. Here is the little pool where Wordsworth and Dora put the little goldfishes, that they might enjoy a greater liberty. Here is the stone which Wordsworth saved from destruction by the builders of a stone wall. A little flight of stone steps leads down to another boulder containing the following inscription, carved by the poet’s own hand:—

Dora’s field is thickly covered in spring-time with the beautiful golden daffodils, planted by the poet himself. No sight is more fascinating at this season than a field of these bright yellow flowers. We Americans, who only see them planted in gardens, cannot realize what daffodils mean to the English eye, unless we chance to visit England during the early spring. What Wordsworth called a “crowd” of daffodils, growing in thick profusion along the margin of a lake, beneath the trees, ten thousand to be seen at a glance, all nodding their golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves, is a sight well worth seeing.

But now the time had come to return to Windermere, and reluctantly we turned our backs upon these scenes, so full of pleasant memories. The day, however, was not yet done, for after supper we climbed to the top of Orrest-Head, a little hill behind the village. No more charming spot could have been chosen in which to spend the closing hours of this peaceful day. Far below lay the quiet waters of the lake, only glimpses of its long and narrow surface appearing here and there, like “burnished mirrors” set by Nature for the sole purpose of reflecting a magnificent golden sky. It was “an evening of extraordinary, splendor,” like that one which Wordsworth saw from Rydal Mount:—

As we stood watching the splendid sunset, the village church rang out its chimes, as if to accompany the inspiring scene with sweet and holy music.

The shadows which had been slowly falling upon the scene had now so far enveloped the mountain-side that the narrow roadways and stone fences marking the boundaries of the fields were barely visible. Suddenly in the distance we saw a moving object, a mere speck upon the hillside. It darted first in one direction and then another, like some frightened being uncertain which way to turn. Then a darker speck appeared, and with rapid movement circled to the rear of the whiter one, the latter moving on ahead. Another sudden movement, and a second white speck appeared in another spot. The black speck as quickly moved to the rear of this second bit of white, driving it in the same direction as the first. The white specks then began to seem more numerous. We tried to count—one—two—three—ten—a dozen—perhaps even twenty. There was but one black speck, and he seemed to be the master of all the others, for, darting here and there after the stragglers, he kept them all together. He drove them along the narrow road. Then, coming to an opening in the fence, he hurried along to the front of the procession; then, facing about, deftly turned the whole flock through the gate into a large field. Through this pasture, with the skill of a military leader, he marshaled his troop, rushing backwards and forwards, allowing none to fall behind nor to stray away from the proper path, finally bringing them up in a compact body to another opening in the opposite end of the field. On he went, driving his small battalion along the road, then at right angles into another road, until the whole flock of sheep and the little black dog who commanded them disappeared for the night among the out-buildings of a far distant farm.

The twilight had almost gone, and in the growing darkness we retraced our steps to the village, well content that, through communion with the Spirit of Wordsworth in the presence of that “mighty Being” who to him was the great Teacher and Inspirer of mankind, our own love of nature had been reawakened, and our time well spent on this peaceful, never-to-be-forgotten day at Windermere.

[1] Grass.

IV
FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN

IV
FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN

The vale of the Esk is unrivaled, even in Scotland, for beauty and romantic interest. From its source to where it enters the Firth of Forth, the little river winds its way past ancient castles with their romantic legends, famed in poetry and song, and the picturesque homes of barons and lairds, poets and philosophers, forming as it goes, with rocks and cliffs, tall trees and overhanging vines, a bewildering succession of beautiful scenes.

It was to this charming valley that Walter Scott came, with his young wife, in the first year of their wedded life. A young man of imaginative and romantic temperament, though as yet unknown to fame, he found the place an inspiration and delight. A pretty little cottage, with thatched roof, and a garden commanding a beautiful view, made the home where many happy summers were spent. This was at Lasswade, a village which took its striking name from the fact—let us hope it was a fact—that here a sturdy lass was wont to wade the stream, carrying travelers on her back,—a ferry service sufficiently romantic to make up for its uncertainty.

Lockhart tells us that “it was amidst these delicious solitudes” that Walter Scott “laid the imperishable foundation of all his fame. It was here that when his warm heart was beating with young and happy love, and his whole mind and spirit were nerved by new motives for exertion—it was here that in the ripened glow of manhood he seems to have first felt something of his real strength, and poured himself out in those splendid original ballads which were at once to fix his name.”

The visitor who would see “Roslin’s rocky glen” may take a coach in Edinburgh and soon reach the spot after a pleasant drive over a well-kept road. But if he would see “classic Hawthornden” in the same day, he must go there first. For the gate which separates the two opens out from Hawthornden and the traveler cannot pass in the opposite direction. We therefore took the train from Edinburgh, and after half an hour alighted at a little station, from which we walked a few hundred yards along a quiet country road, until we reached a lodge marking the entrance to a large estate. Entering here, a few steps brought us to the house of the gardener, who first conducted us to the place that interests him the most—a large and well-kept garden, full of fruits and vegetables, beautiful flowers and well-trained vines. His pride satisfied by our sincere admiration of his handiwork, our guide was ready to reveal to us the glory of Hawthornden, and conducted us to the edge of a precipice known as John Knox’s Pulpit. In front is a deep ravine of stupendous rocks partly bare and partly covered with bushes and pendent creepers. The tall trees on the border, the wooded hill in the distance, and the grand sweep of the river far below, form a scene of majestic grandeur as nearly perfect as one could wish. To the left, on the very edge of a perpendicular rock, is a strong, well-built mansion, so situated that the windows of its principal rooms command a view of the wondrous vale. On the other side of the house are the ivy-covered ruins of an older castle, dating back many centuries.

Since the middle of the sixteenth century, Hawthornden has been the home of a family of Drummonds—a famous Scottish name. William Drummond, the most distinguished of them all, whose name is inseparably associated with the place, was born in 1585. His father was a gentleman-usher at the court of King James VI, and through his association with the Scottish royalty had acquired the Hawthornden property. The boy grew up amid such surroundings, was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and traveled on the Continent for three years before settling down to his life-work, which he then thought would be the practice of law. But scarcely had he returned to Edinburgh for this purpose, when his father died, and young Drummond, at the age of twenty-four, found himself master of Hawthornden with ample means at his command. All thought of the law was abandoned forthwith. The quiet of Hawthornden and the beauty of its natural scenery fitted his temperament exactly. He had already acquired a scholar’s tastes, had read extensively, and possessed a large library in which the Latin classics predominated, though there were many books in Greek, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, French, and English. He retired to his delightful home to live among his books, and if he found that such surroundings became a tacit invitation from the Muses to keep them company, who could wonder? “Content with my books and the use of my eyes,” he said, “I learnt even from my boyhood to live beneath my fortune; and, dwelling by myself as much as I can, I neither sigh for nor seek aught that is outside me.”

It has been said that Drummond’s three stars were Philosophy, Friendship, and Love. Some three or four years after the poet began his contented life at Hawthornden, the latter star began to shine so brightly as to eclipse the other two. In 1614 he met an attractive girl of seventeen or eighteen, the daughter of Alexander Cunningham, of Barns, a country-seat on a little stream known as the Ore, in Fifeshire, on the opposite side of the Firth of Forth. His poems began at once to reveal the extent to which the loveliness of the fair Euphame had taken possession of him:—

On seeing her in a boat on the Forth he declared her perfection:—

The river Ore, on the banks of which he first met his lady-love, became to Drummond the greatest river in the world. In one sonnet he compares the tiny stream with every famous river from the Arno to the Nile; and finds that none of them

“Have ever had so rare a cause of praise.”

Unfortunately, his happiness was of brief duration, for on the very eve of the marriage, the young lady died. Drummond’s grief was intense. One can almost imagine him mournfully gazing down the beautiful glen, which she might have enjoyed with him, and exclaiming—

For some years after her death, Euphame was to Drummond what Beatrice was to Dante—the inspirer of all that was good in him. Later in life he married Elizabeth Logan, a lady who was said to resemble Euphame Cunningham, and she became the mother of his five sons and four daughters.

In front of the mansion of Hawthornden is a venerable sycamore, said to be five hundred years old. In the month of January, 1619, according to a favorite and oft-told story, Drummond was sitting beneath this tree, when he saw and recognized the huge form of Ben Jonson, as that rollicking hero sauntered toward him along the private road. Jonson had walked all the way from London to see what could be seen in Scotland, and one of the attractions had been an invitation from Drummond, who was now beginning to be known in England, to spend two or three weeks at his home. As he approached, Drummond arose and greeted him heartily, saying,—

“Welcome, welcome, royal Ben!”

To which Jonson quickly replied replied—

“Thankee, thankee, Hawthornden!”

Upon which they both laughed and felt well acquainted at once.

The contrast between these two men, as they stood under the old sycamore, must have been strongly marked. Drummond, quiet, reserved, and gentle in manner—Jonson, boisterous and offensively vulgar: Drummond, well dressed and refined in appearance—Jonson, fat, coarse, and slovenly; Drummond, a country gentleman, accustomed to live well, but always within his means, caring little for society, a man of correct habits and strict piety, and later in life a loving husband and a tender father—Jonson, the dictator of literary London, who waved his scepter in the “Devil Tavern” in Fleet Street, egotistical and quarrelsome, self-assertive, a bully in disposition, his life a perpetual round of dissipation and debt, his means of livelihood dependent on luck or favor, and his greatest enjoyment centering in association with those who, like himself, were most at home in the theaters and taverns of the great bustling city.

Yet both were poets and men of genius, though in different ways. In spite of his peculiarities, Drummond found “rare Ben Jonson” a most interesting companion. He kept a close record of the conversations which passed between them, and might well be called the father of modern interviewing. But unlike the interviewer of to-day, Drummond did not rush to the nearest telegraph station to get his story “on the wire” and “scoop” his contemporaries. There were no telegraphs nor newspapers to call for such effort, and Drummond had too much respect for the courtesy due a guest to think of publishing their private talks. But a portion of the material was published in 1711, long after Drummond’s death, and probably the whole of it in 1832. These conversations with one who knew intimately most of the literary leaders of his time have proved invaluable. They contain Ben’s opinions of nearly everybody—Queen Elizabeth, the Earl of Leicester, King James, Spenser, Raleigh, Shakespeare, Bacon, Drayton, Beaumont, Chapman, Fletcher, and many other contemporaries. Most of all they contain his opinion of himself and his writings, which needless to say is quite exalted.

With no thought of his notes being published, Drummond allowed himself perfect frankness in writing about his guest. His summary of the impression made by Ben’s visit is as follows:—

He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him (especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he liveth); a dissembler of ill parts which reign in him, a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but what either he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath said or done: he is passionately kind and angry; careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but, if he be well answered, at himself. For any religion, as being versed in both. Interpreted best sayings and deeds often to the worst. Oppressed with phantasy which hath ever mastered his reason, a general disease in many poets.... He was in his personal character the very reverse of Shakespeare, as surly, ill-natured, proud and disagreeable as Shakespeare, with ten times his merit, was gentle, good-natured, easy, and amiable.

Jonson expressed with equal frankness his opinion of Drummond, to whom he said that he “was too good and simple, and that oft a man’s modesty made a fool of his wit.”

Drummond as a poet was classed by Robert Southey and Thomas Campbell in the highest rank of the British poets who appeared before Milton. His sonnets, which are remarkable for their exquisite delicacy and tenderness, won for him the title of “the Scottish Petrarch.” It has been said that they come as near to perfection as any others of this kind of writing and that as a sonneteer Drummond is surpassed only by Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth among the poets who have written in English.

Before taking leave of the Scottish poet and his picturesque home, we paused for a few minutes to visit the wondrous caverns, cut out of the solid rock upon which the house is built. Antiquarians have insisted that these caves date back to the time of the Picts, at least as far as the ninth or tenth century.

This, too, was the popular understanding before the scientists offered their opinion. In a curious old volume, published in 1753,[2] we are told:—

Underneath [the house of Drummond] are the noted Caverns of Hawthorn-Den, by Dr. Stuckely in his Itinerarium-Curiosa, said to have been the King of Pictlands Castle or Palace; which nothing can shew the Doctor’s Credulity more than by suffering himself to be imposed upon by the Tattle of the Vulgar, who in all things they cannot account for, are ascribed to the Picts, without the least Foundation. For those caves, instead of having been a Castle or Palace, I take them either to have been a Receptacle for Robbers, or Places to secure the People and their Effects in, during the destructive Wars between the Picts and English, and Scots and English.

During the contests between Bruce and Baliol for the Scottish crown, these caves became a place of refuge for Bruce and his friends, and one of the rooms is still pointed out as Bruce’s bedchamber.

In the walls are many square holes, from twelve to eighteen inches deep, supposed to have been used as cupboards. On a rough table near one of the openings is a rude and very much damaged desk, said to have been the property of John Knox.

Leaving these gloomy resorts of ancient heroes—perhaps of ancient robbers—we sought a brighter and more cheerful scene. Descending the path we reached a bridge over the Esk on which is a gate that permitted us to leave Hawthornden, although it does not allow wanderers on the other side to enter. The bridge gave a fine opportunity for a farewell view of the grand old mansion, high in the air at the top of the cliff, which we were now viewing from below.

A delightful stroll along the left bank of the stream for about two miles brought us to Roslin Castle, situated on a rocky promontory high above the river. At the point of the peninsula the river is narrowed by a large mass of reddish sandstone over which it falls. When flooded this becomes a beautiful cascade,—whence the name, “Ross,” a Gaelic word meaning promontory or jutting rock, and “Lyn,” a waterfall,—the “Rock of the Waterfall.” The Esk, where it forms the cascade, is still called “the Lynn.” The view from the promontory is one of the most delightful to be imagined. The banks are precipitous and covered with a luxurious growth of natural wood. The vale seems to be crowded with every possible combination of trees and cliffs, foliage and sparkling stream, that nature can put together to form a region of romantic suggestion.

Little now remains of the ancient castle of Roslin, which was formerly two hundred feet long and ninety feet wide. A few ivy-covered walls and towers may still be seen, in the midst of which is a more modern dwelling rebuilt in 1653. The ancient foundation walls, nine feet thick, still visible below the surface, and the almost inaccessible location of the castle tell the story of its original purpose. A huge kitchen, with the fireplace alone occupying as much space as the entire kitchen of one of our modern houses, suggests the lavish scale upon which the establishment was once conducted.

The castle was built by a family of St. Clairs, whose ancestor, Waldernus de St. Clair, came over with the Conqueror. William St. Clair, Baron of Roslin, Earl of Caithness and Prince of the Orkneys, who flourished in the middle of the fifteenth century, was one of the most famous of these barons. He lived in the magnificence of royal state.

He kept a great court and was royally served at his own table in vessels of gold and silver.... He had his halls and other apartments richly adorned with embroidered hangings. His princess, Elizabeth Douglas, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, whereof fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed in velvet and silks, with their chains of gold, and other ornaments; and was attended by two hundred riding gentlemen in all her journeys; and if it happened to be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings were at the foot of the Black Friar’s Wynd, eighty lighted torches were carried before her.[3]

The castle was accidentally set on fire in 1447 and badly damaged, and was leveled to the ground by English forces under the Earl of Hertford, in 1544, who was sent to Scotland by Henry VIII to seek to enforce the marriage of his son Edward to the infant Mary of Scotland, the daughter of James V. In 1650 it was again destroyed, during Cromwell’s campaign in Scotland, by General Monk, and rising again, suffered severely at the hands of a mob from Edinburgh in 1688.

It was William St. Clair, the feudal baron above referred to, who built the exquisitely beautiful chapel which stands not far from the castle. The same ancient manuscript, previously quoted, informs us that

His age creeping on him made him consider how he had spent his time past, and how to spend that which was to come. Therefore to the end he might not seem altogether unthankfull to God for the benefices receaved from Him, it came in his minde to build a house for God’s service of most curious work, the which, that it might be done with greater glory and splendour he caused artificers to be brought from other regions and forraigne kingdoms and caused dayly to be abundance of all kinde of workemen present, etc., etc.

The foundation of Roslin Chapel was laid in 1446. It was originally intended to be a cruciform structure with a high central tower. The existing chapel is, therefore, really only a small part of what the church was meant to be. Its style is called “florid Gothic,” but this is probably for want of a better name. There is no other piece of architecture like it in the world. It is a medley of all architectures, the Egyptian, Grecian, Roman, and Saracenic being intermingled with all kinds of decorations and designs, some exquisitely beautiful and others quaint and even grotesque. There are thirteen different varieties of the arch. The owner, who possessed great wealth, desired novelty. He secured it by engaging architects and builders from all parts of Europe. The most beautiful feature of the interior is known as the “’Prentice’s Pillar.” It is a column with richly carved spiral wreaths of beautiful foliage twined about from floor to ceiling. It is said that the master-builder, when he came to erect this column, found himself unable to carry out the design, and traveled to Rome to see a column of similar description there. When he returned he found that his apprentice had studied the plans in his absence and with greater genius than his own, had overcome the difficulties and fashioned a pillar more beautiful than any ever before dreamed of. The master, stung with jealous rage, struck the apprentice with his mallet, killing him instantly. This, at least, is the accepted legend.

The barons of Roslin were buried beneath the chapel side by side, encased in their full suits of armor. There was a curious superstition that when one of the family died, the chapel was enveloped in flames, but not consumed. This and the “uncoffined chiefs” are referred to by Scott in “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” The lady is lost in the storm while crossing the Firth on her way to Roslin:—

Commemorated by a tablet in the chapel is another interesting legend. Robert Bruce, King of Scotland, in following the chase on Pentland Hills near Roslin, had often started “a white faunch deer” which invariably escaped from his hounds. In his vexation he asked his nobles whether any of them had hounds which would likely be more successful. All hesitated for fear that the mere suggestion of possessing dogs superior to those of the king might be an offense. But Sir William St. Clair (one of the predecessors of the builder of the chapel) boldly and unceremoniously came forward and said he would wager his head that his two favorite dogs Hold and Help would kill the deer before it could cross the March burn. The king promptly accepted the rash wager, and betted the forest of Pentland Moor.

The hunters reach the heathern steeps and Sir William, posting himself in the best situation for slipping his dogs, prayed devoutly to Christ, the Virgin Mary, and St. Katherine. The deer is started, the hounds are slipped; when Sir William spurs his gallant steed and cheers the dogs. The deer reaches the middle of the March-burn brook, the hounds are still in the rear, and our hero’s life is at its crisis. An awful moment; the hunter threw himself from his horse in despair and Fate seemed to sport with his feelings. At the critical moment Hold fastened on the game, and Help coming up, turned the deer back and killed it close by Sir William’s side. The generous monarch embraced the knight and bestowed on him the lands of Kirktown, Logan House, Earnsham, etc., in free forestrie.[4]

The grateful Sir William erected a chapel to St. Katherine, at the spot, to commemorate the saint’s intervention.

One more tale of Roslin remains to be told. Not far away, on Roslin Moor, occurred one of the famous battles of Scottish history. There were really three battles, all fought in one day, the 24th of February, 1303. Three divisions of the English army, consisting of thirty thousand men, were successively attacked by the valiant Scots with only ten thousand men, who, after overpowering the first division, attacked the second, and then the third, defeating all three in the same day.

And so, with history and legend, poetry and romance, real life and fiction, the glory of nature’s art and the achievements of human handicraft all happily intermingled in our thought and blended into one pleasant memory, we brought to its close our walk through the valley of the Esk, from Hawthornden to Roslin Glen.

[2] Maitland’s History of Scotland.

[3] From an old manuscript, in the Advocates’ Library, collection of Richard Augustine Hay.

[4] Britton’s Architectural Antiquities.

V
THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

V
THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

I
MRS. WARD AND HER WORK

“‘Why does any one stay in England who can make the trip to Paradise?’ said the duchess, as she leaned lazily back in the corner of the boat and trailed her fingers in the waters of Como.”

These words from “Lady Rose’s Daughter” came to mind as we glided swiftly in a little motor-boat, late in the afternoon of a perfect April day, over the smooth waters of Como and into the arm of the lake known as Lecco, where we were to enjoy our cup of tea in a little latteria high up on a rocky crag. In the stern sat Mrs. Ward, looking the picture of contentment, a light summer hat with simple trimmings giving an almost girlish aspect to a face in which strong intellectuality and depth of moral purpose were clearly the predominating features. A day’s work done,—for Mrs. Ward goes to Como for work, not play,—this little trip across the lake was one of her favorite recreations, in which, for the time, we were hospitably permitted to share. About us were the scenes “enchanted, incomparable,” which are best described in the words of Mrs. Ward herself:—

When Spring descends upon the shores of the Lago di Como, she brings with her all the graces, all the beauties, all the fine, delicate, and temperate delights of which earth and sky are capable, and she pours them forth upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around the shores of other lakes—Maggiore, Lugano, Garda—blue mountains rise and the vineyards spread their green and dazzling terraces to the sun. Only Como can show in unmatched union a main composition, incomparably grand and harmonious, combined with every jeweled or glowing or exquisite detail. Nowhere do the mountains lean towards each other in such an ordered splendor as that which bends around the northern shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed masses rise behind each other, to right and left of a blue waterway, in lines statelier or more noble than those kept by the mountains of Lecco Lake as they marshal themselves on either hand, along the approaches to Lombardy and Venetia.

... And within this divine framework, between the glistening snows which still, in April, crown and glorify the heights, and those reflections of them which lie encalmed in the deep bosom of the lake, there’s not a foot of pasture, not a shelf of vineyard, not a slope of forest, where the spring is not at work, dyeing the turf with gentians, starring it with narcissuses, or drawing across it the first golden network of the chestnut leaves; where the mere emerald of the grass is not in itself a thing to refresh the very springs of being; where the peach-blossom and the wild cherry and the olive are not perpetually weaving patterns on the blue which ravish the very heart out of your breast. And already the roses are beginning to pour over the wall; the wistaria is climbing up the cypresses; a pomp of camellias and azaleas is in all the gardens; while in the glassy bays that run up into the hills the primrose banks still keep their sweet austerity, and the triumph of spring over the just banished winter is still sharp and new.

It was in a garden such as this, with a wild cherry tree and olives “perpetually weaving patterns” against the blue sky, that we first met Mrs. Ward. It was a balmy April morning. The scent of spring was in the air, and the birds were adding their melody to the beauty of the landscape. The villa stands well up the slope of a high hill and is reached by a winding path through fragrant trees. A little below the level of the house is a shady nook, well sheltered from the sun, from which the high mountains of the north and the blue glimmer of the lake beneath can be plainly seen. Here we were greeted by the novelist in terms of cordiality that instantly made us “feel at home.” There was no posing, none of that condescension which some writers had led us to expect. We were simply welcomed as friends, with a perfect hospitality that seemed to be born of the tranquil beauty all about us.

Mrs. Ward is a woman of rather more than medium height and of erect and graceful carriage. Her manner is dignified, but it is the dignity of one properly conscious of her own strength and is never repellent. One cannot help feeling that he is in the presence of a distinguished person—one who has justly earned a world-wide fame—and yet one in whom the attributes of true womanliness reign supreme. You are proud of the honor of her friendship, and yet you cannot help thinking what an excellent neighbor she would be.

The instinct which impels Mrs. Ward to seek such scenes of beauty as Lake Como in which to do her writing came to her naturally, for her childhood was spent in one of the most beautiful parts of all England, Westmoreland, the home of Wordsworth and of Ruskin. Here “Arnold of Rugby” made his home in a charmingly situated cottage known as Fox How. “Fox,” in the language of Westmoreland, means “fairy,” and “how” is “hill.” A “fairy hill” indeed it must have seemed to Dr. Arnold’s little granddaughter Mary, when as a child of five she was brought there by her father from far-away Tasmania, where she was born. The English Lakes are famous for their beauty, but there is no more delightful spot in all the region than the valley “under Loughrigg,” and no lovelier river than the Rothay, rippling over the smooth pebbles from Wordsworth’s beloved Rydal Water down to the more pretentious grandeur of Lake Windermere. The impressions of her childhood created in the future novelist an intense love of these streams and mountains, which only increased with her absence and the enlargement of her field of vision. When she was the mother of a little girl of seven and a boy of four, she determined to give to them the same impressions which had delighted her own childhood, and the family made an ever-memorable visit from Oxford, where they were then living, to the vicinity of Fox How—a visit which all children may enjoy who will read the pretty little story of “Milly and Olly.”

Mary Augusta Arnold was born in Tasmania on the 11th of June, 1851. Her father, Thomas Arnold, second son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby and brother of Matthew Arnold, was at that time Inspector of Schools in the far-away island. He had married the granddaughter of Colonel Sorell, a former Governor of Tasmania, and no doubt intended to remain there permanently. But, becoming interested, even at that distance, in the so-called “Oxford Movement” of the middle of the last century, he determined to return to England, where he followed Newman and others into the Roman Catholic Church, accepting a professorship of English Literature in the Catholic University of Dublin. His daughter Mary, the eldest of six, was sent to Ambleside to be educated. In 1865, having renounced the Catholic faith, Mr. Arnold took up his residence at Oxford. Here his eldest daughter, at the age of fourteen, came under the influence of the friendships and associations which were to have so potent an influence upon her future career. The most important of these were Professor Mark Pattison and the Bodleian Library. Professor Pattison strongly urged her to specialize her studies, and acting upon his suggestion, she learned the Spanish language and began a course of study in Spanish literature and history, in which she found the facilities of the Bodleian Library invaluable. In 1872 she became the wife of Mr. Thomas Humphry Ward, then a fellow and tutor in Brasenose College. During the ensuing ten or eleven years Mrs. Ward assisted her husband in his literary work and contributed largely to the “Pall Mall Gazette,” the “Saturday Review,” the “Academy,” and other magazines, besides publishing the little book for children already referred to, “Milly and Olly.”

In 1881 Mr. Ward accepted a position on the staff of the “Times,” and the family removed to London. For several years they occupied a house in Russell Square, which Mrs. Ward still regards with fond memories, later removing to their present town house, No. 25 Grosvenor Place. But Mrs. Ward’s love of nature is too intense for an uninterrupted residence in London, and she possesses an ideal country home some thirty miles away, near the little village of Aldbury, known as “Stocks.” This large and beautiful estate is ancient enough to be mentioned in “Domesday Book.” Its name does not come from the old “stocks” used as an instrument of punishment, which may still be seen in the village, although this is a common supposition. “Stocks” is derived from the German “stock,” meaning stick or tree, and refers to the magnificent grove by which the house is surrounded.

Before Stocks became a possibility, Mrs. Ward usually managed to choose a summer home in the country, and these choices are most interestingly reflected in her novels. During the Oxford residence Surrey was a favorite resort for seven years, its atmosphere entering largely into the composition of “Miss Bretherton” and “Robert Elsmere.” Two nights spent at a farm on the Kinderscout gave ample material for the opening chapter of the “History of David Grieve.” The lease for a season of Hampden House, in Buckinghamshire, gave the original for Mellor Park in “Marcella,” and a visit near Crewe fixed the scenes of “Sir George Tressady.” “Helbeck of Bannisdale” was the result of a summer spent in the delightful home of Captain Bagot, of Levens Hall, near Kendal. Summers in Italy and Switzerland gave most charming scenery for “Lady Rose’s Daughter” and “Eleanor,” and, to a less degree, “The Marriage of William Ashe.” The cottage of her youngest daughter, Dorothy, near the Langdale Pikes, suggested the home of Fenwick, while Diana Mallory found her home in Stocks itself. Thus the creatures of Mrs. Ward’s fancy have simply lived in the places which she knew the best. They are all scenes of beauty, for Mrs. Ward loves the beautiful in nature, and has spent her life where this yearning could be most fully gratified.

But if Mrs. Ward seeks the country as the best place for literary work, she is not idle when in the city. If any one imagines her to be merely a society woman with a genius for literature, he is making a serious mistake. Outside of society and literature she is a busy woman, bent on the accomplishment of a task which few would have the courage to assume. Her ideal is best expressed in the closing words of “Robert Elsmere”:—

The New Brotherhood still exists, and grows. There are many who imagined that, as it had been raised out of the earth by Elsmere’s genius, so it would sink with him. Not so! He would have fought the struggle to victory with surpassing force, with a brilliancy and rapidity none after him could rival. But the struggle was not his. His effort was but a fraction of the effort of the race. In that effort, and in the Divine force behind it, is our trust, as was his.

These words, written nearly a quarter of a century ago, were truly prophetic. For Mrs. Ward not only possesses the kind of genius from which an Elsmere could be created, but is gifted with a rare capacity for business, which has enabled her to crystallize the ideals of her work of fiction into a substantial and permanent institution for practical benevolence. She was already interested in “settlement” work among the poor of London during the writing of the novel. But in 1891, after the storm of criticism which the book aroused had subsided, its suggestions began to take definite shape in the organization of the Passmore Edwards Settlement, in University Hall, in Gordon Square. In 1898 the work was moved to its present quarters in Tavistock Place, where, under the leadership of Mrs. Ward and through the generosity of herself and the friends whom she had been able to influence, a large and substantial building was erected. Directly in the rear of the building is a large garden owned by the Duke of Bedford, who recently placed it at the disposal of the Settlement, keeping it in order at his own expense, resowing the grass every year to keep it fresh and thick. Here in the vacation season one thousand children daily enjoy the luxury of sitting and walking on the grass, and that in the heart of central London. The garden occupies the site of Dickens’s Tavistock House. One cannot help imagining the author of Little Nell sitting there in spirit while troops of happy London children pass in review. The land here placed entirely at the disposal of Mrs. Ward and the warden of the Settlement is worth not less than half a million dollars. Twenty-seven teachers, under the direction of a competent supervisor, give instruction in organized out-of-door exercises.

This was the first of the recreation schools or play centers. Handwork occupations, such as cooking—both for girls and boys—sewing, knitting, basket-work, carpentering, cobbling, clay modeling, painting and drawing; dancing combined with old English songs and nursery rhymes; musical drill and gymnastics; quiet games and singing games; acting; and a children’s library of story-books and picture-books—these are the provisions which have been made for the fortunate children of that locality.

The entire purpose of such play centers is to rescue the children of the poor from the demoralization that results from being turned out to play after school hours in the streets and alleyways, where they are subjected to every kind of vile association and influence. The effects already noted by those in charge of the centers are improvement in manners, in thoughtfulness for the little ones, and in unselfishness; increase in regard for truth and honesty; the development of the instinct in all children to “make something”; the teaching that it is more enjoyable to play together in harmony than when obedience to a leader is refused. The success of this first experiment was so marked that gradually other centers were started in different parts of London. Liberal sums of money were placed in the hands of Mrs. Ward, who enlisted the support of the County Council to the extent of securing facilities in the public school buildings. The work has so far progressed that the total attendance last year[5] reached an aggregate of six hundred thousand. It is difficult to estimate from these figures how many children were affected, but, taking—at a guess—fifty times as the average attendance of each, this would mean that the lives of at least twelve thousand poor children were directly lifted up by this practical charity, and that as many more hard-working and anxious parents were indirectly benefited.

But Mrs. Ward will not be satisfied until the entire school population of London has been made to feel the influence of these play centers. Private beneficence, as she has plainly pointed out, can never solve the problem. “Private effort,” said she in a well-known letter to the London “Times,” “cannot deal with seven hundred and fifty thousand children, or even with three hundred thousand. If there is a serious and urgent need, if both the physique and the morale of our town children are largely at stake, and if private persons can only touch a fraction of the problem, what remains but to appeal to the public conscience?”

This is Mrs. Ward’s way of “doing things.” She does not appeal to public authority to accomplish an ideal without first finding a way and proving that it can be done. But, having clearly demonstrated her proposition at private expense, she does not rest content with the results so obtained, but pushes steadily forward toward the larger ideal, which can be realized only through public support.

But the recreation school is only a part of the work of the Passmore Edwards Settlement. During the daytime many of the rooms are used by the “Cripple Schools.” Children who are suffering from spinal diseases, heart trouble, and deformities of various kinds which prevent attendance at the regular schools are daily brought to the Settlement in ambulances. Here the little ones do all kinds of kindergarten work, while the older ones are instructed in drawing, sewing, bent-iron work, and other suitable tasks. As an outgrowth of this school twenty-three cripple schools are now in operation in London.

But it is in the evening that the Passmore Edwards Settlement is seen to best advantage. There is a large library containing some three thousand volumes, which are kept in active use. On Monday nights two tables in this room are the centers of busy groups. These represent the “coal club,” a businesslike charity of a very practical kind. The club buys a large quantity of coal in the summer-time, when it can be obtained cheapest. As a large consumer, it usually gets every possible concession. The members of this club can buy the coal in small quantities as wanted, or as they are able to pay for it, at any time during the year, at the summer price of one shilling one and a half pence per hundred weight (twenty-seven cents). If bought during the winter in the ordinary way, they would have to pay perhaps five or six pence more—a very substantial saving. Thrift is encouraged by allowing members to deposit small sums in the summer to apply against their winter purchases. Last year the club transacted a business equal to about $4300.

“The Poor Man’s Lawyer” is another practical part of the work. Once each week free legal advice is given to all who ask it, and considerable money has been saved to people who, from ignorance and poverty, might have been imposed upon. The “Men’s Club,” the “Boys’ Club,” the “Factory Girls’ Club,” and the “Women’s Club” are all actively engaged in performing the usual functions of such organizations. There is a gymnasium where boys and girls, men and women, all have their regular turns of systematic instruction.

An orchestra of a dozen pieces and a choral society of forty members, together with a dramatic society, give opportunity for many to take part in numerous concerts and entertainments. A large hall is the scene nearly every night of some kind of social amusement. The room is decorated with many pictures, all reproductions of the best works of art, while around the walls are placed busts in marble of Emerson, James Martineau, Dickens, Matthew Arnold, Benjamin Jowett, and Sir William Herschel—the gift of Mr. Passmore Edwards. There is a large stage for dramatic performances, drills, etc., with a piano and a good organ. There are tables where the members may play cards, smoke, or have light refreshments. On Sunday nights there are concerts or lectures. The whole atmosphere of the place is attractive to the men and women who frequent it. There is no obtrusive piety, no patronizing air, nothing to offend the pride of the poor man who values his self-esteem, yet all the influences of the place are elevating.