Loiterings in Pleasant Paths

LOITERINGS
IN
Pleasant Paths

BY
MARION HARLAND
Author of “The Dinner Year-Book,” “Common Sense in the Household,”
Etc.
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
743 and 745 Broadway
1880

COPYRIGHT BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.
1880.
Trow’s
Printing and Bookbinding Company,
201-213 East 12th Street,
NEW YORK.

INTRODUCTION.

WHEN I began the MS. of this book, it was with the intention of including it in the “Common Sense in the Household Series,” in which event it was to be entitled, “Familiar Talks from Afar.”

For reasons that seemed good to my publishers and to me, this purpose was not carried out, except as it has influenced the tone of the composition; given to each chapter the character of experiences remembered and recounted to a few friends by the fireside, rather than that of a sustained and formal narrative, penned in dignified seclusion, amid guide-books and written memoranda.

This is the truthful history of the foreign life of an American family whose main object in “going on a pilgrimage” was the restoration of health to one of its members. In seeking and finding the lost treasure, we found so much else which enriched us for all time, that, in the telling of it, I have been embarrassed by a plethora of materials. I have described some of the things we wanted to see—as we saw them,—writing con amore, but with such manifold strayings from the beaten track into by-paths and over moors, and in such homely, familiar phrase, that I foresee criticism from the disciples of routine and the sedate students of chronology, topography and general statistics. I comfort myself, under the prospective infliction, with the belief which has not played me false in days past,—to wit: that what I have enjoyed writing some may like to read. I add to this the hope that the fresh-hearted traveler who dares think and feel for, and of himself, in visiting the Old World which is to him the New, may find in this record of how we made it Home to us, practical and valuable hints for the guidance of his wanderings.

MARION HARLAND.

Springfield, Mass., April, 1880.

CONTENTS.

LOITERINGS IN PLEASANT PATHS.

CHAPTER I.
The Average Briton.

SUNDAY in London: For the first time since our arrival in the city we saw it under what passes in that latitude and language for sunshine. For ten days we had dwelt beneath a curtain of gray crape resting upon the chimney-tops, leaving the pavements dry to dustiness. “Gray crape” is poetical—rather—and sounds better than the truth, which is, that the drapery, without fold or shading, over-canopying us, was precisely in color like very dirty, unbleached muslin, a tint made fashionable within a year or so, under the name of “Queen Isabella’s linen” (“le linge de la Reine Isabeau”). The fixed cloud depressed and oppressed us singularly. It was a black screen set above the eyes, which we were all the while tempted to push up in order to see more clearly and farther,—a heavy hand upon brain and chest. For the opaqueness, the clinging rimes of the “London fog,” we were prepared. Of the mysterious withholding for days and weeks of clouds threatening every minute to fall, we had never heard. We had bought umbrellas at Sangster’s, as does every sensible tourist immediately after securing rooms at a hotel, and never stirred abroad without them; but the pristine plaits had not been disturbed. Struggle as we might with the notion, we could not rid ourselves of the odd impression that the whole nation had gone into mourning. Pleasure-seeking, on the part of sojourners who respected conventionalities, savored of indecorum. We were more at our ease in the crypt of St. Paul’s, and among the dead of Westminster Abbey, than anywhere else, and felt the conclave of murderers, the blood-flecked faces of the severed heads, the genuine lunette and knife of Samson’s guillotine in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors, to be “quite the thing in the circumstances.”

The evil, nameless spell was broken by the clangor of the Sabbath bells. “The gray pavilion rose” and did not fall—for twenty-four hours. Strolling through St. James’s Park in the hour preceding sunsetting, we pointed out to one another the pale blue, dappled with white, of the zenith, the reddening mists of the horizon. The ground was strewed with autumnal leaves, russet and brown. The subdued monotony of the two shades of decay did not move us to adverse criticism. The crimsons, golds, and purples that were robing woods we knew of over the water, would be incongruous in this sober-hued land. In the matter of light and color, he who tarries in England in autumn, winter, and early spring, soon learns to be thankful for small favors. We were grateful and satisfied. We were in a mood to be in love with England,—“our old home;” still walked her soil as in a blessed dream, haunted only by sharp dreads of awakening to the knowledge that the realization of the hopes, and longings, and imaginings of many years was made of such stuff as had been our cloud-pictures. We were in process of an experience we were ashamed to speak of until we learned how common it was with other voyagers, whose planning and pining had resembled ours in kind and degree. None of us was willing to say how much time was given to a comical weighing of the identity question, somewhat after the fashion of poor Nelly on the roadside in the moonlight:—If this were England, who then were we? If these pilgrims were ourselves—veritable and unaltered—could it be true that we were here? If I do not express well what was as vague as tormenting, it is not because the system of spiritual and mental acclimation was not a reality.

The Palace of St. James, a range of brick and dinginess, stretched before us as we returned to the starting-point of the walk around the park, taking in the Bird-cage Walk, where Charles II. built his aviaries and lounged, Nelly Gwynne, or the Duchess of Portsmouth, at his side, a basket of puppies hung over his lace collar and ruffled cravat. It is not a palatial pile—even to eyes undried from the juice of Puck’s “little western flower.”

“It would still be a very decent abode for the horses of royalty—hardly for their grooms,” said Caput, critically. “And it is worth looking at when one remembers how long bloody Mary lay there, hideous, forsaken, half dead, the cancerous memories of Calais and Philip’s desertion consuming her vitals. There lived and died the gallant boy who was the eldest son of James I. If he had succeeded to the throne his brother Charles would have worn his head more comfortably and longer upon his shoulders. That is, unless, as in the case of Henry VIII., the manhood of the Prince of Wales had belied the promise of early youth.”

“It was in St. James’s Palace that Charles spent his last night,” I interrupted. It takes a long time for the novice to become accustomed to the strange thrill that vibrates through soul and nerves when such reminiscences overtake him, converting the place whereon he stands into holy ground. I was a novice, and rushed on impetuously. “The rooms in which he slept and made his toilet for the scaffold were in the old Manor-house, a wing of the palace since torn down. Why can’t they let things alone? But the park is here, and—” glancing dubiously along the avenues—“it is just possible—altogether possible—that some of these oldest trees may be the same that stood here then. On that morning, when—you remember?—the ground being covered lightly with snow, the king walked with a quick step across the park to Whitehall, calling to the guard, ‘Step on apace, my good fellows!’”

Measuring with careful eye an air line between the palace and a building with a cupola, on the St. James Street side of the park, we turned our steps along this. The dying leaves rustled under our feet, settling sighingly into the path behind us. The “light snow” had muffled the ring of the “quick step” more like the impatient tread of a bridegroom than that of a doomed man shortening the already brief space betwixt him and fate. Within the shadow of Whitehall, we paused.

“The scaffold was built just without the window of the banqueting-hall,” we reminded each other. “As late as the reign of William and Mary, the king’s blood was visible upon the window-sill. Jacobites made great capital of the insensibility of his granddaughter, who held her drawing-rooms in that very apartment. The crowd must have been densest about here, and spread far into the park. But how can we know just where the scaffold stood? It was low, for the people leaped upon it after the execution and dipped handkerchiefs in the blood, to be laid away as precious relics. Those windows are rather high!” glancing helplessly upward. “And which is the banqueting-hall?”

“Baldeker’s London” was then in press for the rescue of the next season’s traveller from like pits of perplexity. Not having it, and the “hand-books” we had provided ourselves with proving dumb guides in the emergency, the simplest and most natural road out of ignorance was to ask a question or two of some intelligent native-born Londoner.

In this wise, then, we first made the acquaintance of the Average Briton,—a being who figured almost as often in our subsequent wanderings as did the travelling American. I do not undertake to say which was the more ridiculous or vexatious of the two, according as our purpose at the time of meeting them chanced to be diversion or information.

The Average Briton of this Sabbath-day was smug and rotund; in complexion, rubicund; complacent of visage, and a little rolling in gait, being duck-legged. A child trotted by him upon a pair of limbs cut dutifully after the paternal pattern, swinging upon the paternal hand. Upon the other side of the central figure, arrayed in matronly black silk and a velvet hat with a white plume, walked a lady of whom Hawthorne has left us a portrait:

“She has an awful ponderosity of frame, not pulpy, like the looser development of our few fat women, but massive with solid beef and streaky tallow; so that (though struggling manfully against the idea) you inevitably think of her as made up of steaks and sirloins. She imposes awe and respect by the muchness of her personality to such a degree that you probably credit her with far greater moral and intellectual force than she can fairly claim. Without anything positively salient, or actually offensive, or, indeed, unjustly formidable to her neighbors, she has the effect of a seventy-four gun ship in time of peace.” I had ample time to remember and to verify each line of the picture during the parley with her husband that succeeded our encounter. A citizen of London-town was he. We were so far right in our premises. One who had attended “divine service” in the morning; partaken of roast mutton and a pint of half-and-half at an early dinner; who would presently go home from this stretch of the legs, with good appetite and conscience to a “mouthful of somethink ’ot with his tea,” and come up to time with unflagging powers to bread, cheese, cold meat, pickles, and ale, at a nine o’clock supper. Our old home teems with such. Heaven send them length of days and more wit!

Caput stepped into the path of the substantial pair; lifted his hat in recognition of the lady’s presence and apology for the interruption.

“Excuse me, sir—”

I groaned inwardly. Had I not drilled him in the omission of the luckless monosyllable ever since we saw the Highlands of Navesink melt into the horizon? How many times had I iterated and reiterated the adage?—“In England one says ‘sir’ to prince, master, or servant. It is a confession of inferiority, or an insult.” Nature and (American) grace were too strong for me.

“Excuse me, sir! But can you tell me just where the scaffold was erected on which Charles the First was executed?”

The Average Briton stared bovinely. Be sure he did not touch his hat to me, nor echo the “sir,” nor yet betray how flatteringly it fell upon his unaccustomed ear. Being short of stature, he stared at an angle of forty-five degrees to gain his interlocutor’s face, unlocked his shaven jaws and uttered in a rumbling stomach-base the Shibboleth of his tribe and nation:

“I really carnt say!”

Caput fell back in good order—i. e., raising his hat again to the Complete British Matron, whose face had not changed by so much as the twitch of an eyelid while the colloquy was in progress. She paid no attention whatever to the homage offered to the sex through “the muchness of her personality,” nor were the creases in her lord’s double chin deepened by any inclination of his head.

“The fellow is an underbred dolt!” said Caput, looking after them as they sailed along the walk.

“In that case it is a pity you called him ‘sir,’ and said ‘erected’ and ‘executed,’” remarked I, with excruciating mildness. “Here comes another! Ask him where King Charles was beheaded.”

No. 2 was smugger and smoother than No. 1. He had silvery hair and mutton-leg whiskers, and a cable watch-chain trained over a satin waistcoat, adjuncts which imparted a look of yet intenser respectability. There was a moral and social flavor of bank-directorships and alder-manic expectations about him, almost warranting the “sir” which slipped again from the incorrigible tongue.

We had the same answer to a word and intonation. The formula must be taught to them over their crib-rails as our babies are drilled to lisp—“Now I lay me.” Grown reckless and slightly wicked, we accosted ten others in quick succession in every variety of phraseology, of which the subject was susceptible, but always to the same effect. Where stood the scaffold of Charles the First, Charles Stuart, Charles the Martyr, Charles, father of the Merry Monarch, the grandparent of Mary of Orange and Good Queen Anne? Could any man of British mould designate to us the terminus of that quick step over the snowy park on the morning of the 30th of January, 1649, the next stage to that “which, though turbulent and troublesome, would be a very short one, yet would carry him a great way—even from earth to Heaven?”

Eight intelligent Londoners said, “I really carnt say!” more or less drawlingly. Two answered bluntly, “Dawnt know!” over their shoulders, without staying or breaking their saunter. Finally, we espied a youth sitting under a tree—one of those from which the melting snow might have dropped upon the prisoner’s head—why not the thrifty oak he had pointed out to Bishop Juxon in nearing Whitehall, as “the tree planted by my brother Henry?” The youth was neatly dressed, comely of countenance, and he held an open book, his eyes riveted upon the open page.

“That looks promising!” ejaculated Caput. There was genuine respect in his address:

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but can you inform me, etc., etc.?”

The student raised his head, and looked at us with lacklustre or abstracted eyes.

“Hey?”

Caput repeated the query distinctly and with emphasis.

“Chawles the First?”

“Yes!” less patiently. “The king whose head was cut off by order of Cromwell’s parliament, under the windows of Whitehall, in 1649?”

“Never heard of him!” rejoined the countryman of Hume, Macaulay, and Froude, resuming his studies.

Caput recoiled as from an electric eel. “I wouldn’t have believed it, had any one else heard and repeated it to me!” gasped he, when out of ear-shot. “Do you suppose there is a hod-carrier in Boston who does not know the history of Faneuil Hall?”

“Hundreds! Hod-carriers are usually of foreign birth.”

“Or a school-boy in America who never heard of Arnold’s treason and André’s fate? Or, for that matter, who cannot, when twelve years old, tell the whole story of King Charles’s death, even to the ‘Remember!’ as he laid his head upon the block?”

I had a new difficulty to present.

“While you have been catechizing the enlightened British public, I have been thinking—and I am afraid we are sentimentalizing in the wrong place. I have harrowing doubts as to this being the real Whitehall. The palace was burned in the time of William and Mary—or a portion of it—and but partially rebuilt by Inigo Jones. There is altogether too much of this to be the genuine article. And it is startlingly modern!”

It was a spacious building, and did not look as if it had a story. The exterior was stuccoed and smoke-blackened, but the London air would have dyed it to such complexion in ten years. A belvidere or cupola finished it above. Beneath this, on the ground-floor, separating the wings, was an archway leading into St. James Street. The citizens whom we had questioned had, with the exception of the student, emerged from or disappeared in this passage from park to thoroughfare. We saw now a sentinel, in red coat and helmet, turn in his beat up and down under the arch.

“Is this Old Whitehall?” we asked.

He shook his head without halting.

“Where is it?”

He pointed to a building on the opposite side of the street. It was two stories—lofty ones—high above the basement. Twenty-one windows shone in the handsome front. We traversed the arched passage, planted ourselves upon the sidewalk and gazed, bewildered, at the one-and-twenty windows. Through which of them had passed the kingly form we seemed to have seen for ourselves, so familiar were the oval face and pointed beard, the great eyes darkened all his life long with prophecy of doom? Through which had been borne the outraged corpse, the bloody drippings staining the sill? Upon what spot of the pavement trodden by the throng of Sabbath idlers had fallen the purple rain from a monarch’s heart? For sweet pity’s sake, had none marked the place by so much as a cross in the flagging? All else around us bore the stamp of a later age. Were the apparently venerable walls pointed out by the sentinel the banqueting-hall where the granddaughter held her court, or was this Inigo Jones’s (the Inevitable) restoration?

“One might imagine regicide so common a crime in England as not to be considered worthy of special note!” we grumbled, a strong sense of injury upon our foiled souls.

Just then down the street strode a policeman, and, at sight of our puzzled faces, hesitated with an inquiring look. I cheerfully offer my testimony here to the civility, intelligence, and general benevolence of the London police. We met them always when we needed their services, and as invariably found them ready and able to do all we required of them, sometimes insisting upon going a block out of their way to show us our route. Perfunctory politeness? It may have been, but it was so much better than none at all, or surly familiarity! The man to whom we now addressed ourselves was tall and brawny, with features that lighted pleasantly in the hearing of our tale of defeat.

“My father used to tell me,” he said, respectful still, but dropping into the easy conversational strain an exceptionally obliging New York “Bobby” might use in like circumstances, “that the king was led out through that window,” indicating, not one of the triple row in the banqueting-room, but a smaller in a lower and older wing, “and executed in front of the main hall. Some say the banqueting-chamber was not burned with the rest of the palace. Others that it was. My father was inclined to believe that this is the original building. I have heard him tell the tale over and over until you might have thought he had been there himself. The Park ran clear up to Old Whitehall then, you see—where this street is now. The crowd covered all this ground where we are standing, the soldiers being nearest the scaffold. That stood, as nearly as I can make out, about there!” tapping the sidewalk with his stick. “A few feet to the right or the left don’t make much difference, you know, sir. It does seem queer, and a little sad, there’s not so much as a stone let into the wall, or a bit of an inscription. But those were rough times, you know.”

“We are very much obliged to you!” Caput said heartily, holding out his hand, the palm significantly inverted.

The man shook his head. “Not at all, sir! Against the rules of the force! I have done nothing worth talking about. If my father were living, now! But people nowadays care less and less for old stories.”

He touched his cap in moving away.

“The truest gentleman we have met this afternoon!” pronounced Caput. “Now, we will go back into the park, out of this bustle, and think it all over!”

This had become already a pet phrase and a pet practice with us. The amateur dramatization, sometimes partially spoken, for the most part silent, was our way of appropriating and assimilating as our very own what we saw and learned. It was a family trick, understood among ourselves. Quiet, freedom from platitudinal queries and comment, and comparative solitude, were the favorable conditions for fullest enjoyment of it.

The student was so absorbed in his book—I hope it was history!—as not to see us when we passed. The sunlight fell aslant upon the dark-red walls of the old palace, lying low, long, and gloomy, across the end of the walk. A stiff, dismal place—yet Elizabeth, in all her glory, had been moderately contented with it. Within a state bed-chamber, yet to be seen, the equivocal circumstances—or the coincidences interpreted as equivocal by the faction hostile to the crown,—attending the birth of the son of James II. and Mary of Modena laid the first stone of the mass of distrust that in the end crushed the hopes of “The Pretender.” The “first gentleman of Europe” opened his baby eyes in this vulgar world under the roof of the house his father had already begun to consider unfit for a king’s dwelling, and to meditate taxation of his American colonies for funds with which to build a greater. Queen Victoria was married in the Chapel of St. James, adjoining the palace. Upon the mantel of the venerable Presence-chamber are the initials of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, intertwisted in a loving tangle. They should have been fashioned in wax instead of the sterner substance that had hardly left the carver’s hand for the place of honor in the royal drawing-room before the vane of Henry’s affections veered from Anne to Jane. It is said that he congratulated himself and the new queen upon the involutions of the cipher that might be read almost as plainly “H. J.” as “H. A.” So, there it stands—the sad satire upon wedded love that mocked the eyes of discreet Jane, the one consort who died a natural death while in possession of his very temporary devotion,—and the two Katherines who succeeded her.

By contrast with sombre St. James’s, Buckingham Palace is a meretricious mushroom, scarcely deserving a passing glance. The air was bland for early November, and we sat upon a bench under a tree that let slow, faded leaves down upon our heads while we “thought it all over,” until the gathering glooms in the deep archway, flanked by sentry-boxes, shaped themselves into a procession of the “born and died” in the low-browed chambers. To recite their names would be to give an abstract of the history of the mightiest realm of the earth for four centuries.

And, set apart by supreme sorrow from his fellows, ever foremost in our dream-pictures, walked he, who “made trim,” by his own command, “for his second marriage-day,” hastened through the snowy avenues of the park to find a pillow for the Lord’s anointed upon the headsman’s block before the windows of the banqueting-room of Whitehall.

CHAPTER II.
Olla Podrida.

IN one week we had been twice to Westminster Abbey, once to the Tower; had seen St. Paul’s, Hyde Park, Tussaud’s Wax Works, Mr. Spurgeon, the New Houses of Parliament, Billingsgate, the Monument, Hyde Park, the British Museum, and more palaces than I can or care to remember. In all this time we had not a ray of sunshine, but neither had a drop of rain fallen. We began to leave umbrellas at home, and to be less susceptible in spirits to the glooming of the dusky canopy upborne by the chimneys. That one clear—for London—Sunday had made the curtain so nearly translucent as to assure us that behind the clouds the sun was still shining, and we took heart of grace for sight-seeing.

But in the course of seven smoky-days we became slightly surfeited with “lions.” Weary, to employ a culinary figure, of heavy roast and boiled, we longed for the variety of spicy entrées—savory “little dishes” not to be found on the carte, and which were not served to the conventional sight-seer. One morning, when the children had gone to “the Zoo” with papa and The Invaluable, Prima—the sharer with me of the aforesaid whim—and myself left the hotel at ten o’clock to carry into effect a carefully-prepared programme. We had made a list of places where “everybody” did not go; which “Golden Guides” and “Weeks in London” omitted entirely, or slurred over with slighting mention; which local ciceroni knew not of, and couriers disdained, but each of which had for us peculiar association and attraction.

Four-wheelers were respectable for unattended women, and cheaper than hansoms. But there was a tincture of adventure in making our tour in one of the latter, not taking into account the advantages of being able to see all in front of us, and the less “stuffy” odor of the interior. Sallying forth, with a pricking, yet delicious sense of questionableness that recalled our school-day pranks, we sought the nearest cab-stand and selected a clean-looking vehicle, drawn by a strong horse with promise of speed in body and legs. The driver was an elderly man in decent garb. The entire establishment seemed safe and reputable so far as the nature of our enterprise could partake of these characteristics. When seated, we gave an order with inward glee, but perfect gravity of demeanor.

“Newgate Prison!”

We had judged shrewdly respecting the qualities of our horse. It was exhilarating, even in the dull, dead atmosphere we could not breathe freely while on foot, to be whirled through the unknown streets, past delightless parks and dolefuller mansions in the West End, in and out of disjointed lanes that ran madly up to one turn and down to another, as if seeking a way out of the mesh of “squares” and “roads” and “rows,”—perceiving satisfiedly, as we did all the time, that we were leaving aristocratic and even respectable purlieus behind as speedily as if our desires, and not the invisible “cabby,” shaped our flight. We brought up with a jerk. Cabs—in the guidance of old or young men—have one manner of stopping; as if the “concern,” driver, horse and hansom, had meant to go on for ever, like Tennyson’s brook, and reversed the design suddenly upon reaching the address given them, perhaps, an hour ago. We jerked up now, in a narrow street shut in on both sides by black walls. The trap above our heads opened.

“Newgate on the right, mem! Old Bailey on the left!”

The little door shut with a snap. We leaned forward for a sight of the prison on the right. Contemptible in dimensions by comparison with the spacious edifice of our imaginations, it was in darksomeness and relentless expression, a stony melancholy that left hope out of the question, just what it should—and must—have been. The pall enwrapping the city was thickest just here, resting, like wide, evil wings upon the clustered roofs we could see over the high wall. The air was lifeless; the street strangely quiet. Besides ourselves we did not see a human being within the abhorrent precincts. The prison-front, facing the smaller “Old Bailey,” is three hundred feet long. In architecture it is English,—bald and ugly as brick, mortar, and iron can make it. In three minutes we loathed the place.

“You can go on!” I called to the pilot, pushing up the flap in the roof. “Drive to the church in which the condemned prisoners used to hear their last sermon.”

“Yes, mem!” Now we detected a rich, full-bodied Scotch brogue in his speech. “Pairhaps ye wouldna’ moind knawing that by that gett—where ye’ll see the bairs—the puir wretches went on the verra same mornin’. Wha passed by that gett never cam’ back.”

It was a dour-looking passage to a disgraceful death; a small door crossed by iron bars, and fastened with a rusty chain. It made us sick to think who had dragged their feet across the dirt-crusted threshold, and when.

The cab jerked up again in half a minute, although we had rushed off at a smart trot that engaged to land us at least a mile off.

“St. Sephulchre’s, mem!”

I have alluded to the difficulty of determining the age of London buildings from the outward appearance. A year in the sooty moisture that bathes them for seven or eight months out of twelve, destroys all fairness of coloring, leaving them without other beauty than such as depends upon symmetrical proportions, graceful outlines and carving. The humidity eats into the pores of the stone as cosmetics impair the texture of a woman’s skin. But St. Sepulchre has a right to be blasé. It antedated the Great Fire of 1666, the noble porch escaping ruin from the flames as by a miracle. It is black, like everything else in the neighborhood, and, to our apprehension, not comely beyond the portico. The interior is as cheerless as the outside, cold and musty. Throughout, the church has the air of a battered crone with the sins of a fast youth upon her conscience. There are vaults beneath the floor, lettered memorial-stones in the aisle, tarnished brasses on the walls. Clammy sweats break out upon floor, walls, pews and altar in damp weather, and this day of our visit had begun to be damp. It was an unwholesome place even to be buried in. What we wanted to see was a flat stone on the southern side of the choir, reached in bright weather by such daring sunbeams as could make their way through a window, the glass of which was both painted and dirty. A brownish-gray stone, rough-grained, and so much defaced that imagination comes to the help of the eyes that strive to read it: “Captain John Smith—Sometime Governour of Virginia and Admirall of New-England.” He died in 1631, aged fifty-two. The Three Turks’ Heads are still discernible upon the escutcheon above the inscription. The rhyming epitaph begins with—

“Here lyes One conquer^d that Hath conquer^d Kings.”

We knew that much and failed to decipher the rest.

Family traditions, tenderly transmitted through eight generations, touching the unwritten life of the famous soldier of fortune, of the brother who was his heir-at-law, and bequeathed the coat-of-arms to American descendants, were our nursery tales. For him whose love of sea and wildwood was a passion captivity nor courts could tame, his burial-place is a sorry one, although esteemed honorable. I think he would have chosen rather an unknown grave upon the border of the Chickahominy or James, the stars, that had guided him through swamp and desert, for tapers, instead of organ-thrill and incense, the song of mockingbirds and scent of pine woods. The more one knows and thinks and sees of St. Sepulchre’s the less tolerant is he of it as a spot of sepulture for this gallant and true knight. They interred him there because it was his parish church. But they—the English—are not backward in removing other people’s bones when it suits their pride or convenience to do so. In the square tower, lately restored, hangs the bell that has tolled for two hundred years when the condemned passed out of the little iron gate we had just seen. They used to hang them at Tyburn, afterward in the street before the prison. Now, executions take place privately within the Newgate walls. In the brave old times, when refinement of torture was appreciated more highly than now as a means of grace and a Christian art, the criminal had the privilege of hearing his own funeral sermon,—which was rarely, we may infer, a panegyric,—seated upon his coffin in the broad aisle of St. Sepulchre’s. There was a plat of flowers then in the tiny yard where the grass cannot sprout now for the coal-dust, and as the poor creature took his place—the service done—upon the coffin in the cart that was to take him to the gallows, a child was put forward to present him with a bouquet of blossoms grown under the droppings of the sanctuary. What manner of herbs could they have been? Rue, rosemary, life-everlasting? Yet they may have had their message to the dim eyes that looked down upon them—for the quailing human heart—of the Father’s love for the lowest and vilest of His created things.

“Temple Bar!” was our next order.

Before we reached it our driver checked his horse of his own accord, got down from his perch at the back, and presented his weather-beaten face at my side.

“I’ve thocht”—respectfully, and with unction learned in the “kirk”—“that it might eenterest the leddies to know that this is the square where mony hundreds of men, wimmen, and, one may say, eenfants, were burrned alive for the sake of the Faith.”

And in saying it, he lifted his hat quite from his head in reverence, we were touched to note, was not meant for us, but as a tribute to those of whom the world was not worthy.

“Smithfield!” we cried in a breath. “Oh! let us get out!”

It is a hollow square, a small, railed-in garden and fountain in the middle; around these extends on three sides an immense market, the pride of modern London, a structure of much pretension, with four towers and a roof, like that of a conservatory, of glass and iron, supported by iron pillars. A very Babel of buying and selling, of hawkers’ and carters’ yells, at that early hour of the day. The stake was near the fine old church of St. Bartholomew, which faces the open space. Excepting the ancient temple, founded in 1102, there is no vestige of the Smithfield (Smooth-field) where Wallace was hanged, drawn and quartered in 1305; where the “Gentle Mortimer” of a royal paramour was beheaded in 1330, and, in the reign of Mary I., the “Good Catholic,” three hundred of her subjects, John Rogers and Bradford among them, were burned with as little scruple as the white-aproned butcher in the market-stall near by slices off a prime steak for a customer. The church has been several times restored, but the Norman tower bears the date 1628. It, too, felt the Great Fire, and the heat and smoke of crueller flames, in the midst of which One like unto the Son of Man walked with His children. Against the walls was built the stage for the accommodation of the Lord Mayor of London, the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Bedford, that they might, at their ease, behold Anne Askew burn. They were in too prudent dread of the explosion of the powder-bag tied about her waist to sit near enough to hear her say to the sheriff’s offer of pardon if she would recant—“I came not hither to deny my Lord!”

St. Bartholomew the Great stands yet in Smithfield. Above it bow the heavens that opened to receive the souls born into immortality through the travail of that bloody reign. Forty years ago, they were digging in the ground in front of the church to lay pavements, or gas-pipes, or water-mains, or some other nineteenth-century device, and the picks struck into a mass of charred human bones.

“Unknown!” Stephen Gardiner and his helpers had a brisk run of business between St. Andrew’s Day, 1554, and November 17, 1558. There was no time to gather up the fragments. Ah, well! God and His angels knew where was buried the precious seed of the Church.

How the cockles of our canny Scot’s heart warmed toward us when he perceived that he and we were of one mind anent Smithfield! that we took in, without cavil, the breadth and depth of his words—“The Faith!” During that busy four years tender women, girls and babes in age proved, with strong men, what it meant to “earnestly contend for” it.

In a gush of confidence induced by the kinship of sentiment upon this point, we told our friend what we wanted to see in the city, that day, and why, and found him wonderfully versed in other matters besides martyrology. He named a dozen places of interest not upon our schedule, and volunteered to call out the names of noted localities through the loop-hole overhead, as we passed them. This arrangement insured the success of our escapade, for his judicious selection of routes, so as to waste no time in barren neighborhoods, was only surpassed by the quality of the pellets of information dropped into our ears.

St. John’s gate was, in aspect, the most venerable relic we saw in London. They told us in the office at the gateway that it and the Priory—now destroyed—were built in 1111; but recollecting that the Pope’s confirmation of the first constitution of the Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem bore date of 1113, we nursed some unspoken doubts. The prior who finished the building in 1504 modestly left his family coat-of-arms upon the wall of the small entrance-room, now used as an office. This black and bruised arch marks what was the rallying-point of British chivalry and piety during three crusades. Out of this gate the Hospitaliers drew forth in mingled martial and ecclesiastical array—white gown with the red cross on shoulder, over hauberk and greaves,—at each departure for the Holy Land. Godfrey de Bouillon was an influential member and patron of the Order. Henry VIII. scattered the brethren and pocketed their revenues. His daughter Mary reinstated them in their home and privileges. Her sister Elizabeth would none of them, and that was an end of the controversy, for she lived long enough to enforce her decree.

Cave’s “Gentleman’s Magazine” was published here when gentlemen ceased to ride, booted, spurred, and illiterate, upon the crusades against the Saracen. Johnson, a slovenly provincial usher, having failed as translator and schoolmaster to make a living, applied for, and received from this periodical literary employment—the first paying engagement of his life. For more than a dozen years he was a contributor to the Magazine, and the office above the gate was his favorite lounging-place. As a proof of this they show a chair, ungainly and unclean enough to have been used by him throughout the period of his contributorship.

East of St. John’s Gate we passed a disused intramural cemetery, begloomed on all sides by rows of dingy houses. The rain of “blacks” incessantly descending upon the metropolis collects here in unstirred, sable sheets. Such a pall enfolds the graves of Isaac Watts and Daniel Defoe, whose “Diary of the Great Plague” is a work of more dramatic power than his Robinson Crusoe. A stone’s throw apart from hymnster and romancist, lies a greater than either—the prince of dreamers, John Bunyan.

Temple Bar is—or was, for it has been pulled down since we were there—an arch of Portland stone, and is attributed, I hope, erroneously, to Christopher Wren. Without this information I should have said that it was a wooden structure, badly hacked, gnawed, and besmirched by time, with dirty plaster statues of the two Charleses niched upon one side, and, upon the other, corresponding figures of James I. and Elizabeth. It was much lower than we had supposed, and than it is represented in pictures, and just wide enough to allow two coaches to pass abreast without collision. The roaring tide overflowing the Strand and Fleet Street appeared to squeeze through with difficulty. Above the gate was a row of one-story offices—mere boxes—such as are occupied in our country by newspaper-venders. Within the memory of living men the top of the gate was a thick-set hedge of spikes, reckoned, not very many years back, as one of the bulwarks of English liberties. Up to the middle of the eighteenth century, law-abiding cockneys, on their peregrinations to and from the city, were strengthened in loyalty and veneration for established customs, by the spectacle of rotting and desiccated heads of traitors exposed here. They were tardy in the abolition of object-teaching in Christian England. There were solid oaken gates with real hinges and bars at Temple Gate. When the sovereign paid a visit to the city she was reminded of some agreeable passages between one of her predecessors and the London lords of trade, by finding these closed. Her pursuivant blew a trumpet; there was an exchange of question and reply; the oaken leaves swung back; the Lord Mayor presented his sword to our gracious and sovereign lady, the queen, who returned it to him with an affable smile, and the royal coach was suffered to pass under the Bar. More object-teaching!

From Temple Gate to Temple Gardens was a natural transition. These famous grounds formerly sloped down to the Thames, and were an airy, spacious promenade. Now, one smiles in reading that Suffolk found it a “more convenient” place for private converse than the “Temple Hall.” A talk between four gentlemen of the rank of Plantagenet, Suffolk, Somerset and Warwick, in the pretty plat of grass and flowers, fenced in by iron rails, would have eavesdroppers by the score, and the incident of plucking the roses be overlooked by the gossips of fifty tenement-houses. But the area, sadly circumscribed by the encroachments of business, is a sightly bit of green, intersected by gravel walks, and in the season enlivened by the flaming geraniums that not even London “blacks” can put out of countenance. We really saw rose-trees there in flower, the following August.

In one particular, and one only, the knowledge and zeal of our Scotchman were at fault in the course of our Bohemian expedition. I have said that Baedeker’s excellent “Hand-book for London” was in the printer’s hands just when we needed it most. Therefore we searched vainly in St. Paul’s Churchyard for Dr. Johnson’s Coffee-house, where Boswell hung upon his lumbering periods, as bees upon honeysuckle; for the site of the Queen’s Arms Tavern, also a resort of the literati in the time of the great Lexicographer. We were mortified at our ill-success, chiefly because we ascribed it to the very lame and imperfect descriptions of these places which were all we could offer the Average Britons of whom we made inquiry. We were in no such uncertainty as to the Chapter Coffee-house in Paternoster Row; Mrs. Gaskell had been there before us and left so broad a “blaze” we could hardly miss seeing it.

“Half-way up (the Row), on the left hand side, is the Chapter Coffee-house. It is two hundred years old, or so.... The ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had heavy beams running across them; the walls were wainscoted breast-high; the staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much space in the centre of the house. This, then, was the Chapter Coffee-house, which, a century ago, was the resort of all the booksellers and publishers; and where the literary hacks, the critics, and even the wits, used to go in search of ideas, or employment. This was the place about which Chatterton wrote, in those delusive letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he was starving in London. ‘I am quite familiar at the Chapter Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there.’ Here he heard of chances of employment; here his letters were to be left.”

Here the Brontë sisters, visiting London upon business connected with “Jane Eyre” and “Wuthering Heights,” stayed for two days, resisting the invitation of their publisher to come to his house.

Charlotte’s biographer had gone on to draw for us with graphic pen a scene of later date:

“The high, narrow windows looked into the gloomy Row. The sisters, clinging together on the most remote window-seat, could see nothing of motion or of change in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and close although the whole breadth of the Row was between. The mighty roar of London was round them, like the sound of an unseen ocean, yet every foot-fall on the pavement below might be heard distinctly in that unfrequented street.”

When we made known our purpose to the guide, who, by this time, had taken upon him the character of protector, likewise, he was puzzled but obedient. He got down at the mouth of the crooked Row and begged permission to do our errand.

“The horse is pairfectly quiet, and there’s quite a dreezle comin’ on.”

This was true. The fog that had seemed dry so long, was falling. The uneven, round stones were very wet. But why not drive down the street until we found the house we were looking for?

He rubbed his grizzled, sandy hair into a mop of perplexity.

“The way is but strait at the best, as ye may pairceive, leddies, and it wad be unco’ nosty to meet a cab, or, mayhap, a four-wheeler in some pairts.”

We primed him with minute directions and let him depart upon the voyage of discovery, while we leaned back under the projecting hood of the carriage, sheltered by it and the queer, wooden folding-doors above our knees, from the “dreezle,” and speculated why “Paternoster” Row should be near to and in a line with “Amen” and “Ave Maria” corners. What august processional had passed that way, and pausing at given stations to say an “Ave,” a “Paternoster,” a united “Amen,” left behind it names that would be repeated as long and ignorantly as the Cross of “Notre Chère Reine” and “La Route du Roi” are murdered into cockney English? That led to the telling of a dispute Caput had had one day with a cabman, who, by the way, had jumped from his box on the road to Hyde Park corner to say: “No, sir, we’re not at H’Apsley ’Ouse yet, sir! But I fancied it might h’interest the lady to know that the pavement we are a-drivin’ over at this h’identical minute, sir, h’is composed h’entirely of wood!”

“We have hundreds of miles of it in America, and wish you had it all!” retorted Caput, amused, but impatient. “Go on!”

Having seen Apsley and Stafford Houses, we bade the fellow take us to a certain number on Oxford Street. He declared there was no such street in the city, and jumped down from his seat to confirm his assertion out of the mouths of three or four other “cabbies” at a hackstand. A brisk altercation ensued, ended by Caput’s exhibition of an open guide-book and pointing to the name.

“Ho! hit’s Hugsfoot Street you mean!” cried the disgusted cockney.

As I finished the anecdote our Scot returned, crestfallen. He did not say we had sent him on a fool’s errand, but we began to suspect it ourselves when we undertook the quest in person. We were wrapped in waterproofs and did not mind the fine, soaking mist, except as it made the strip of flagging next the shops slippery, as with coal-oil. Paternoster Row retains its bookish character. Every second shop was a publisher’s, printer’s, or stationer’s. Everybody was civil. N. B.—Civility is a part of a salesman’s trade in England. But everybody stared blankly at our questions relative to the Chapter Coffee-house, although the very name fixed it in this locality. One and all said, first or last—“I really carn’t say!” and several observed politely that “it was an uncommon nasty day.” One added, “But h’indeed, at this season, we may look for nasty weather.”

One word about this pet adjective of the noble Briton of both sexes. It is quite another thing from the American word, spelled but not pronounced in the same way, and which, with us, seldom passes the lips of well-bred people. An English lady once told me that a hotel she had patronized was “very clean—neat as wax, in fact, and handsomely furnished, but a very-very nasty house!”

She meant, it presently transpired, that the fare was scant in quantity, and the landlord surly. Whatever is disagreeable, mean, unsatisfactory, from any cause whatsoever, is “nasty.” When they would intensify the expression they say “beastly,” and fold over the leaf upon the list of expletives.

We did not find our coffee-house, nor anybody who looked or spoke as if he ever heard of the burly Lichfield bear or his parasite, of Chatterton or Horace Walpole, much less of the Rowley MSS. or the sisters Brontë! Nor were we solaced for the disappointment by driving three miles through the mist to see The Tyburn Tree, to behold an upright slab, like a mile-stone, set upon the inner edge of the sidewalk at the western verge of Hyde Park. A very disconsolate slab, slinking against the fence as if ashamed of itself in so genteel a neighborhood, and of the notorious name cut into its face.

CHAPTER III.
Spurgeon and Cummings.

MR. SPURGEON and his Tabernacle are “down” in guide-books among the lions of the metropolis. But, in engaging a carriage to take us to the Tabernacle on Sabbath morning, we had to clarify the perceptions of our very decent coachman by informing him that it was hard by the “Elephant and Castle.” Nothing stimulates the wit of the average Briton like the mention of an inn or ale-house, unless it be the gleam of the shilling he is to spend therein.

In anticipation of a crowd, Caput had provided himself with tickets for our party of three. These are given to any respectable traveller who will apply to the agent of the “concern,” in Paternoster Row. To avoid the press of entrance we allowed ourselves an hour for reaching the church. The Corinthian portico was already packed with non-holders of tickets, although it lacked half an hour of the time for service. There were ushers at a gate at the left of the principal entrance, who motioned us to pass. The way lay by a locked box fastened to a post, labelled “For the Lay College,” or words to that effect. In consideration of the gratuity of the tickets, and the manifest convenience of the same, that stranger is indeed a churl, ungrateful, or obtuse to the laws of quid pro quo, who does not drop a coin into the slit, and feel, after the free-will offering, that he has a better right to his seat. A second set of ushers received us in the side vestibule and directed us to go upstairs. The gallery seats are the choice places, and we obeyed with alacrity. A third detachment met us at the top of the steps, looked at and retained our tickets, and stood us in line with fifty other expectants against the inner wall, until he could “h’arrange matters.” Our turn came in about five minutes, and we were agreeably surprised at being installed in the front row, with a clear view of stage and lower pews. In five minutes more an elderly lady in a black silk dress trimmed profusely with guipure lace, a purple velvet hat with a great deal of Chantilly about it, and a white feather atop of all, touched my shoulder from behind, showing me a face like a Magenta hollyhock, but sensible and kind.

“Might I inquire if you got your tickets from Mr. Merryweather?”

I looked at Caput.

“No, madam!” he replied promptly. “I procured them from ——,” giving the Paternoster Row address.

“Possible? But you are strangers?”

He bowed assent.

“And Americans?”

Another bow.

“Then all I ’ave to say is, that it is extror’nary! most extror’nary! I told Mr. Merryweather to give three tickets, with my compliments, to an American party I heard of—one gentleman and a couple of ladies—and I was in hopes they were providentially near my pew.”

She leaned forward, after a minute, to subjoin—“Of course, you are welcome, all the same!”

“That is one comfort!” whispered Prima, as the pew-owner settled back rustlingly into her corner. “In America we should consider her ‘very-very’ impertinent. Do circumstances and people alter cases?”

Ten minutes more and the galleries were packed by the skilled ushers, and the body of the lower floor was three-quarters full of pew-holders. We scanned them carefully and formed an opinion of the social and intellectual status of the Tabernacle congregation we saw no reason to reverse at our second and longer visit to London, two years afterward, when our opportunities of making a correct estimate of pastor and people were better than on this occasion. Caput summed it up.

“I dare affirm that eight out of ten of them misplace their h’s——”

“And say, ‘sir!’” interpolated Prima, gravely.

Yet they looked comfortable in spirit, and, as to body, were decidedly and tawdrily overdressed—the foible of those whose best clothes are too good for every-day wear, and who frequent few places where they can be so well displayed and seen as at church. Somebody assured me once, that white feathers were worn in Great Britain out of compliment to the Prince of Wales, whose three white plumes banded together are conspicuous in all public decorations. If this be true, the prospective monarch may felicitate himself upon the devotion of the Wives and Daughters of England. I have never seen one-half so many sported elsewhere, and they have all seasons for their own.

The last remaining space in our slip was taken up by a pair who arrived somewhat late. The wife was a pretty dumpling of a woman, resplendent in a bronze-colored silk dress, garnie with valenciennes, a seal-skin jacket, and a white hat trebly complimentary to H. R. H. She and her dapper husband squeezed past those already seated, obliging us to rise to escape trampled toes, wedged themselves into the far end of the pew, and a dialogue began in loud whispers.

“I say it’s a shame!”

“If you complain they may say we should a’ come h’earlier.”

“I don’t care! I will ’ave my say! Mr. Smith!” This aloud, beckoning an usher; “I say, Mr. Smith! You’ve put one too many h’in our pew. Its h’abominably crowded!”

The slip was very long. Besides the malcontents, there were five of us, who looked at each other, then at the embarrassed usher. The gentleman next the aisle arose.

“If you can provide me with another seat I will give the lady more room,” he said to the man of business.

With a word of smiling apology to his companion—a sweet-faced woman we supposed was his wife—he followed the guide, and, as the reward of gallantry stood against the wall back of us until the sermon was half done. We did not need to be told what was his nationality. The victorious heroine of the skirmish did not say or look—“I am sorry!” or “Thanks!” only, to her husband,—“Now I can breathe!”

She was civilly attentive to me, who chanced to sit nearest her, handing me a hymn-book and offering her fan as the house grew warm. She evidently had no thought that she had been rude or inhospitable to the stranger within the gates of her Tabernacle.

The great front doors were opened, and in less time than I can write of it the immense audience-chamber, capable of containing 6,500 persons, was filled to overflowing. The rush and buzz were a subdued tumult. Nobody made more noise than was needful in the work of obtaining seats in the most favorable positions left for the multitude who were not regular worshippers there, nor ticket-holders. But I should have considered one of Apollos’s sermons dearly-bought by such long waiting and the race that ended it. The ground-swell of excitement had not entirely subsided when the “ting! ting!” of a little bell was heard. A door opened at the back of the deep platform already edged with rows of privileged men and women, who had come in by this way, and Mr. Spurgeon walked to the front, where were his chair and table.

I have yet to see the person whose feeling at the first sight of the great Baptist preacher was not one of overwhelming disappointment. His legs are short and tremble under the heavy trunk. His forehead is low, with a bush of black hair above it, the brows beetle over small, twinkling eyes, the nose is thick, the mouth large, with a pendulous lower jaw. “Here is an animal!” you say to yourself. “Of the earth, earthy. Of the commonalty, common!”

He moved slowly and painfully, and while preaching, praying and reading, rested his gouty knee upon the seat of a chair and stood upon one leg. His hand, stumpy and ill-formed, although small, grasped the chair-back for further support. If I remember aright, there was no invocation or other preliminary service before he gave out a hymn. His voice is a clear monotone, marvellously sustained. The inflections are slight and few, but exceedingly effective. The ease of elocution that sent every syllable to the farthest corner of the vast building was inimitable and cannot be described.

“We will sing”—he began as naturally as in a prayer-meeting of twenty persons—“We will all sing, with the heart and with the voice, with the spirit, and with understanding, the ——th hymn:

“Let us all, with cheerful mood

Praise the Lord, for He is good!”

The pronunciation of “mood” rhymed precisely with “good,” and he said “Lard,” instead of “Lord.” But the words had in them the ring of a silver trumpet.

The precentor stood directly in front of the preacher, facing the audience and just within the railing of the stage. The instant the reading of the hymn was over, he raised the tune, the congregation rising. The Niagara of song made me fairly dizzy for a minute. Everybody sang. After a few lines, it was impossible to refrain from singing. One was caught up and swept on by the cataract. He might not know the air. He might have neither ear nor voice for music. He was kept in time and tune by the strong current of sound. There was no organ or other musical instrument, nor was the voice of the precentor especially powerful. It was as if we were guided by one overmastering mind and spirit constraining the least emotional to be “conjubilant in song” with the thousands upon thousands of his fellows. Congregational psalmody, such as this, without previous rehearsal or training, is phenomenal.

A prayer followed, as remarkable in its way as the singing. Comprehensive, devout, simple, it was the pleading of man in the felt presence of his Maker;—the key-note—“Nevertheless, I will talk with Thee!” Next to Mr. Spurgeon’s earnestness his best gift is his command of good, nervous English,—fluency which is never verboseness. Knowing exactly what he means to say, he says it—fully and roundly—and lets it alone thereafter. He is neither scholarly, nor eloquent, in any other sense than in these. He read a chapter, giving an exposition of each verse in terse, familiar phrase. There was another hymn, and he announced his text:

“Rather rejoice because your names are written in Heaven!”

I should hardly name humility as a characteristic of prayer or sermon; yet, for one whose boldness of speech often approximates dogmatism, he is singularly free from self-assertion. His sermon was more like a lecture-room talk than a discourse prepared for, and delivered to a mixed multitude. His quotations from Holy Writ were abundant and apt, evincing a retentive memory and ready wit. One-third of the sermon was in the very words of Scripture. His habitual employment of Bible phrases has lent to his own composition a quaint savor. He makes lavish use of “thee” and “thou,” jumbling these inelegantly with “you” in the same sentence.

For example:—He described a man who had been useful and approved as a church-member: (always addressing his own people)—“The Master has allowed you to work for many days in His vineyard, and paid thee good wages, even given thee souls for thy hire.”

In what shape reverses came to the prosperous laborer we were not told, but that he did see others outstrip him in usefulness and honors:

“You are bidden by the Master to take a lower—maybe the lowest seat. Ah, then, my friend, thou hast the dumps!”

I heard him say in another sermon: “If my Lord were to offer a prize for a joyful Christian I am afraid there are not many of you who would dare try for it. And if you did, I fear me much you would not draw even a third prize.”

Occasionally he is coarse in trope and expression. I hesitate to record a sentence that shocked me to disgust as being not only in atrocious taste and an unfortunate figure of speech, but, to my apprehension, irreverent:

“If we are not filled, it is because we do not hang upon and suck at those blessed breasts of God’s promises as we might and should do.”

His illustrations are like his diction—homely. There was not a new grand thought, nor a beautiful passage, rhetorically considered, in any discourse we ever heard from him; not a trace of such fervid imagination as draws men, sometimes against their will, to hear Gospel truth in Talmage’s Tabernacle, or of Beecher’s magnificent genius. We have, in America, scores of men who are little known outside of their own town, or State, who preach the Word as simply and devoutly; who are, impartially considered, in speech more weighty, in learning incomparably superior to the renowned London Nonconformist. Yet we sat—between six and seven thousand of us—and listened to him for nearly an hour, without restlessness or straying attention. Yes! and went again and again, to discover, if possible, as the boys say of the juggler—“how he did it.”

In giving out the notices for the week, Mr. Spurgeon thanked the regular attendants of the church for having complied with the request he had made on the preceding Sabbath morning, and “stopped away at night,” thus leaving more room for strangers. “I hope still more of you will stop at home this evening,” he concluded in a tone of jolly fellowship the people appeared to comprehend and like. He was clearly thoroughly at one with his flock.

At night we also “stopped away,” but not at home. After much misdirection and searching, we found the alley—it was nothing better—leading to Dr. Cummings’s church in Crown Court, Long Acre. It was small, very small in our sight while the remembered roominess of the Tabernacle lingered with us,—plain as a Primitive Methodist Chapel in the country; badly lighted, and the high, straight pews were not half filled. The author of “Voices of the Dead” and “Lectures upon the Apocalypse” is a gray-haired man a little above medium height. His shoulders were bowed slightly—the bend of the student, not of infirmity; his features were clear-cut and spirituelle. He preached that night in faith and hope that were pathetic to us who had read his prophecies—or his interpretation of Divine prophecy—as long ago as 1850, and recalled the fact that the time set for the fulfilment of some of these had passed.

His text was Rev. i. 3: “Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy and keep those things that are written therein—for THE TIME IS AT HAND!”

He believed it. One read it in every word and gesture; in the rapt look of the eyes so long strained with watching for the nearer promise—the dayspring—of His coming; in the calm assurance of mien and tone, the dignity of a seer, whom Heaven was joined with earth to authenticate. He spoke without visible notes; his only gesture a slight lifting of both hands, with a fluttering, outward movement. We listened vainly for some token in his spoken composition of the epigrammatic, often antithetical style, that gives nerve and point to his published writings. The interesting, albeit desultory talk was, he informed us, the first of a series of sermons upon the Apocalypse he designed to deliver in that place from Sabbath to Sabbath. He had been diligently engaged of late in recasting the horoscope of the world. That was not the way he put it. But he did say that he had reviewed the calculations upon which his published “Lectures” were based, and would make known the result of his labors in the projected series.

He preferred, it was said, the obscure corner in which he preached to any other location, and had refused the offer of a lady of rank to build him a better church, in a better neighborhood. I suppose he thought it would outlast him—and into the millennial age.

I read, but yesterday, in an English paper, that he had retired from pulpit duties, in confirmed ill-health, and that after his long life of toil he is very poor. Some of his wealthy friends propose to pension him. And we remember so well when his “Voices of the Night”—“The Day”—“The Dead” were read by more thousands and tens of thousands than now flock to hear Spurgeon; when the “Lectures upon the Apocalypse” were a bugle-call, turning the eyes of the Christian world to the so long rayless East. We recall, too, the title of another of his books, with the vision of the bent figure and eyes grown dim with waiting for the glory to be revealed,—and another text from his beloved Revelation:

“These are they that have come out of Great Tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”

CHAPTER IV.
The Two Elizabeths.

IF the English autumn be sad, and the English spring be sour, the smiling beauty of the English summer should expel the memory of gloom and acerbity from the mind of the tourist who is not afflicted with bronchitis. In England they make the ch very hard, and pronounce the i in the second syllable as in kite. They ought to know all about bronchitis, for it lurks in every whiff of east wind, and most of the vanes have rusted upon their pivots in their steadfast pointing to that quarter.

The east wind is not necessarily raw. It was bracing, and the sky blue as that of Italy, when we took a Fourth of July drive of nine hours through the fairest portion of the Isle of Wight. The Tally-Ho was a gorgeous pleasure-coach, all red and yellow. The coachman and guard were in blue coats and brass buttons, red waistcoats, and snowy leather breeches, fitting like the skin; high top-boots and cockaded hats. We had four good horses, the best seats upon the top of the coach, a hamper of luncheon, and as many rugs and shawls as we would have taken on a winter voyage across the Atlantic. There were opaline belts of light upon the sea, such as we had seen from Naples and Sorrento, passing into pearl and faintest blue where the sky met and mingled with the water. Hundreds of sails skimmed the waves like so many white gulls. Here and there a steamer left a dusky trail upon the air. Three were stationary about a dark object near the shore. It looked like a projecting pile the rising tide might cover. The Eurydice, a school-ship of the Royal Navy, had foundered there in a gale six weeks and more agone, carrying upwards of three hundred souls down with her. Day by day these government transports were toiling to raise her and recover the bodies of the boys. A week after we left the island they succeeded in dragging up the water-logged hulk. Only eighteen corpses were found. The sea had washed off and hidden the rest.

England is a garden in June, July, and August. The Isle of Wight is a fairy parterre, set with such wealth of verdure and bloom as never disappoints nor palls upon the sight. The roads are perfect in stability and smoothness, and whether they lie along the edge of the cliffs, or among fertile plains besprinkled with villages and farm-buildings, with an occasional manor-house or venerable ruin, are everywhere fringed by such hedges as flourish nowhere else so bravely as in the British Isles. The hawthorn was out of flower, but blackberries whose blossoms were pink instead of white, trailing briony, sweet-brier, and, daintiest and most luxuriant of all, wild convolvulus, hung with tiny cups of pale rose-color—healed our regrets that we were too late to see and smell the “May” in its best-loved home.

We lunched at Blackgang Chine, spreading our cloth upon the heather a short distance from the brow of the cliff, the sea rolling so far below us that the surf was a whisper and the strollers upon the beach were pigmies. The breadth—the apparent boundlessness of the view were enhanced by the crystalline purity of the atmosphere. In standing upon the precipice, our backs to the shore, looking seaward beyond the purple “Needles” marking the extremest point of the sunken reef, we had an eerie sense of being suspended between sky and ocean;—a lightness of body and freedom of spirit, a contempt for the laws of gravitation, and for the Tally-Ho as a means of locomotion, that were, we decided after comparing notes among ourselves, the next best thing to being sea-fowl.

The principal objects of interest for the day were Carisbrooke Castle and Arreton. Next to the Heidelberg Schloss, Carisbrooke takes rank, in our recollection of ruins many and castles uncountable, for beauty of situation and for careful preservation of original character without injury to picturesqueness. The moat is cushioned with daisied turf, but we crossed it by a stone bridge of a single span. Over the gateway is carved the Woodville coat-of-arms, supported on each side by the “White Rose” of York. The arch is recessed between two fine, round towers. The massive doors, cross-barred with iron, still hang upon their hinges. Passing these, we were in a grassy court-yard of considerable extent. On our left was the shell of the suite of rooms occupied by Charles I. during his imprisonment here, from November 13, 1647, until the latter part of the next year. Ivy clings and creeps through the empty window-frames, and tapestries walls denuded of the “thick hangings and wainscoting” ordered for the royal captive. The floors of the upper story have fallen and the lower is carpeted with grass. Tufts of a pretty pink flower were springing in all the crevices. Ferns grew rank and tall along the inside of the enclosed space. High up in the wall is the outline of a small window, “blocked up in after alterations,” according to the record. Through this the king endeavored to escape on the night of March 20, 1648. Horses were ready in the neighborhood of the Castle, and a vessel awaited the king upon the shore. A brave royalist came close beneath the window and gave the signal.

“Then”—in the words of this man, the only eye-witness of the scene—“His Majesty put himself forward, but, too late, found himself mistaken.”

Charles had declared, when the size of the aperture was under discussion, “Where my head can pass, my body can follow.”

“He, sticking fast between his breast and shoulders and not able to get backward or forward. Whilst he stuck I heard him groan, but could not come to help him, which, you may imagine, was no small affliction to me. So soon as he was in again—to let me see (as I had to my grief heard) the design was broken—he set a candle in the window. If this unfortunate impediment had not happened, his Majesty had certainly then made a good escape.”

The Stuarts were a burden to the land, as a family; but we wished the window had been a few inches broader, and exile, not the block, the end of fight ’twixt king and parliament, as we walked up and down the tilt-yard converted into a promenade and bowling-green for the prisoner while Colonel Hammond was governor of the Castle. Here Charles paced two hours each day, the wide sea and the free ships below him; in plain sight the cove where the little shallop had lain, at anchor, the night of the attempted rescue.

“He was not at all dejected in his spirits,” we read; “but carried himself with the same majesty he had used to do. His hair was all gray, which, making all others very sad, made it thought that he had sorrow in his countenance which appeared only by that shadow.”

In further evidence of his unbroken spirit in this earliest imprisonment, we have the motto “Dum spiro, spero,” written by himself in a book he was fond of reading. Without divining it, he was getting his breath between two tempests. That in these months all that was truly kingly and good within him was nourished into healthy growth we gather, furthermore, in reading that “The Sacred Scriptures he most delighted in; read often in Sand’s Paraphrase of King David’s Psalms and Herbert’s Divine Poems.” Also, that “Spenser’s Faerie Queen was the alleviation of his spirits after serious studies.”

The Bowling Green is little changed in grade and verdure since the semi-daily promenade of the captive monarch streaked it with narrow paths, and since his orphaned son and daughter played bowls together upon the turf two summers afterward. The sward is velvet of thickest pile. There is an English saying that “it takes a century to make a lawn.” This has had more than two in which to grow and green.

We were glad that another party who were with us in the grounds were anxious to see an ancient donkey tread the wheel which draws up a bucket from the well, “144 feet deep, with 37 feet of water” in a building at the side of the Castle. While they tarried to applaud “Jacob’s” feat, we had a quiet quarter of an hour in the upper chamber, where, as a roughly-painted board tells us, “The Princess Elizabeth died.”

Who (in America) has not read the narrative, penned by the thirteen-year-old child, “What the King said to me 29^th of January last, being the last time I had the happiness to see him”? The heart breaks with the mere reading of the title and the fancy of the trembling fingers that wrote it out.

Her father had said to her, “But, sweetheart, thou wilt forget what I tell thee!” “Then, shedding abundance of tears, I told him that I would write down all he said to me.”

We knew, almost to a word, the naïve recital which was the fulfilment of the pledge. We could not have forgotten at Carisbrooke that her father had given her a Bible, saying: “It had been his great comfort and constant companion through all his sorrows, and he hoped it would be hers.” She had been a prisoner in the Castle less than a week when she was caught in a sudden shower while playing with her little brother, the Duke of Gloucester, on the Bowling Green. The wetting “caused her to take cold, and the next day she complained of headache and feverish distemper.” It was a poor bed-chamber for a king’s daughter (with one window, a mere slit in the wall, and one door), in the which she lay for a fortnight, “her disease growing upon her,” until “after many rare ejaculatory expressions, abundantly demonstrating her unparalleled piety, to the eternal honor of her own memory and the astonishment of those who waited upon her, she took leave of the world on Sunday, the 8th of September, 1650.”

That was the way the chaplain and the physician told the story—such a sorrowful little tale when one strips away the sounding polysyllables and cuts short the windings of the sentences!

The warden’s wife was, we know, one of “those who waited upon her.” Hireling hands ministered to her through her “distemper.” In the scanty retinue that attended her to Carisbrooke was one “Judith Briott, her gentlewoman.” We liked to think she must have loved her gentle little mistress. It is possible her tending was as affectionate as the care she might have had, had the mother, to whom the father had sent his love by the daughter’s hand, been with her instead of in France, toying (some say) with a new lover. Yet the child-heart must have yearned for parents, brothers and sisters. On that Sunday morning, an attendant entering with a bowl of bread-and-milk, discovered that the princess had died alone, her cheek pillowed upon the Bible—her father’s legacy.

That small chamber was a sacred spot where we could not but speak low and step softly. It is utterly dismantled. When draped and furnished it may not have been comfortless. It could never have been luxurious. A branch of ivy had thrust itself in at the window through which her dying eyes looked their last upon the sky. Caput reached up silently and broke off a spray. As I write, it climbs up my window-frame, a thrifty vine, that has taken kindly to voyaging and transplanting. To me it is a more valuable memento than the beautiful photograph of the monument erected to Princess Elizabeth’s memory in the Church of St. Thomas, whither “her body was brought (in a borrowed coach) attended with her few late servants.”

Yet the monument is a noble tribute from royalty to the daughter of a royal line. The young girl lies asleep, one hand fallen to her side, the other laid lightly upon her breast, her check turned to rest upon the open Bible. The face is sweet and womanly; the expression peacefully happy. “A token of respect for her virtues, and sympathy for her misfortunes. By Victoria R., 1856.” So reads the inscription.

Imagination leaped a wide chasm of time and station in passing from the state prison-chamber of Carisbrooke to the thatched cottage of The Dairyman’s Daughter; from the marble sculptured by a queen’s command, to the head-stone reared by one charitable admirer of the humble piety of Elizabeth Walbridge. To reach the grave we had to pass through the parish church of Arreton. It is like a hundred other parish churches scattered among the byways of England. The draught from the interior met us when the door grated upon the hinges, cold, damp, and ill-smelling, a smell that left an earthy taste in the mouth. Beneath the stone flooring the noble dead are packed economically as to room. The sexton, who may have been a trifle younger than the building, spoke a dialect we could hardly translate. The church was his pride, and he was sorely grieved when we would have pushed right onward to the burying-ground.

“Ye mun look at ’e brawsses!” he pleaded so tremulously that we halted to note one, on which was the figure of a man in armor, his feet upon a lion couchant.

“Here is ye buried under this Grave

Harry Haweis. His soul God save.

Long tyme steward of the Yle of Wyght.

Have m’cy on hym, God ful of myght.”

The date is 1430.

Another “brass” upon a stone pillar bears six verses setting forth the worthy deeds of one William Serle:

“Thus did this man, a Batchelor,

Of years full fifty-nyne.

And doing good to many a one,

Soe did he spend his tyme.”

“An’ ye woant see ’e rest?” quavered the old sexton at our next movement. “’E be foine brawsses! Quawlity all of um—’e be!”

Seeing our obduracy, he hobbled to the side-door and unlocked it, amid many groans from himself and the rusty wards. The July light and air were welcome after the damp twilight within. In death at least, it would seem to be better with the poor than the “quality,” if sun and breeze are boons. The churchyard is small and ridged closely with graves. The old man led the way between and over these to the last home of the Dairyman’s Daughter. We gathered about it, looked reverently upon the low swell of turf. There is a metrical epitaph, sixteen lines in length, presumably the composition of the lady at whose expense the stone was raised. It begins:

“Stranger! if e’er by chance or feeling led,

Upon this hallowed turf thy footsteps tread,

Turn from the contemplation of the sod,

And think on her whose spirit rests with God.”

The rest is after the same order, a mechanical jingle in pious measure. It offends one who has not been educated to appreciate the value of post-mortem patronage bestowed by the lofty upon the lowly. It was enough for us to know that the worn body of Legh Richmond’s “Elizabeth” lay there peacefully sleeping away the ages.

We had picked up in a Ventnor bookshop a shabby little copy of Richmond’s “Annals of the Poor,” printed in 1828. It contained a sketch of Mr. Richmond’s life by his son-in-law, The Dairyman’s Daughter, The Negro Servant, and The Young Cottager, the scene of all these narratives being in the Isle of Wight. We reread them with the pensive pleasure one feels in unbinding a pacquet of letters, spotted and yellowed by time, but which hands beloved once pressed, and yielding still the faint fragrance of the rose-leaves we laid away with them when the pages were white and fresh. We, who drew delight with instruction from Sunday-School libraries more than thirty years back, knew Elizabeth, the “Betsey” of father and mother, better than we did our next-door neighbors. Prima and Secunda, allured by my enthusiasm to read the book, declared that her letters to her spiritual adviser “were prosy and priggish,” but that the hold of the story upon my heart was not all the effect of early association was abundantly proved by their respectful mention of her humble piety and triumphant death.

By her side lies the sister at whose funeral Legh Richmond first met his modest heroine. In the same family group sleep the Dairyman and his wife. “The mother died not long after the daughter,” says Mr. Richmond, “and I have good reason to believe that God was merciful to her and took her to Himself. The good old Dairyman died in 1816, aged 84. His end was eminently Christian.”

Elizabeth died May 30, 1801, at the age of thirty-one.

“Pardon!” said a foreign gentleman, one of the party, who, seeing Caput uncover his head at the grave, had done the same. “But will you have the goodness to tell me what it is we have come here to see?”

“The grave of a very good woman,” was the reply.

Legh Richmond tells us little more. Her love for her Saviour, like the broken alabaster-box of ointment in the hand of another woman of far different life, is the sweet savor that has floated down to us through all these years.

I stooped to picked some bearded grasses from the mound. The sexton bent creakingly to aid me, chattering and grinning. He wore a blue frock over his corduroy trousers: his hands and clothes were stained with clay; his sunken cheeks looked like old parchment.

“’A wisht ’a ’ad flowers to gi’ ’e, leddy!” he said. “’A dit troy for one wheele to keep um ’ere. But ’a moight plant um ivery day, and ’ee ud be all goane ’afore tummorrer. He! he! he! ’A—manny leddies cooms ’ere for summat fro’ e’ grave. ’A burried ’er brother over yander!” chucking a pebble to show where—“’a dit! ’E larst of ’e fomily. ’Ees all goane! And ’a’m still aloive and loike to burry a manny more! He! he!”

Our homeward route lay by the Dairyman’s cottage, a long mile from the church. When the coffin of Elizabeth, borne by neighbors’ hands, was followed by the mourners, also on foot, funeral hymns were sung, “at occasional intervals of about five minutes.” As we bowled along the smooth road, Prima, sitting behind me, read aloud from the shabby little volume a description of the surrounding scene, that might, for accuracy of detail, have been written that day:

“A rich and fruitful valley lay immediately beneath. It was adorned with corn-fields and pastures, through which a small river winded in a variety of directions, and many herds grazed upon its banks. A fine range of opposite hills, covered with grazing flocks, terminated with a bold sweep into the ocean, whose blue waves appeared at a distance beyond. Several villages, churches and hamlets were scattered in the valley. The noble mansions of the rich and the lowly cottages of the poor added their respective features to the landscape. The air was mild, and the declining sun occasioned a beautiful interchange of light and shade upon the sides of the hills.”

The annalist adds,—“In the midst of this scene the chief sound that arrested attention was the bell tolling for the funeral of the ‘Dairyman’s Daughter.’”

“A picture by Claude!” commented Caput as the reader paused.

“A draught of old wine that has made the voyage to India and back!” said Dux, our blue-eyed college-boy.

These were the hills that had echoed the funeral psalm; these the cottages in whose doors stood those “whose countenances proclaimed their regard for the departed young woman.” Red brick “cottages,” the little gardens between them and the road crowded with larkspurs, pinks, roses, lavender, and southernwood. They were generally built in solid rows under one roof, the yards separated by palings. There were no basements, the paved floors being laid directly upon the ground. Two rooms upon this floor, and one above in a steep-roofed attic, was the prevailing plan of the tenements. The doors were open, and we could observe, at a passing glance, that some were clean and bright, others squalid, within. All, mean and neat, had flowers in the windows. The Dairyman’s cottage stands detached from other houses with what the neighbors would term “a goodish bit of ground” about it. To the original dwelling that Legh Richmond saw has been joined a two-story wing, also of brick. Beside it the cottage with its thatched roof is a very humble affair. The lane, “quite overshaded with trees and high hedges,” and “the suitable gloom of such an approach to the house of mourning,” are gone, with “the great elm-trees which stood near the house.” The rustling of these,—as he rode by them to see Elizabeth die,—the imagination of the unconscious poet and true child of Nature “indulged itself in thinking were plaintive sighs of sorrow.”

But we saw the upper room with its sloping ceiling, and the window-seat in which “her sister-in-law sat weeping with a child in her lap,” while Elizabeth lay dying upon the bed drawn into the middle of the floor to give her air.

The glory of the sunsetting was over sea and land, painting the sails rose-pink; purpling the lofty downs and mellowing into delicious vagueness the skyey distances—the pathways into the world beyond this island-gem—when we drove into Ventnor. The grounds of the Royal Hotel are high and spacious, with turfy banks rolling from the cliff-brow down to the road, divided by walks laid in snowy shells gathered from the shore. From a tall flag-staff set on the crown of the hill streamed out, proud and straight in the strong sea-breeze—the Stars and Stripes!

We did not cheer it, except in spirit, but the gentlemen waved their hats and the ladies kissed their hands to the grand old standard, and all responded “Amen!” to the deep voice that said, “God bless it, forever!” And with the quick heart-bound that sent smiles to the lips and moisture to the eyes, with longings for the Land always and everywhere dearest to us, came kindlier thoughts than we were wont to indulge of the “Old Home,” which, in the clearer light of a broadening Christian civilization, can, with us, rejoice in the anniversary of a Nation’s Birthday.

CHAPTER V.
Prince Guy.

LEAMINGTON is in, and of itself, the pleasantest and stupidest town in England. It is a good place in which to sleep and eat and leave the children when the older members of the party desire to make all-day excursions. It is pretty, quiet, healthy, with clean, broad “parades” and shaded parks wherein perambulators are safe from runaway horses and reckless driving. There are countless shops for the sale of expensive fancy articles, notably china and embroidery; more lodging-houses than private dwellings and shops put together. There is a chabybeate spring—fabled to have tasted properly, i. e., chemically, “nasty,” once upon a time—enclosed in a pump-room. Hence “Leamington Spa,” one of the names of the town. And through the Jephson Gardens (supposed to be the Enchanted Ground whereupon Tennyson dreamed out his “Lotos-eaters”) flows the “high-complectioned Leam,” the sleepiest river that ever pretended to go through the motions of running at all. Hawthorne defines the “complexion” to be a “greenish, goose-puddly hue,” but, “disagreeable neither to taste nor smell.” We used to saunter in the gardens after dinner on fine evenings, to promote quiet digestion and drowsiness, and can recommend the prescription. There are churches in Leamington, “high” and “low,” or, as the two factions prefer to call themselves, “Anglican” and “Evangelical;” Nonconformist meeting-houses—Congregational, Wesleyan and Baptist; there are two good circulating libraries, and there is a tradition to the effect that living in hotels and lodgings here was formerly cheap. One fares tolerably there now—and pays for it.

We made Leamington our headquarters for six weeks, Warwickshire being a very mine of historic show-places, and the sleepy Spa easy of access from London, Oxford, Birmingham, and dozens of other cities we must see, while at varying distances of one, five, and ten miles lie Warwick Castle, Kenilworth, Stratford-on-Avon, Charlecote, the home of Sir Thomas Lucy (Justice Shallow), Stoneleigh Abbey—one of the finest country-seats in Great Britain—and Coventry.

The age of Warwick Castle is a mooted point. “Cæsar’s Tower,” ruder in construction than the remainder of the stupendous pile, is said to be eight hundred years old. It looks likely to last eight hundred more. The outer gate is less imposing than the entrance to some barn-yards I have seen, A double-leaved door, neither clean nor massive, was unbolted at our ring by a young girl, who told us that the “H’Earl was sick,” therefore, visitors were not admitted “h’arfter ’arf parst ten.” Once in the grounds, “they might stay so long h’as they were dispoged.”

It is impossible to caricature the dialect of the lower classes of the Mother Country. Even substantial tradesmen, retired merchants and their families who are living—and traveling—upon their money are, by turns, prodigal and niggardly in the use of the unfortunate aspirate that falls naturally into place with us; while servants who have lived for years in the “best families” appear to pride themselves upon the liberties they take with their h’s, mouthing the mutilated words with pomp that is irresistibly comic. We delighted to lay traps for our guides and coachmen, and the yeomen we encountered in walks and drives, by asking information on the subject of Abbeys, Inns, Earls, Horses, Halls, and Ages. In every instance they came gallantly up to our expectations, often transcended our most daring hopes. But we seldom met with a more satisfactory specimen in this line than the antique servitor that kept the lodge of Warwick Castle. She wore a black gown, short-waisted and short-skirted, a large cape of the same stuff, and what Dickens had taught us to call a “mortified” black bonnet of an exaggerated type. The cap-frill within flapped about a face that reminded us of Miss Cushman’s Meg Merrilies. Entering the lodge hastily, after the young woman who had admitted us had begun cataloguing the curiosities collected there, she put her aside with a sweep of her bony arm and an angry, guttural “Ach!” and began the solemnly circumstantial relation she must have rehearsed thousands of times. We beheld “H’earl Guy’s” breast-plate, his sword and battle-axe, the “’orn” of a dun cow slain by him, and divers other bits of old iron, scraps of pottery, etc. But the chef d’œuvre of the custodian was the oration above Sir Guy’s porridge-pot, a monstrous iron vessel set in the centre of the square chamber. Standing over it, a long poker poised in her hand, she enumerated with glowing gusto the ingredients of the punch brewed in the big kettle “when the present H’earl came h’of h’age,” glaring at us from the double pent-house of frill and bonnet. I forget the exact proportions, but they were somewhat in this order:

“H’eighteen gallons o’ rum. Fifteen gallons o’ brandy”—tremendous stress upon each liquor—“One ’undred pounds o’ loaf sugar. H’eleven ’undred lemmings, h’and fifty gallons h’of ’ot water! This h’identikle pot was filled h’and h’emptied, three times that day! H’I myself saw h’it!”

Her greedy gloating upon the minutest elements of the potent compound was elfish and almost terrible. It was like—

“Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,”—

the harsh gutturals and suspended iron bar heightening the haggish resemblance. The pot, she proceeded to relate, was “six ’undred years h’old,” and bringing down the poker upon and around the edge, evolving slow gratings and rumblings that crucified our least sensitive nerves, “h’is this h’our without ’ole h’or crack h’as H’I can h’answer for h’and testify!”

The entire exhibition was essentially dramatic and effectively ridiculous. She accepted our gratuity with the same high tragedy air and posed herself above the chaldron for an entering party of visitors.

We sauntered up to the castle along a curving drive between a steep bank overrun with lush ivy and a wall covered with creepers, and overhung by fine old trees. Birds sang in the branches and hopped across the road, the green shade bathed our eyes refreshingly after the glare of the flint-strewn highway outside of the gates. It was a forest dingle, rather than the short avenue to the grandest ancient castle in Three Kingdoms. A broad expanse of turf stretching before the front of the mansion is lost as far as the eye can reach in avenues and plantations of trees. Among these are cedars of Lebanon, brought by crusading Earls from the Holy Land, still vigorously supplying by new growth the waste of centuries. Masses of brilliant flowers relieved the verdure of the level sward, fountains leaped and tinkled in sunny glades, and cut the shadow of leafy vistas with the flash of silver blades. In the principal conservatory stands the celebrated Warwick Vase, brought hither from Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli. Ladders were reared against the barbican wall of great height and thickness, close by Guy’s Tower (erected in 1394). Workmen mounted upon these were scraping mosses and dirt from the interstices of the stones and filling them with new cement. No pains nor expense is spared to preserve the magnificent fortress from the ravages of time and climate. From the foundation of the Castle until now, the family of Warwick, in some of its ramifications—or usurpations—has been in occupation of the demesne and is still represented in the direct line of succession by the present owner. The noble race has battled more successfully with revolution and decay in behalf of house and ancestral home than have most members of the British Peerage whose lineage is of equal antiquity and note.

Opposite the door by which we entered the Great Hall, was a figure of a man on horseback, rider and steed as large as life. The complete suit of armor of the one and the caparisons of the other, were presented by Queen Elizabeth to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, her handsome master-of-horse. From this moment until we quitted the house, we were scarcely, for a moment, out of sight of relics of the parvenu favorite.

It is difficult to appreciate that real people, made of flesh, blood, and sensibilities akin to those of the mass of humankind, live out their daily lives, act out their true characters, indulge in “tiffs” and “makings up,” and have “a good time generally,” in these great houses to which the public are so freely admitted. Neither lives nor homes seem to be their individual and distinctive property. They must be tempted, at times, to doubts of the proprietorship of their own thoughts and enjoy the right of private opinion by stealth.

One thing helped me to picture a social company of friends grouped comfortably, even cozily, in this mighty chamber, the pointed rafters of which met so far above us that the armorial bearings carved between them upon the ceiling were indistinct to near-sighted eyes; where the walls were covered with suits of armor, paintings by renowned masters, and treasures of virtu in furniture and ornament thronged even such spaciousness as that in which the bewildered visitor feels for a moment lost. A great fireplace, with carved oaken mantel, mellow-brown with years, and genuine fire-dogs of corresponding size, yawned in the wall near Leicester’s effigy. Beside this was a stout rack, almost as large as a four-post bedstead, full of substantial logs, each at least five feet long. There must have been a cord of seasoned wood heaped irregularly within bars and cross-pieces. Some was laid ready for lighting in the chimney, kindlings under it. A match was all that was needed to furnish a roaring fire. That would be a feature in the old feudal hall. An antique settle, covered with crimson, stood invitingly near the hearth. One sitting upon it had a view of the lawn sloping down to the river, and the umbrageous depths of the woods beyond; of the jutting end and one remaining pier of the old bridge on the hither bank, the trailing ivy pendants drooping to touch the Avon that mirrored castle-towers, trees, the broken masonry of one bridge and the solid, gray length of the other. In fancying who might have sat here on cool autumn days, looking dreamily from the red recesses of the fireplace to the tranquil picture framed by the window; who walked at twilight upon the polished floor over the sheen of the leaping blaze upon the dark wood; who talked, face to face, heart with heart, about the hearth on stormy winter nights—I had let the others move onward in the lead of the maid-servant who was appointed to show us around. One gets so tired of the sing-song iteration of names and dates that she is well-pleased to let acres of painted canvas, the dry inventory of beds and stools, tables and candlesticks, the list of lords, artists and grandees gabbled over in hashed English, seasoned with pert affectations, slip unheeded by her ears. We accounted it great gain when we were suffered to enjoy in our own way a single picture or a relic that unlocked for us a treasure-closet of memory and fancy.

Drifting dreamily then in the wake of the crowd, I halted between an original portrait of Charles I. and one of his namesake and successor, trying, for the twentieth time, to reconcile the fact of the strong family likeness with the pensive beauty of the father and the coarse ugliness of the son, when strident tones projected well through the nose apprised me that the Traveling American had arrived and was on duty. The maid had waited in the Great Hall to collect a party of ten before beginning the tour. Workmen were hammering somewhere upon or about the vaulted roof, and the woman’s explanations were sometimes drowned by the reverberation. We were not chagrined by the loss. We had guide-books and catalogues, and each had some specific object of interest in view or quest. The Traveling American, benevolent to a nuisance, tall, black-eyed and bearded, with an oily ripple of syllables betraying the training of camp-meeting or political campaign, took up the burden of the girl’s parrot-talk and rolled it over to us, not omitting to inter-lard it with observations deprecatory, appreciative, and critical.

“Original portrait of Henry VIII., by a cotemporary artist—name not known. Holbein—most likely! He was always painting the old tyrant. Considered a very excellent likeness. Although nobody living is authority upon that point. Over the door, two portraits. Small heads, you see, hardly larger than cabinet pictures,—of Mary and Anne Boleyn. Which is which—did you say, my dear? Oh! the one to the left is Anne, Henry’s second wife. Supplanted poor old Kate of Arragon, you remember. What a run of Kates the ugly Blue-beard had! Anne is a pretty, modest-looking girl. The wonder is how she could have married that fat beer-guzzler over yonder, king or no king. Let me see! Didn’t he want to marry Mary, too? ‘Seems to me there is some such story. And she said ‘No, thank you!’ Hers is a nice face, but she isn’t such a beauty as her sister.”

Ad infinitum—and from the outset, ad nauseam, to all except the four ladies of his party. They tittered and nudged one another at each witticism, and looked at us for answering tokens of sympathy. We pressed the maid onward since we were not allowed to precede her; tarried in the rear of the procession as nearly out of ear-shot as might be. But the armory is a succession of narrow rooms, and a pause at the head of the train in the last of the series brought about a “block” of the two parties. Upon a table was a lump of faded velvet and tarnished gold lace, frayed and almost shapeless.

T. A. (beamingly). “The saddle upon which Queen Elizabeth rode, on the occasion of her memorable visit to Kenilworth. She had just given Kenilworth to Leicester, you remember, as a love-token. He was a Warwick (!); so the saddle has naturally remained in the family. An interesting and perfectly authenticated relic. Elizabeth invented side-saddles, as you are all aware. This was manufactured to order. It is something to see the saddle on which Queen Elizabeth rode. And on such an occasion! It makes an individual, as it were—thrill! Clara! where are you, my dear.” A pretty little girl came forward, blushingly. “Put your hand upon it, my child! Now—you can tell them all at home you have had your hand upon the place where Queen Elizabeth sat on!”

“Is there no pound in Warwick for vagrant donkeys?” muttered Lex, a youth in our section of the company.

He had been abroad but three weeks, and the species, if not the genus, was a novelty to him. Nor had we, when as strange to the sight and habits of the creature as was he, any adequate prevision of the annoyance he would become—what a spot, in his ubiquity and irrepressibleness, upon our feasts of sight-seeing. Caput had, as usual, a crumb of consolation for himself and for us when we had shaken ourselves free from our country-people at the castle-door by taking a different route from theirs through the grounds.

“At any rate, he knew who Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth were, and was not altogether ignorant of Leicester and Kenilworth. We need not be utterly ashamed of him. Only—we will wait until he has been to look at the Warwick Vase before we go in. I can live without hearing its history from his lips.”

A notable race have been the Warwicks in English legends and history, for scores of generations. Princely in magnificence; doughty in war; in love, ardent; in ambition, measureless. Under Plantagenet, Tudor, Stuart, and Guelph, they have never lacked a man to stand near the throne and maintain worthily their dignity. But, in the long avenue of stateliness there are heads loftier than their fellows. Once in an age, one has stood grandly apart, absorbent of such active interest and living sympathy as we cannot bestow upon family or clan.

As at Carisbrooke, Charles Stuart and his hapless daughter are continually present to our imagination; and the grandmother, whose head, like his, rolled in the sawdust of an English scaffold, glides a pale, lovely shade with us through the passages of Holyrood; as at Kenilworth, we think of Elizabeth, the guest, more than of Leicester, the host, and in Trinity Church at Coventry, pass carelessly by painted windows exquisite in modern workmanship, to seek in an obscure aisle the patched fragment of glass that commemorates the chaste Godiva’s sacrifice for her people,—so there was for us one Lord of Warwick Castle, one Hero of Warwickshire. I shall confess to so many sentimental weaknesses, so many historical heresies in the course of this volume, that I may as well divulge this pampered conceit frankly and without apology.

For us—foremost and pre-eminent among the mighty men of the house of Warwick who have “found their hands” for battle and for statecraft since the foundations of Cæsar’s Tower were laid, stands Earl Guy, Goliath and Paladin of the line. Of his deeds of valor, authentic and mythical, the witch at the Lodge has much to tell—the traditionary lore of the district, more.

“I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,”

Shakspeare makes a man of the people say. Sir Guy overthrew and slew the giant Colbrand in the year 926, according to Dugdale. Is not the story of this and a hundred other feats of arms recorded in the “Booke of the most victoryous Prince Guy of Warwick”? When he fell in love with the Lady Lettice—(or Phillis—traditions disagree about the name), the fairest maiden in the kingdom, she set him on to perform other prodigies of valor in the hope of winning her hand. In joust and in battle-field, at home and afar, he wore her colors in his helmet and her image in his heart.

“She appoynted unto Earl Guy many and grievous tasks, all of which he did. And soe in tyme it came to pass that he married her.”

They lived in Warwick Castle, a fortress then, in reality, and of necessity, for a few peaceful years. How many we do not know, only that children were born unto them, and that Lettice, laying aside the naughtiness of early coquetry, grew gentler, more lovable and more fond each day, while Earl Guy waxed silent and morose under the pressure of a mysterious burden, never shared with the wife he adored and had periled his soul to win. Suddenly and secretly he withdrew to the cell of a holy hermit who lived but three miles away, and was lost to the world he had filled with rumors of “derring-doing.” The Countess Lettice, distracted by grief at the disappearance of her lord, and the failure of her efforts to trace the direction of his flight, without a misgiving that while her detectives—who must have been of the dullest—scoured land and sea in search of the missing giant, he was hidden within sight of the turret-windows of Guy’s Tower—withdrew into the seclusion of her castle and gave herself up to works of piety and benevolence. Guy’s children had her tenderest care; next to them her poor tenantry. Upon stated days of the week a crowd of these pensioners presented themselves at her gates and were fed by her servants. Among them came for—some say, twenty, others, forty years, a beggar, bent in figure, with muffled features, in rags, and unaccompanied by so much as a dog, who silently received his dole of the Countess’s charity and went his way challenged by none. We hope, in hearing it, that the Lady Lettice, her fair face the lovelier for the chastening of her great grief, sometimes showed herself to the waiting petitioners. If she did, weeping had surely dulled her vision that she did not recognize Earl Guy under his labored disguise, for he was a Saul even among brawny Saxons and the semi-barbarous islanders. If the eremite had such chance glimpses of his love, they were the only earthly consolation vouchsafed him in the tedious life of mortification and prayer. While Lettice, in her bower among her maidens, prayed for his return, refusing all intercourse with the gay world, her husband divided his time between the cave where he dwelt alone and the oratory of the hermit-monk where he spent whole days in supplication, prone upon the earth.

Poor, tortured, ignorant soul! grand in remorse and in penance as in war and in love! He confessed often to the monk, seldom speaking to him at other times. The priest kept faithfully the dread secrets confided to him. His absolution, if he granted it, did not ease the burdened soul. The end came when the long exile had dried up life and spirit. From his death-bed Earl Guy sent to his wife, by the hand of one of her hinds, a ring she had given him in the days of their wedded joy, “praying her, for Jesu’s sake to visit the wretch from whom it came.” He died in her faithful arms. They were buried, side by side, near his cave.

This is still pointed out to visitors,—a darksome recess, partly natural, enlarged by burrowing hands,—perhaps by those of the “victoryous Prince Guy.”

I drew from the Leamington Library, one Saturday afternoon, a queer little book, prepared under the auspices of a local archæological society, and treating at some length of recent discoveries in Guy’s Cave by an eminent professor of the comparatively new science of classic archæology. Far up in one corner he had uncovered rude cuttings in the rock, and with infinite patience and ingenuity, obtained an impression of them. The surface of the stone is friable; the letters are such clumsy Runic characters as a warrior of the feudal age would have made had he turned his thoughts to penmanship. The language is a barbarous Anglo-Saxon. But they have made out Lettice’s name, twice repeated, and in another place, Guy’s. This last is appended to a line of prayer for “relief from this heavy”—or “grievous”—“load.”

I read the treatise aloud that evening, excited and triumphant.

“Now, who dare ridicule us for believing in Prince Guy?”

“It all fits in too well,” said candid Prima, sorrowfully.

But the local savans do not discredit the discovery on that account. We drove out to Guy’s Cliff the next afternoon to attend service in the family chapel of the Percys, whose handsome mansion is built hard by. The stables are hewn out of the same rocky ridge in which Guy dug his cell. The chapel occupies the site of the old oratory. The bell was tinkling for the hour of worship as we entered the porch. It is a pretty little building, of gray stone, as are the surrounding offices, and on this occasion was tolerably well filled with servants and tenants of “the Family.” In a front slip sat the worshippers from the Great House—an old lady in widow’s mourning, who was, we were told, Lady Percy, and three portly British matrons, simple in attire and devout in demeanor. A much more august personage, pursy and puffing behind a vast red waistcoat, whom we supposed to be Chief Butler on week days and verger on Sabbath, assigned to us a seat directly back of the ladies, and, what was of more consequence in our eyes, in a line with a niche in which stands a gigantic statue of Earl Guy. This was set up on the site of the oratory, two hundred years after his death, by the first of the Plantagenets, Henry II.

“Our lord, the King, has each day a school for right well-lettered men,” says a chronicler of his reign. “Hence, his conversation that he hath with them is busy discussing of questions. None is more honest than our king in speaking, ne in alms largess. Therefore, as Holy Writ saith, we may say of him—‘His name is a precious ointment, and the alms of him all the church shall take.’”

Whether as an erudite antiquarian, or as a pious son of the church he caused this statue to be placed here, History, nor its elder sister, Tradition informs us. We may surmise shrewdly, and less charitably, that repentant visitings of conscience touching his marital infidelities, or the scandal of Fair Rosamond, or peradventure, the desire to appease the manes of the murdered Becket had something to do with the offering. The effigy was thrown down in the ruin of the oratory in the Civil Wars, and for many years, lay forgotten in the rubbish. The Percys have raised it with reverent hands, and set it—sadly broken and defaced—in the place of honor in their chapel.

There was charming incongruity in the aspect of the towering gray figure, with one uplifted arm from which sword or battle-axe has fallen, and the appointments and occupants of the temple. The head is much disfigured, worn away, more than shattered. But there is majesty in the outlines and attitude. Our eyes strayed to it oftener, dwelt upon it longer, than on the fresh-colored face of the spruce Anglican who intoned the service and read a neat little homily upon the 51st Psalm, prefaced by a modest mention of David’s sin in the matter of Uriah the Hittite. From what depth of blood-guiltiness had our noble recluse entreated deliverance in a day when blood weighed lightly upon the souls of brave men?

The Sabbath light flowed through the stained windows of the chancel and bathed in blessing, the feet of the graven figure; the lifted arm menaced no more, but signified supplication as we prayed:

“Spare Thou those who confess their sins!”

—was tossed aloft in thanksgiving in the last hymn:—

“O Paradise, O Paradise!

Who doth not crave for rest?

Who would not seek the happy land

Where they that love are blest?

Where loyal hearts and true

Stand ever in the light,

All rapture through and through,

In God’s most holy sight.”

CHAPTER VI.
Shakspeare and Irving.

WE had “Queen’s weather” for most of our excursions in England, and no fairer day than that on which we went to Stratford-on-Avon.

The denizens of the region give the first sound of a to the name of the quiet river—as in fate. I do not undertake to decide whether they, or we are correct. Their derelictions upon the H question are so flagrant as to breed distrust of all their inventions and practice in pronunciation. (Although we did learn to say “Tems”—very short—for “T’ames.”)

I wish, for the benefit of future tourists who may read these pages, that I had retained the address of the driver—and I believe the owner—of the waggonette we secured for our drives in Warwickshire. It held our party of six comfortably, leaving abundant space in the bottom and under the seats for hamper and wraps, and was a stylish, easy-running vehicle. The coachman was a fine young fellow of, perhaps, six-and-twenty, civil, obliging, and, in our experience, an exceptionally intelligent member of his class. In this conveyance, and with such pilotage, we set out on July 27th, upon one of our red-letter pilgrimages—fore-ordained within our, for once, prophetic souls ever since, as ten-year old children, we used to read Shakspeare secretly in the garret on rainy Saturdays.

It was an old copy relegated to the lumber-chest as too shabby for the family library. One side of the calf-skin cover was gone, and luckily for the morals of the juvenile student, “Venus and Adonis” and most of the sonnets had followed suite. But an engraved head of William Shakspeare was protected by the remaining cover and had left a shadow-picture, in white-and-yellow, upon the tissue-paper next it. After the title-page followed a dozen or so of biography, which we devoured as eagerly as we did “The Tempest,” “Julius Cæsar,” and “Macbeth.” We had read Mrs. Whitney’s always-and-everywhere charming “Sights and Insights,” before and since leaving America, and worn Emory Ann’s “realizing our geography” to shreds by much quoting. To-day, we were realizing our Shakspeare and “Merry” England.

The drive was surpassingly lovely. The smoothness of the road was, in itself, a luxury. It is as evenly-graded and free from stones and ruts as a bowling-alley. One prolific topic of conversation is denied the morning-callers and bashful swains of Warwickshire. They cannot discuss the “state of the roads,” their uniform condition being above criticism. The grass grew quite up to the edge of the highway, but was shaven and weedless as a lawn. There were hedge-rows instead of fences, and at intervals, we had enchanting glimpses up intersecting ways of what we had heard and read of all our lives, yet in which we scarcely believed until we saw, in their beauty and picturesqueness, real lanes. The banks, sloping downward from the hedges into these, were clothed with vines, ferns and field-flowers. One appreciates the exquisite fidelity of such sketches from Nature as,—

“I know a bank on which the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows

Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine—”

after seeing the lanes between Leamington and Stratford-on-Avon. Double rows of noble trees screened us from the sun for a mile at a time, and the hedges, so skillfully clipped that the sides and rounded tops were never marred by redundant growth, yet bearing no sign of the shears in stubby or naked stems, were walls of richest verdure throughout the route. The freshness and trimness of the English landscape is a joy and wonder forever to those unused to the perfection of agriculture which is the growth of centuries. There is the finish and luxuriance of a pleasure-garden in every prospect in these midland counties, and, forgetting that the soil has acknowledged a master in the husbandman for more than a thousand years, and that, for more than half that time, the highest civilization known to man has held reign in this tiny island, we are tempted to think discontentedly of the contrast offered by our own magnificent, and, by contrast, crude spaces. It was not because of affectation or lack of patriotism that, upon our return home, the straggling fences, clogged with alder and brambles, the ragged pastures and gullied hillsides were a positive pain to sight and heart.

Any one who has seen a good photograph of Shakspeare’s house knows exactly how it looks. The black timbers of the frame-work are visible from the outside. The spaces between the beams are filled with cement or plaster. There are three gables in front, the third, at the upper corner, broader and higher than the others. The chimney is in the end-gable, joining this last at right angles, and is covered with ivy. A pent-house protects the main entrance. Wide latticed windows light the ground-floor; a latticed oriel projects from the second story of the taller division of the building. Smaller casements in line with this are set in each of the principal upper rooms. The house is flush with the street, and is probably smarter in its “restoration,” than when Master John Shakspeare, wool-dealer, lived here. We entered, without intervening vestibule or passage, a square room, the ceiling of which was not eight feet high. A peasant’s kitchen, that was also best-room, with a broken stone floor and plastered walls checquered by hewn beams.

Two sisters, who dressed, looked, moved and spoke absurdly alike, are the custodians of the cottage. One met us with a professional droop of a not-elastic figure, a mechanical smile and an immediate plunge into business:

“After the removal of the Shakspeare family from this humble tenement, it was leased to a prosperous butcher, who occupied this room as a shop. That was, indeed, a sad desecration, and one that accounts for the dilapidation of the floor, it having been shattered by chopping meat upon it.”

No reasonable visitor could desire to linger in the apartment longer than sufficed for the delivery of the comprehensive formula, and she tiptoed into the adjoining room:

“In this the family were accustomed to sit when they were not dressed in their best clothes”—mincingly jocular.

Caput and I, regardless of routine, strayed back into the outer kitchen to get a more satisfactory look, and after our fashion, and that of Mr. Swiveller’s Marchioness, “to make-believe very hard.” We wanted to shut our eyes—and ears—and in a blessed interval of silence, to see the honest dealer in wool—member of the corporation; for two years chamberlain; high bailiff in 1569; and in 1571—his son William being then seven years of age—chief alderman of Stratford, standing in the street-door chatting with a respectful fellow-townsman; Mary his wife, passing from dresser to hearth, and, upon a stool in the chimney corner, the Boy, chin propped upon his hand, thinking—“idling,” his industrious seniors would have said.

We had hardly passed the door of communication when sister No. 1 having transferred the rest of the visitors to No. 2, and sent them up-stairs, reappeared. The same professional dip of the starched figure; the manufactured smile, and, mistaking us for fresh arrivals, she began, without variation of syllable or inflection:

“After the removal of the Shakspeare family from this humble tenement, it was leased to a prosperous butcher, who occupied this room as a shop. That was, indeed, a sad desecration—”

We fled to the upper story. The stairs give upon an ante-chamber corresponding with the back-kitchen. Against the rear-wall, in a gaudy frame, and, itself looking unpicturesquely new and distinct, is the celebrated “Stratford Portrait”—another restoration. It is not spurious, having been the property of a respectable county-family for upwards of a century, and there is abundant documentary testimony of its authenticity. It shows us a handsomer man than do the other pictures of the Great Play-Wright. In fact, it is too good-looking. One could believe it the representment of the jolly, prosperous wool-factor, complacent under the shower of municipal honors. It is difficult to reconcile the smooth, florid face, the scarlet lips, dainty moustache and imperial, with thoughts of Lear, Hamlet, and Coriolanus.

“The room in which Shakspeare was born” was quite full of pilgrims—quiet, well-bred and non-enthusiastic, exclaiming softly over such signatures as Walter Scott’s upon the casement-panes, and Edmund Kean’s upon the side of the chimney devoted to actors’ autographs. They indulged in no conversational raptures—for which we were grateful. But the hum of talk, the rustle and stir were a death-blow to fond and poetic phantasies. We gazed coldly upon the scrawlings that disfigure the walls and blur the windows; incredulously upon the deal table and chairs; critically at the dirty bust which offered still another and a different image of the man we refused to believe came by this shabby portal into the world that was to worship him as the greatest of created intellects. Such disillusions are more common with those who visit old shrines in the rôle of “passionate pilgrims” than they are willing to admit.

I wanted to think of Shakspeare’s cradle and the mother-face above it; how he had been carried by her to the casement—thrown wide on soft summer days like this—and clapped his hands at sight of birds and trees, and boys and girls playing in the street, as my babies, and all other babies, have done from the days of Cain. How he had rolled and crept upon the floor, and caught many a tumble in his trial-steps, and fallen asleep at twilight in the warm covert of mother-arms. I had thought of it a thousand times before; I have been all over it a thousand times since. While on the hallowed spot, I saw the low room, common and homely, with bulging rafters and rough-cast sides, the uneven boards of the floor, brown and blotched—the vulgarity of everything, the consecration of nothing.

The museum in an adjoining room caused a perceptible rise in the spirits, dampened by our inability to “realize,” as conscience decreed, in the birth-chamber. The desk used by Shakspeare at school looked plausible. There were realistic touches in the lid bespattered with ink and hacked by jack-knife. The hinges are of leather. We believed that he kept gingerbread, sausage-roll, toffey, green apples, and cock-chafers with strings tied to their hind legs, in it. We did not quibble over Shakspeare’s signet-ring, engraved with “W. S.” and a lover’s knot. He might have sat in the chair reputed to have been used in the merry club-meetings at the Falcon Inn, the sign of which is to be seen here. His coat-of-arms, a falcon and spear, was proof that his father bore, by right, the grand old name of “gentleman.” One of the very tame dragons in charge of the premises bore down upon us while we were looking at this.

“It is a singular coincidence, too remarkable to be only a coincidence”—her tones a ripple of treacle—“that the falcon should be the bird that shakes its wings most constantly while in flight. Combine this circumstance with the spear, and he is a very dull student of heraldry who cannot trace the derivation of the name of the Immortal Bard.”

Caput set his jaw dumbly. It was Dux, younger and less discreet, who said, “By Jove!”

The crayon head exhibited here is a copy of the “Chandos Portrait,” taken at the age of forty-three. It also is reputed to be an excellent likeness, and resembles neither the bust in the church nor the famous “Death Mask,” of which there is here preserved an admirable photograph. After studying all other pictures extant of him, one reverts to the last-mentioned as the truest embodiment of the ideal Shakspeare we know by his works. The face, sunken and rigid in death, yet bears the impress of a loftier intellectuality and more dignified manhood than do any of the painted and sculptured presentments. The only letter written to Shakspeare, known to be in existence, is preserved in this museum. It is signed by one Richard Quyney, who would like to borrow thirty pounds of the poet. One speculates, in deciphering the yellow-brown leaf that would crumble at a touch, upon the probabilities of the writer having had a favorable reply, and why this particular epistle should have been kept so carefully. It was probably pure accident. It could hardly have been a unique in the owner’s collection if the stories of his rapid prosperity and the character of the boon-companions of his early days be true.

As we paused in the lower front room to strengthen our recollection of the tout ensemble, leaning upon the sill of the window by which the child and boy must often have stood at evening, gazing into the quiet street, or seen the moon rise hundreds of times over the dark line of roofs, custodian No. 1 drooped us a professional adieu, and dividing the wire-and-pulley smile impartially between us and a fresh bevy of pilgrims upon the threshold, commenced with the automatic precision of a cuckoo-clock:

“After the removal of the Shakspeare family from this humble tenement it was leased to a prosperous butcher, who occupied this room as a shop. That was, indeed, a sad desecration—”

“Eight day or daily?” queried Lex, as we walked down the street.

We lingered for a moment at the building to which went Shakspeare as a

“Whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping, like snail,

Unwillingly to school.”

It is “the thing” to quote the line before the gray walls capped by mossy slates, of the Grammar-School founded by Henry IV. The quadrangle about which the lecture-rooms and offices are ranged is not large, and is entered by a low gateway. Over the stones of this court-yard Shakspeare’s feet,

“Creeping in to school,

Went storming out to playing.”

Boy-nature, in 1574, was the same, in these respects, as in 1874, Shakspeare and Whittier being judges.

Stratford-on-Avon is a clean, quiet country town, that would have dwindled into a village long ago had not John Shakspeare’s son been born in her High Street. Antique houses, with peaked gables and obtrusive beams, deep-stained by years—(Time’s record is made with inky dyes, and in broad English down-strokes, in this climate)—are to be seen on every street. Every second shop along our route had in its one window a show of what we would call “Shakspeare Notions;” stamped handkerchiefs, mugs, platters, paper-cutters and paper-weights, and a host of photographs, all commemorative of the town and the Man.

“New Place” was purchased by Shakspeare in 1597, and enlarged and adorned as befitted his amended fortunes. We like to hear that, while he lived in London, not a year elapsed without his paying a visit to Stratford, and that in 1613, upon his withdrawal from public life, he made New Place his constant residence, spending his time “in ease, retirement and the society of friends.” In the garden grew, and, long after his death flourished, the mulberry-tree planted by his own hands. In the museum we had seen a goblet carved out of the wood of this tree, and, in a sealed bottle, the purple juice of its berries. New Place did not pass from the poet’s family until the death of his granddaughter, Lady Barnard. It is recorded that, in 1643, this lady and her husband were the hosts of Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I. She was thankful in the turmoil and distrust of civil war, to find an asylum for three weeks under the roof that had covered a greater than the lordliest Stuart who ever paltered with a nation’s trust. At Lady Barnard’s decease, New Place was sold, first to one, then another proprietor, until Sir Hugh Clopton remodelled and almost rebuilt the house. After him came the Rev. Francis Gastrell who, in a fit of passion at what he conceived to be the exorbitant tax levied upon the mansion, pulled it down to the foundation-stones. In the same Christian frame of mind, he hewed down the mulberry-tree, then in a vigorous old age, a giant of its tribe, “because so many people stopped in the street to stare at it, thereby inconveniencing himself and family.” Peevish fatuousness that has a parallel in the discontent of the present incumbent of Haworth that, “because he chances to inhabit the parsonage in which the Brontë sisters lived and died, he must be persecuted by throngs of visitors to it and the church.” It is not his fault, he pathetically reminds the public, that people of genius once dwelt there, and he proposes to demonstrate the dissimilarity of those who now occupy it by renovating Haworth Rectory and erecting a new church upon the site of that in which the Brontës are buried.

Of New Place nothing remains but the foundations, swathed in the kindly coverlet of turf, that in England, so soon cloaks deformity with graceful sweeps and swells of verdure. The grounds are tended with pious care, and nobody carps that visitors always loiter here on their way from Shakspeare’s birth-place to his tomb.

We passed to the fane of Holy Trinity between two rows of limes in fullest leaf. The avenue is broad, but the noon beams were severed into finest particles in filtering through the thick green arch; the door closing up the farther end was an arch of grayer glooms. The church-yard is paved with blackened tombstones. The short, rich grass over-spreads mounds and hollows, defines the outlines of the oblong, flat slabs, sprouts in crack and cranny. The peace of the summer heavens rested upon the dear old town—the river slipping silently beneath the bridge in the background—the venerable church, in the vestibule of which we stayed our steps to hearken to music from within. The organist was practising a dreamy voluntary, rising, now, into full chords that left echoes vibrating among the groined arches after he resumed his pensive strain. Walking softly and slowly, lest our tread upon the paved floor might awake dissonant echoes, we gained the chancel. An iron rail hinders the nearer approach to the Grave. This barrier is a recent erection and a work of supererogation, since that sight-seer has not been found so rude as to trample over the sacred dust.

Upon the stone,—even with the rest of the flags—concealing the vault, lay a strip of white cloth, stamped with a fac-simile of the epitaph composed by Shakspeare for his tomb. Volumes have been written to explain its meaning, and treatises to prove that there is nothing recondite in its menace. Since the rail prevented us from getting to that side of the slab next the inner wall of the chancel, we must have read the inscription upside-down but for the convenient copy:

“Good frend for Iesvs sake forbeare,

To digg the dust encloased heare:

Blest be y^e man y^t spares thes stones,

And cvrst be he y^t moves my bones.”

Our eyes returned again and again to the weird lines and the plain stone, as thoughts of what lay beneath it were chased away by the wretched pomp of the monument raised by the nearest relatives of the dead. It is set in the chancel wall about the height of a tall man’s head above the floor and almost directly over the burial-vault. The light from a gorgeous painted window streams upon it. Just beyond, nearer the floor, the effigy of a knight in armor lies upon a recessed sarcophagus. The half-length figure intended for Shakspeare is in an arched niche, the family escutcheon above it. On each side is a naked boy of forbidding countenance. One holds an inverted torch, the other a skull and spade. A second and larger skull surmounts the monument. The marble man—we could not call it Shakspeare—writes, without looking at pen or paper, within an open book, laid upon a cushion. The whole affair, niche, desk, cushion and attitude, reminds one ludicrously of the old-time pulpits likened by Mr. Beecher to a “toddy tumbler with a spoon in it.” The “spoon” in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford, wears the dress of a gentleman of his day, a full, loose surcoat, with falling collar and cuffs. The forehead is high and bald, the face smooth as a pippin, the eyes have a bold, hard stare; upon the mouth, and, indeed, upon all the visage, dwells a smirk, aggressive and ineffable. It is the face of a conceited, pompous, heavy fool, which the fine phrenological development of the cranium cannot redeem. We cannot make it to be to us the man whom, according to the stilted lines below,—

“Envious death has plast

Within this monument.”

“Yet it must have been a likeness,” ventured Caput. “It was seen and approved by his daughters.”

We persisted in our infidelity, and refused to look again at the smirking horror. When it was set up in the mortuary pillory overhead, it was colored from nature. The hair, Vandyke beard, and moustache were auburn, the tight, protuberant eyes hazel, the dress red and black. Seventy years afterward, it was painted white and was probably a shade less odious for the whitewashing. Lately the colors have been restored to their pristine brightness and varnish.

Another flat slab bears the inscription:—

“Heere lyeth interred the body of Anne, Wife
of William Shakespeare who dep’ted this life the
6^th day of Avgt · 1623 · being of the age of · 67 · yeares.”

She was a woman of twenty-five, he a lad of eighteen when they were married,—a circumstance that dampens the romantic imaginings we would fain foster to their full growth, in visiting the vine-draped cottage of Anne Hathaway. We put from us, while standing by the graves of husband and wife, the truth that when he, a hale, handsome gentleman of fifty-three, sat at eventide in the shadow of the mulberry-tree, or, as tradition paints him, leaned upon the half-door of a mercer’s shop and made impromptu epigrams upon passing neighbors,—Anne was a woman of sixty, who had best abide in-doors after the dew began to fall.

We went to the Red Horse Inn by merest accident. We must lunch somewhere, having grown ravenously hungry even in Stratford-on-Avon, and left the choice of a place to the driver of our waggonette. Five minutes’ rattling drive over the primitive pavements between the rows of quaint old houses, and we were in a covered passage laid with round stones. A waiter had his hand upon the door by the time we stopped; whisked us out before we knew where we were, and into a low-ceiled parlor on the ground-floor, looking upon the street. A lumbering mahogany table was in the middle of the floor. Clumsy chairs were marshalled against the wainscot. Old prints hung around the walls. The carpet was very substantial and very ugly. A subtle intuition, a something in the air of the room—maybe, an unseen Presence, arrested me just within the door. I had certainly never been here before, yet I stood still, a bewilderment of reminiscence and association enveloping my senses, like fragrant mist.

“Can this be”—I said slowly, feeling for words—“Geoffrey Crayon’s Parlor?”

I tell the incident just as it occurred. Not one of us knew the name of the inn. Our guide-books did not give it, nor had one of the party bethought him or herself that Washington Irving had ever visited Stratford or left a record of his visit. None of the many tourists who had described the town to us had mentioned the antique hostelry. What followed our entrance came to me,—a “happening” I do not attempt to explain.

The waiter did not smile. English servants consider the play of facial muscles impertinent when addressing superiors. But he answered briskly, as he had opened the carriage-door.

“Yes, mem! Washington Irving’s parlor! Yes, mem!”

“And this is the Red Horse Inn?”

“The Red Horse Inn! Yes, mem!”

“Where, then, is Geoffrey Crayon’s Sceptre?” looking at the grate.

He vanished, and was back in a moment, holding something wrapped in red plush. A steel poker, clean, bright and slender, and, engraved upon one flat side in neat characters,—“Geoffrey Crayon’s Sceptre.”

I took it in speechless reverence. The others gathered about me and it.

“Now”—said Caput, in excruciating and patient politeness, wheeling up the biggest arm-chair,—“if you will have the goodness to sit down, and tell us what it all means!”

I had read the story thirty years before in a bound volume of the “New York Mirror,” itself then, at least ten years old. But it came back to me almost word for word, (what we read in those days, we digested!) as I sat there, the sceptre upon my knee, and rehearsed the tale to the circle of listeners.

Since our return to America I have hunted up the old “Mirror,” and take pleasure in transcribing a portion of Mr. Willis’ pleasant story of the interview between himself and the landlady who remembered Mr. Irving’s visit.

“Mrs. Gardiner proceeded: ‘I was in and out of the coffee-room the night he arrived, mem, and I sees directly, by his modest ways and his timid look, that he was a gentleman, and not fit company for the other travellers. They were all young men, sir, and business travellers, and you know, mem, ignorance takes the advantage of modest merit, and after their dinner they were very noisy and rude. So I says to Sarah, the chambermaid, says I, ‘that nice gentleman can’t get near the fire, and you go and light a fire in number three, and he shall sit alone, and it shan’t cost him nothing, for I like the looks on him.’ Well, mem, he seemed pleased to be alone, and after his tea he puts his legs up over the grate, and there he sits with the poker in his hand till ten o’clock. The other travellers went to bed, and at last the house was as still as midnight, all but a poke in the grate, now and then, in number three, and every time I heard it I jumped up and lit a bed-candle, for I was getting very sleepy, and I hoped he was getting up to ring for a light. Well, mem, I nodded and nodded, and still no ring at the bell. At last I says to Sarah, says I, ‘Go into number three and upset something, for I am sure that gentleman has fallen asleep.’ ‘La, ma’am!’ says Sarah, ‘I don’t dare.’ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘I’ll go!’ So I opens the door and I says—‘If you please, sir, did you ring?’ little thinking that question would ever be written down in such a beautiful book, mem.”

(She had already showed to her listeners “a much-worn copy of the Sketch-Book,” in which Mr. Irving records his pilgrimage to Stratford.)

“He sat with his feet on the fender, poking the fire, and a smile on his face, as if some pleasant thought was in his mind. ‘No, ma’am,’ says he, ‘I did not.’ I shuts the door and sits down again, for I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was late, for he was a gentleman not to speak rudely to, mem. Well, it was past twelve o’clock when the bell did ring. ‘There!’ says I to Sarah, ‘thank heaven he has done thinking, and we can go to bed!’ So he walked up stairs with his light, and the next morning he was up early and off to the Shakspeare house....

“There’s a Mr. Vincent that comes here sometimes, and he says to me one day—‘So, Mrs. Gardiner, you’re finely immortalized! Read that!’ So the minnit I read it I remembered who it was and all about it, and I runs and gets the number three poker, and locks it up safe and sound, and by and by I sends it to Brummagem and has his name engraved on it; and here you see it, sir, and I wouldn’t take no money for it.”

Mr. Willis was in Stratford-on-Avon in 1836. In 1877 the “sceptre” was displayed to us, as I have narrated, as one of the valuable properties of the Red Horse Inn, although good Mrs. Gardiner long ago laid down her housekeeping keys forever.

We sat late over the luncheon served in the parlor, which could not have been refurnished since Irving “had his tea” there, too happy in the chance that had brought us to the classic chamber to be otherwise than merry over the stout bill, one-third of which should have been set down to Geoffrey Crayon’s account. The Britons are thorough utilitarians. Nowhere do you get “sentiment gratis.”

We drove home in the summer twilight, that lasts in the British Isles until dawn, and enables one to read with ease until ten o’clock P.M. Our road skirted the confines of Charlecote, the country-seat of the Lucys. The family was at home, and visitors were therefore excluded. It is a fine old place, but the park, which is extensive, looked like a neglected common after the perfectly appointed grounds of Stoneleigh Abbey, through which we passed. The fence enclosing the Charlecote domain was a sort of double hurdle, in miserable repair, and intertwisted with wild vines and brambles. The deer were gathered in groups and herds under oaks that may have sheltered their forefathers in Shakspeare’s youth. Scared by our wheels, rabbits scampered from hedge to coverts of bracken. If the fences were in no better state “in those ruder ages, when”—to quote Shakspeare’s biographer—“the spirit of Robin Hood was yet abroad, and deer and coney-stealing classed, with robbing orchards, among the more adventurous, but ordinary levities of youth,” the trespass for which the Stratford poacher was arraigned was a natural surrender to irresistible temptation, and the deed easily done.

CHAPTER VII.
Kenilworth.

WE never decided whether it was to our advantage or disappointment that we all re-read the novel of that name before visiting Kenilworth. It is certain that we came away saying bitterly uncharitable things of Oliver Cromwell, to whose command, and not to Time, is due the destruction of one of the finest castles in the realm. Caput, who, after the habit of amateur archæologists, never stirs without an imaginary surveyor’s chain in hand, had studied up the road and ruins in former visits, and acted now as guide and historian. We were loth to accept the country road, narrower and more rutty than any other in the vicinity, as that once filled by the stupendous pageant described by Scott and graver chroniclers as unsurpassed in costliness and display by any in the Elizabethan age. Our surveyor talked of each stage in the progress with the calm confidence of one who had made a part of the procession. We knew to a minute at what hour of the night the queen—having been delayed by a hunt at Warwick Castle—with Leicester at her bridle-rein, passed the brook at the bottom of Castle-hill. A stream so insignificant, and crossed by such a common little bridge, we were ashamed to speak of them in such a connection. The column of courtiers and soldiers thronging the highway was ablaze with the torches carried by Leicester’s men. The castle, illuminated to the topmost battlement, made so brave a show the thrifty virgin needed to feast her eyes often and much upon the splendid beauty of the man at her saddle-bow to console herself for having presented him with Kenilworth and the estates—twenty miles in circumference—pertaining thereunto.

All this was fresh in our minds when we alighted where Leicester sprang from his charger and knelt at the stirrup of his royal mistress in welcome to his “poor abode.” The grand entrance is gone, and most of the outer wall. There is no vestige of the drawbridge on which was stationed the booby-giant with Flibbertigibbet under his cloak. By the present gateway stands a stately lodge, the one habitable building on the grounds. “R. D.” is carved upon the porch-front, and within it, in divers places. Attached to this is a rear extension, so mean in appearance we were savagely delighted to learn that it was put up in Cromwell’s time. Passing these by the payment of a fee, and shaking ourselves free from the briery hold of the women who assaulted us with petitions to buy unripe fruit, photographs, and “Kenilworth Guides,” we saw a long slope of turf rising to the level, whereon are Cæsar’s and Leicester’s Towers, square masses of masonry, crumbling at top and shrouded, for most of their height, in a peculiarly tough and “stocky” species of ivy. The walls of Cæsar’s Tower—the only portion of the original edifice (founded in the reign of Henry I.) now standing—vary from ten to sixteen feet in thickness. Behind these, on still higher ground, are the ruins of the Great Hall, built by John of Gaunt. In length more than eighty feet, in width more than forty, it is, although roofless, magnificent. The Gothic arches of the windows, lighting it from both sides, are perfect and beautiful in outline. Ivy-clumps hang heavy from oriel and buttress. To the left of this is Mervyn’s, or the Strong Tower, a winding stair leading up to the summit. A broken wall makes a feint of enclosing the castle-grounds, seven acres in area, but it may be scaled or entered through gaps at many points. The moat down which the “Lady of the Lake,” floating “on an illuminated movable island,” seemed to walk on the water to offer Elizabeth “the lake, the lodge, the lord,” is a dry ravine, choked with rubbish, overgrown with grass and nettles. The decline of the hill up which we walked to the principal ruins was the “base court.” A temporary bridge, seventy feet long, was thrown over this from the drawbridge to Cæsar’s Tower, and the queen, riding upon it, was greeted by mythological deities, who offered her gifts from vineyard, garden, field, and fen, beginning the ovation where the modern hags had pressed upon us poor pictures, acerb pears and apples.

This, then, was Kenilworth. We strolled into the Banqueting or Great Hall—now floorless—where Elizabeth and Leicester led the minuet on the night when the favorite’s star was highest and brightest; laughing among ourselves, in recalling the Scottish diplomat’s saying that “his queen danced neither so high nor so disposedly” as did the Maiden Monarch. We climbed Mervyn’s Tower in which Amy Robsart had her lodging; looked down into “The Pleasaunce,” a turfy ruin, in its contracted bounds a dismay to us until the surveyor’s chain measured, for our comfort, what must have been the former limits. It is now an irregular area, scarcely more than a strip of ground, and we sought vainly for a nook sufficiently retired to have been the scene of the grotto-meeting between Elizabeth and the deserted wife.

“Of course you are aware that Amy Robsart was never at Kenilworth; that she had been dead two years when Elizabeth visited Leicester here; that he was secretly married again, this time to the beautiful widow of Lord Sheffield, the daughter of Lord William Howard, uncle to the queen?” said Caput, drily.

Argument with an archæologist is as oxygen to fire. We turned upon him, instead, in a crushing body of infidel denial.

“We received, without cavil, your account—and Scott’s—of the torch-light procession, including Elizabeth’s diamonds, after a day’s hunting, and horsemanship; of Leicester’s glittering ‘like a golden image with jewels and cloth of gold.’ We decline to discredit Scott now!”

He shrugged his shoulders; took a commanding position upon the ruined wall; his eyes swept the landscape discontentedly.

“We dwarf the history of Kenilworth to one little week,” he said. “I am tempted to wish that Scott had never written that fiction, splendid as it is. Do you know that Cæsar’s Tower—by the way, it will outlast Leicester’s, whose building, like the founder, lacks integrity—do you know that Cæsar’s Tower was begun early in the twelfth century? that it was the stronghold of Simon de Montfort in his quarrel with Henry III.? Edward Longshanks, then Prince Edward, attacked de Montfort in Sussex, took from him banners and other spoils and drove him back into Kenilworth, which the insurgents held for six months. His father, the Earl of Leicester, met Edward’s army next day on the other side of the Avon—over there!” pointing. “Gazing, as he marched, toward his good castle of Kenilworth, he saw his own banners advancing, and soon perceived that they were borne by the enemy.

“It is over!” said the old warrior. “The Lord have mercy upon our souls, for our bodies are Prince Edward’s!”

“He was killed, fighting like a lion, in the battle that followed. And, all the while, his son, chafing at his inability to help him, lay,—the lion’s cub at bay,—within these walls. There were Leicesters and Leicesters, although some are apt to ignore all except the basest of the name—the Robert Dudley of whom it was said, ‘that he was the son of a duke, the brother of a king, the grandson of an esquire, and the great-grandson of a carpenter; that the carpenter was the only honest man in the family, and the only one of Leicester’s near relatives who died in his bed.’ Edward II.—poor, favorite-ridden wretch! was a prisoner at Kenilworth after the execution of the Despensers, father and son. He was forced to sign his own deposition in the Great Hall, where you thought of nothing just now but Elizabeth’s dancing. The breaking of the white wand,—a part of the ceremonial at a king’s death—by Sir Thomas Blount, before the eyes of the trembling sovereign, is one of the most dramatic events in English history. Another royal imbecile, Henry VI., had an asylum here during Jack Cade’s Rebellion. There was stringent need for such fortresses as Kenilworth and Warwick in those times.”

We heard it all,—and with interest, sitting upon the edge of the ivied wall of Mervyn’s Tower, overlooking a land as fair as Beulah, in alternations of hill and vale; of plains golden with grain, and belts and groves of grand old trees; the many-gabled roofs and turrets of great houses rising from the midst of these, straggling villages of red-brick cottages on the skirts of manorial estates indicating the semi-feudal system still prevailing in the land. The Avon gleamed peacefully between the borders tilled by men who never talk, and most of whom have never heard, of the brave Leicester who fought his last battle where they swing their scythes. Yet he was known to the yeomen of his day as “Sir Simon the Righteous.”

“There were Leicesters and Leicesters,” Caput had truly said, and that the proudest and most magnificent of them all was the most worthless. But when we had picked our way down the broken stairs, and sat in the shadow of Cæsar’s Tower, upon the warm sward, watching men drive the stakes and stretch the cords of a marquee, for the use of a party who were to pic-nic on the morrow among the ruins, we said:—

“To-morrow, we will see Leicester’s Hospital and Leicester’s tomb, at Warwick.”

The walk from Leamington to Warwick was one greatly affected by us as a morning and afternoon “constitutional.” It was delightful in itself, and we never wearied of rambling up one street and down another of the town. We never saw Broek, in Holland, but it cannot be cleaner than this Rip Van Winkle of a Warwickshire village, where the very children are too staid and civil—or too devoid of enterprise—to stare at strangers. A house under fifty years of age would be a disreputable innovation. House-leek, and yellow stone-crop, and moss grow upon the roofs; the windows have small panes, clear and bright, and, between parted muslin curtains, each window-sill has its pots of geraniums and gillyflowers.

We bought some buns in a little shop, the mistress of which was a pretty young woman, with the soft English voice one hears even among the lowly, and the punctilious misapplication of h we should, by this time, have ceased to observe.

“The H’earl h’of Leicester’s ’Ospital h’is a most h’interesting h’object,” she assured us, upon our inquiring the shortest way thither. “H’all strangers who h’admire ’istorical relicts make a point h’of visiting the H’earl h’of Leicester’s ’Ospital.”

The street has been regraded, probably laid out and built up since the “’istorical relict” was founded, in 1571. We would call it a “Refuge,” the object being to provide a home for the old age of a “Master and twelve brethren,” the latter, invalided or superannuated tenants or soldiers, who had spent their best days in the service of the Leicesters. It was a politic stroke to offer the ease, beer, and tobacco of the Refuge as a reward for hard work and hard fighting. We may be sure Robert Dudley did not overlook this. We may hope—if we can—that he had some charitable promptings to the one good deed of his life.

The Hospital is perched high, as if deposited there by the deluge, upon an Ararat platform of its own. The plastered walls are criss-crossed by chocolate-colored beams; the eaves protrude heavily; odd carvings, such as a boy might make with a pocket-knife, divide the second and third stories. It is a picturesque antique. People in America would speak of it, were it set up in one of our suburban towns, as a “remarkable specimen of the Queen Anne style.” One learns not to say such things where Queen Anne is a creature of yesterday. A curious old structure is the “relict,”—we liked and adopted the word,—and so incommodious within we marveled that the brethren, now appointed from Gloucester and Warwickshire, did not “commute,” as did “our twelve poor gentlemen” in Dickens’ Haunted Man. But they still have their “pint”—I need not say of what—a day, and their “pipe o’ baccy,” and keep their coal in a vast, cobwebby hall, in which James I. once dined at a town banquet. They cook their dinners over one big kitchen-fire, but eat them in their own rooms; have daily prayer, each brother using his own prayer-book, in the Gothic chapel over the doorway, the “H’earl of Leicester” staring at them out of the middle of the painted window, and wear blue cloth cloaks in cold weather, or in the street, adorned with silver badges upon the sleeves. These bear the Leicester insignia, the Bear and Ragged Staff, and are said to be the very ones presented by him to the Hospital. Sir Walter Scott is—according to Caput—responsible for the fact that, in the opinion of the ladies of our company, the most valuable articles preserved in the institution are a bit of discolored satin, embroidered by Amy Robsart (at Cumnor-Hall?) with the arms of her faithless lord, and a sampler whereupon, by the aid of a lively imagination, one can trace her initials.

How much of heart-ache and heart-sinking, of hope deferred, and baffled desire may have been stitched into these faded scraps of stuff that have so long outlasted her and her generation! Needlework has been the chosen confidante of women since Eve, with shaking fingers and tear-blinded eyes, quilted together fig-leaves, in token of the transgression that has kept her daughters incessantly busy upon tablier, panier, and jupon.

From the Hospital we went to St. Mary’s Church. There is a cellary smell in all these old stone churches where slumber the mighty dead, suggestive of must, mould, and cockroaches, and on the hottest day a chill, like that of an ice-house. Our every step was upon a grave; the walls were faced with mortuary brasses and tablets. The grating of the ever-rusty lock and hinges awakened groans and whispers in far recesses; our subdued tones were repeated in dreary sighs and mutterings, as if the crowd below stairs were complaining that wealth and fame could not purchase the repose they were denied in life. Our cicerone in St. Mary’s was a pleasant-faced woman, in a bonnet—of course. We never saw a pew-holder or church-guide of her sex, bonnetless while exercising her profession. Usually, the bonnet was black. It was invariably shabby. St. Paul’s interdict against women uncovering the head in church may have set the fashion. Prudent dread of neuralgias, catarrhs and toothaches would be likely to perpetuate it. The guide here neither evaded nor superadded hs, and we made a grateful note of the novelty. She conducted us first to what we knew in our reading as the “Chapel of Richard Beauchamp.”

“The Beechum Chapel? yes, sir!” said our conductress, leading the way briskly along the aisle, through oratory and chantry up a very worn flight of steps, under a graceful archway to a pavement of black-and-white lozenge-shaped marbles. The Founder sleeps in state second to no lord of high degree in the kingdom, if we except Henry VII. whose chapel in Westminster Abbey is yet more elaborate in design and decoration than that of the opulent “Beechums.” The Bear and Ragged Staff hold their own among the stone sculptures of ceiling and walls. The former is studded with shields embossed with the arms of Warwick, and of Warwick and Beauchamp quartered. The stalls are of dark brown oak, carved richly—blank shields, lions, griffins, muzzled and chained bears being the most prominent devices. The “Great Earl,” in full armor of brass, lies at length upon a gray marble sarcophagus. A brazen hoop-work, in shape exactly resembling the frame of a Conestoga wagon-top, is built above him. Statuettes of copper-gilt mourners, representing their surviving kinsmen and kinswomen, occupy fourteen niches in the upright sides of the tomb. Sword and dagger are at his side; a swan watches at his uncovered head, a griffin and bear at his feet; a casque pillows his head; his hands are raised in prayer. The face is deeply lined and marked of feature, the brows seeming to gather frowningly while we gaze. It is a marvelous effigy. The woman looked amazed, Caput disgusted, when we walked around it once, gave a minute and a half to respectful study of the Earl’s face and armor; smiled involuntarily in the reading of how he had “decessed ful cristenly the last day of April, the yeare of oure lord god AMCCCCXXXIX.”—then inquired abruptly:—“Where is the tomb of Queen Elizabeth’s Leicester?”

As a general, Leicester was a notorious failure; in statecraft, a bungler; as a man, he was a transgressor of every law, human and divine; as a conqueror of women’s hearts, he had no peer in his day, and we cannot withhold from him this pitiful meed of honor—if honor it be—when we read that “his most sorrowful wife Lætitia, through a sense of conjugal love and fidelity, hath put up this monument to the best and dearest of husbands.”

“By Jove!” said Dux, again.

“She ought to speak well of him!” retorted Caput. “He murdered her first husband, and repudiated his second wife Douglas Howard (Lady Sheffield) in order to espouse Lettice, not to mention the fact that he had tried ineffectually about the time of the Kenilworth fête, to rid himself of No. 2 by poison. He was a hero of determined measures. Witness the trifling episode of Amy Robsart to which the Earl is indebted for our visit to-day.”

We stood our ground in calm disdain of the thrust; were not to be diverted from our steadfast contemplation of the King of Hearts. That his superb physique was not overpraised by contemporaries, the yellow marble bears satisfactory evidence, yet the chief charm of his face was said to be his eyes. The forehead is lofty; the head nobly-shaped; the nose aquiline; the mouth, even under the heavy moustache, was, we could see, feminine in mould and sweetness. His hands, joined in death, as they seldom were in life, in mute prayer upon his breast, are of patrician beauty. He is clad in full armor, and wears the orders bestowed upon him by his royal and doating mistress. He was sadly out of favor with her at the time of his death in 1588. She survived him fifteen years. If she had turned aside in one of her famous “progresses” to look upon this altar-tomb, would she have smiled, sobbed or sworn upon reading that his third countess had written him down a model Benedict? His sorrowful Lætitia dragged on the load of life for forty-six years after her Leicester’s decease, and now lies by his side also with uplifted praying hands. She is a prim matron, richly bedight “with ruff and cuff and farthingales and things.” The chaste contour and placidity of her features confuse us as to her identity with the “light o’ love” who winked at the murder that made her the wife of Lady Douglas Howard’s husband. The exemplary couple are encompassed by a high and handsomely wrought iron fence; canopied by a sort of temple-front supported by four Corinthian pillars. It is almost unnecessary to remark that the ubiquitous Bear and Ragged Staff mounts guard above this. A few yards away is the statue of a pretty little boy, well-grown for his three years; his chubby cheeks encircled by a lace-frilled cap; an embroidered vestment reaching to his feet. He lies like father and mother, prone on his back, upon a flat tombstone.

“The noble Impe Robert of Dudley,” reads the inscription, with a list of other titles too numerous and ponderous to be jotted down or recollected. The only legitimate son of Amy’s, Douglas’, Elizabeth’s, Lettice’s—Every-woman’s Leicester, and because he stood in the way of the succession of some forgotten uncle or cousin, poisoned to order, by his nurse! “The pity of it!” says First thought at the sight of the innocent baby-face. Second thought—“How well for himself and his kind that his father’s and mother’s son did not mature into manhood!”

Leicester left another boy, the son of Lady Douglas, whom he cast off after she refused to die of the poison that “left her bald.” Warwickshire traditions are rife with stories of her and her child who also bore his father’s name. Miss Strickland adverts to one, still repeated by the gossips of Old Warwick, in which the disowned wife, with disheveled hair and streaming tears, rocks young Robert in her arms, crooning the ballad we mothers have often sung without dreaming of its plaintive origin:—

“Balow my baby, lie still and sleep!

It grieves me sair to see thee weep.”

To this Robert his father bequeathed Kenilworth and its estates in the same will that denied his legitimacy. The heir assumed the title of Earl of Warwick, but “the crown”—alias, Elizabeth—laid claim to and repossessed herself of castle and lands.

Thus, the Hospital is the sole remaining “relict” of the man who turned Queen Bess’s wits out of doors, and while her madness lasted, procured for himself the titles and honors set in array in the Latin epitaph upon his monument.

In another chapel—a much humbler one, octagonal in shape, is the tomb of Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. He selected the chamber as the one in which he desired to be buried, and wrote the epitaph:

“Fulke Greville, Servant to Queen Elizabeth, Counsellor to King James, and Friend to Sir Philip Sidney.”

Upon the sarcophagus were the rusty helmet, sword and other pieces of armor he had worn without fear and without reproach;—a record in Old English outweighing with righteous and thoughtful people, the fulsome Latinity of Leicester’s Grecian altar and the labored magnificence of the “Beechum Chapel.”

CHAPTER VIII.
Oxford.

IMPRIMIS! we put up at the Mitre Tavern in Oxford.

Nota Bene: never to do it again.

It is an interesting rookery to look at—and to leave. Stuffiness and extortion were words that borrowed new and pregnant meaning from our sojourn in what we were recommended to try, as “a chawming old place. Best of service and cookery, you know, thoroughly respectable and—ah—historic and arntique, and all that, you know!”

Dux, who had noted down the recommendation, proposed at our departure, to add: “Mem.: Never to stop again at a hotel where illuminated texts are hung in every bed-room.”

Opposite the bed allotted to me, who am obliged continually to stay my fearsome soul upon the wholesome promises of daily grace for daily need, upon exhortations to be careful for nothing, and with the day’s sufficiency of evil to cease anxious thought for morrows as rife with trouble,—opposite my bed, where my waking eyes must meet it, was a red blister-plaster:

“Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.”

In the adjacent closet, allotted to Prima, the only ornamental object, besides a wash-bowl so huge she had to call in her father to lift and empty it into the tiniest slop-jar ever made, was the reminder in brimstone-blues, “The wages of sin is Death!” One of our collegians was admonished that the “wrath of God abideth upon him,” and the other had a mutilated doctrinal text signifying quite another thing when read in the proper connection. Caput, in his character as Mentor and balance-wheel, checked the boys’ disposition to detect, in the lavishment of Scriptural instruction, a disposition to establish an honest equilibrium with the weighty bills. Extras in one direction, they reasoned, should be met by extras in another.

“All Scripture is profitable,” he reminded the jesters. “It is only by misuse it can be made, for a moment, to appear common, much less, absurd. Therefore,” emphatically, “I object to texts upon hotel walls!”

We were not tempted by in-door luxuries to waste in sleep or sloth the daylight hours, but gave these to very industrious sight-seeing. Yet we came away with appetites whetted, not satisfied by what we had beheld. The very air of the place is redolent of learning and honorable antiquity. Each of the twenty colleges composing the University had a valid and distinctive claim upon our notice. To name the attractions of one—say, Christ Church, or Balliol, would be to fill this chapter with a catalogue of MSS. books, pictures, dates and titles. It is a queer, fascinating, incomparable old city. Few of the streets are broad, none straight. The shops are small, usually ill-lighted and devoted to the needs and tastes of the students. The haberdashers are “gentlemen’s furnishers,” the booksellers’ windows full of text-books in all known tongues, interspersed by the far-famed Oxford Editions of Bibles and Prayer-books. Pastry-cooks are prominent and many. The colleges are imposing in dimensions, some magnificent in architecture. University, the oldest, is said to have been founded by the Great Alfred. Restored in 1229. All are so blackened and battered that the youngest looks at least a century older than the Roman Pantheon. Ancient edifices in the drier, hotter air of Southern Europe have been worn by the friction of ages. The Oxford Colleges are gnawed as by iron teeth. “Worm-eaten,” is the first epithet that comes to the tongue at sight of them. From cornice, walls and sculptures, the stone has been picked away, a grain at a time, until the surface is honeycombed, and to the inexperienced eye, disintegration of the whole seems inevitable. The lugubrious effect of age and seeming dilapidation is sensibly relieved by the reaches of turf, often bordered by gay flowers, forming the quadrangles, or court-yards, enclosed by the buildings.

The quadrangle of Christ Church College was laid out by Cardinal Wolsey, the founder and patron. It is almost square, measuring 264 feet by 261. “Great Tom,” the biggest bell in England—the custodian says, in the world,—hangs in the cupola over the gateway. It weighs 17,000 pounds, and at ten minutes past nine p.m. strikes one hundred and ten times, the number of students “on the foundation.” The pride of this college is the immense refectory, or dining-hall. The ceiling, fifty feet in height, is of solid oak elaborately carved, with graceful pendants, also elegantly wrought. Among the decorations of this roof are the armorial bearings and badges of Henry VIII. and Wolsey. Two rows, a hundred feet in length, of portraits of renowned patrons, graduates and professors of Oxford are set high upon the side-walls. At the upper end of the hall hangs Holbein’s full-length portrait of Henry VIII. The swinish eyes, pendulous cheeks, pursed-up mouth and double chin would be easily caught by any caricaturist, and are as familiar to us as the jaunty set of his flat cap upon the side of his head.

Holbein was a courtier, likewise an artist, who never stooped to caricature. This, the most celebrated likeness of his master, was said to be true to life, yet so ingeniously flattered as to find favor in the sight of the original. Holbein was a master of this species of delicate homage where the rank of the subject made the exercise of it politic. He practised the accomplishment once too often when he painted the miniature of Anne of Cleves. Keeping these things in mind, we saw a bulky trunk capped by the head I have described, one short arm akimbo, the hand resting on his sword-belt, the feet planted far apart to maintain the balance of the bloated column and display the legs he never wearied of praising and stroking. He wears a laced doublet and trunk-hose; a short cloak, lined with ermine, falls back from his shoulders. The portrait-galleries of nations may be safely challenged to furnish a parallel in bestiality and swagger with this figure. Yet the widow of a good man, herself a refined and pious gentlewoman, became without coercion, his sixth queen, and colored with pleasure when, in the view of the court, he paid her the distinguished compliment of laying his ulcerous leg across her lap! Such reminiscences are not sovereign cures for Republicanism.

On one side of Henry hangs the daughter who proved her inheritance of his coarse nature and callous sensibilities, by vaunting her relationship to him who had disgraced and murdered her mother, and declared herself, by act of Parliament, illegitimate. Much is made in Elizabeth’s portraits of her ruff and tower of red hair, of her satin robe “set all over with aglets of two sorts,” of “pearl-work and tassels of gold,” of “costly lace and knotted buttons,” and very little of the pale, high-nosed face. Her eyes are small and black; her mouth has the “purse” of her father’s, her features are expressionless. At the other hand of King Henry is the butcher’s son, created by him Lord Cardinal, cozened, in a playfully rapacious humor, out of Hampton Palace, and cast off like a vile slug from the royal hand when he had had his day and served his monarch’s ends. Wolsey’s portraits are always taken in profile, to conceal the cast in the eye, which was his thorn in the flesh. It is a triumvirate that may well chain feet, eyes, and thought for a much longer time than we could spare for the whole college.

Across this end of the room runs a platform, raised a foot or two from the hall floor. A table, surrounded by chairs, is upon it. Here dine the titled students of Christ Church College (established by the butcher’s boy!)—the élite who sport the proverbial “tufts” upon their Oxford caps. Privileged “dons” preside at their meals, and Bluff King Hal swaggers in such divinity as doth hedge in a king—and his nobles—over their heads. The gentlemen-commoners are so fortunate as to sit nearest this hallowed dais, although upon the lower level of the refectory. The commonest drink small-beer from pewter tankards in the draughts and dimness (social) of the end nearest the door.

Lex’s handsome face was a study when the fitness and beauty of class distinctions in the halls of learning was made patent to him by the civil guide. By the way, he wore a student’s gown, and was, we surmised, a servitor of the college.

“How much light these entertaining items cast upon quotations we have heard, all our lives, without comprehending,” said the audacious youth, eying the informant with ingenuous admiration. “‘High life and below stairs!’ ‘Briton’s sons shall ne’er be slaves!’ ‘Free-born Englishmen’—and the rest of it! There’s nothing else like an old-world education, after all, for adjusting society. Under professors like the Tudors and Stuarts, of course! Why, do you know, we ignoramuses over the water would set Bright and Gladstone at the same table with the most empty-pated lord of the lot, and never suspect that we were insulting one of them?”

Caput pulled him away.

“You rascal!” he said, as we followed the servitor to the kitchen. “How dare you make fun of the man to his face?”

“He never guessed it,” replied the other coolly. “It takes a drill and a blast of powder to get a joke into an English skull.”

The kitchen is a vast vault, planned also by Wolsey, whose antecedents should have made him an authority in the culinary kingdom in an era when loins were knighted and entrées an unknown quantity in the composition of good men’s feasts. The high priest of the savory mysteries met us upon the threshold, the grandest specimen, physically, of a man we saw abroad. Herculean in stature and girth, he had a noble head and face, was straight as a Norway pine, and was robed in a voluminous white bib-apron. His voice was singularly deep and musical, his carriage majestic. I wish I could add that he was as conversant with the natural history and rights of the letter H as with the details of his profession and the story of his realm from 1520 downward. He exhibited the Brobdingnagian gridiron used in the time of James I., on which an hundred steaks could be broiled at one and the same time, and enlarged upon the improvements that had superseded the rusty bars and smoky jacks, kept now as curiosities. In one pantry was a vast vessel of ripe apricots, ready-sugared for jam; a huge pasty, hot and fragrant from the oven, stood upon a dresser, encircled by a cohort of tarts.

“H’out h’of term-time we ’ave comparatively little to do,” said the splendid giant. “Therefore I ’ave given most h’of my h’employees a vacation. But there h’are a few h’undergraduates and a tutor h’or two ’ere still, and”—apologetically for mortal frailty—“the h’inner man, h’even h’of scholars must be h’entertained. ’Ence these”—waving a mighty arm toward the pastry.

He pleased us prodigiously, even to the sublime graciousness with which he accepted a douceur at parting. We turned at the end of the passage to look at him—a white-robed Colossus, in the dusky arch of the kitchen doorway. The light from a window touched his hoary hair and the jet-black brows that darkened the full, serious eyes. He was gazing after us, too, and bowed gravely without changing his place.

“Are there photographs of him for sale?” asked we of our guide. “Surely he is one of the college lions?”

“I beg your pardon!”

We directed his attention to the statuesque Anak.

“Oh! he is the cook!” with never a gleam of amusement or surprise.

“Artistically considered,” pursued Prima, with another lingering look, “he is magnificent.”

This time the black-gown was slightly—never so slightly, bewildered.

“He is the cook,” he said.

“’Twas throwing words away, for still

The little man would have his will,

And answered—‘’Tis the cook!’”

parodied Dux. “Wordsworth was an Englishman and ‘knew how it was himself.’”

We spent four hours in the Bodleian Library, Museum, and Picture Gallery, leaving them then reluctantly. It was “realizing our history” in earnest to see the portrait of William Prynne, carefully executed, even to Archbishop Laud’s scarlet ear-mark. The clipped organ is turned to the spectator ostentatiously, one fancies, until he bethinks himself that the uncompromising Puritan received the loving admonition of Church and State in both ears, and upon separate occasions. The miniatures of James III. and his wife are here given an honorable position. Some years since the words, “The Pretender,” were scratched by an unknown Jacobite from the gilded frame of the uncrowned king’s picture. The custodian pointed out the erasure with a smile indulgent of the harmless, if petulant freak. It is odd who do such things, and when, so vigilant is the watch kept over visitors. Three of the delicate fingers are gone from the hands of Marie Stuart in Westminster Abbey, and, if I remember aright, as many from the effigy of Elizabeth in the same place.

We paused long at one small faded portrait, far inferior in artistic merit to those about it—the first picture we had seen of Lady Jane Grey. She has a sickly, chalky complexion that might match an American school-girl’s. This may have been caused by the severity of her home discipline and Master Roger Ascham’s much Latin and more Greek. She toiled for him cheerfully, she says, “since he was the first person who ever spake kindly to her.” She was the mistress of five languages and a frightful number of arts and sciences, and married a sour-tempered man, chosen by her father and his, when she was seventeen years old. The lineaments are unformed and redeemed from plainness by large brown eyes. They have an appealing, hunted look that was not all in our fancy. A “slip of a girl” compassionate mothers would name her; frightened at life, or what it was made to be to her by her natural guardians.

Across the gallery are two portraits of Marie Stuart, one of which was painted over the other upon the same canvas. This was discovered by an artist, who then obtained permission from the owners to copy and erase the upper painting. He succeeded in both tasks. The outermost portrait wears a projecting headdress, all buckram, lace, and pearls, and a more ornate robe than the other. A casual glance would incline one to the belief that the faces are likewise dissimilar, but examination shows that they are alike in line and color, the difference in expression being the work of the tawdry coiffure. The lower likeness is so lovely in its thoughtful sweetness as to kindle indignation with astonishment that it should have been so foolishly disfigured. The story is a strange one, but true.

We recognized Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester’s picture, from its resemblance to the effigy upon his tomb, and liked it less than that. The opened eyes are fine in shape and color, but sleepy and sinister, the complexion more sanguine than suits a carpet-knight. There is more of the hunting-squire than the polished courtier in it. Close by is the pleasing face of the royal coquette’s later favorite, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. Another profile of Wolsey is not far off. A nobler trio are Erasmus, Hugo Grotius and Thomas Cranmer pendent upon the same side of the gallery.

I once read in a provincial journal a burlesque list of the curiosities in Barnum’s Museum. One item was, “a cup of cream from the milky way—slightly curdled.” Another—“a block from the marble hall the Bohemian girl dreamed she dwelt in.” The nonsense recurred to me when we bent over a glass containing Guy Fawkes’ lantern, “slightly” rusted. In fact, it is riddled by rust, and so far as apparent antiquity goes, might have belonged to Diogenes. The various parts—candle-holder, iron cylinder and cover, lie apart, and with them certificates to the genuineness of the relic. There is the original letter of warning to Lord Mounteagle not to go to the House at the opening of Parliament, “since God and man have conspired to punish the wickedness of the times.” “Parliament shall receive a terrible blow and yet shall not see who hurt them,” is the sentence that led to the search in the cellar and the capture of Fawkes.

Queen Elizabeth’s fruit-plates are upon exhibition here. They are very like the little wooden plaques we now paint for card-receivers and hang about our rooms. The edges are carved and painted, and in the centre of each are four lines of rhyme, usually a caustic fling at matrimony and married people.

The wealth of the Bodleian Library consists in its collection of valuable old books and MSS. In the number and rarity of the latter it disputes the palm with the British Museum. I should not know where to stop were I to begin the enumeration of treasures over which we hung in breathless delight, each one brought forward seeming more wonderful than the last. The illuminated volumes,—written and painted upon such parchment as one must see to believe in, so fine is its texture and so clear the page,—are enough to make a bibliomaniac of the soberest book-lover. A thousand years have not sufficed to dim tints and gilding. Queen Elizabeth, as Princess, “did” Solomon’s Proverbs upon vellum in letters of various styles, all daintily neat. In looking at her Latin exercises and counting up Lady Jane Grey’s acquirements, we cease to boast of the superior educational advantages of the girl of the period. It is experiences such as were ours that morning in the Bodleian Library and during our three days in Oxford that are pin-pricks to the balloon of national and intellectual conceit, not the survey of foreign governments and the study of foreign laws and manner. If the patient and candid sight-seer do not come home a humbler and a wiser man, he had best never stir again beyond the corporate limits of his own little Utica, and pursue contentedly the rôle of the marble in a peck-measure.

Before seeing the “Martyrs’ Monument,” we went to St. Mary’s Church in which Cranmer recanted his recantation. The places of pulpit and reading-desk have been changed since the Archbishop was brought forth from prison and bidden by Dr. Cole, an eminent Oxford divine, make public confession of his faith before the waiting congregation. The church was packed with soldiers, ecclesiastics and the populace. All had heard that the deposed prelate had been persuaded by argument and soothing wiles and the cruel bondage of the fear of death to return to the bosom of Holy Mother Church. Cole had said mass and preached the sermon.

“Dr. Cranmer will now read his confession,” he said and sat down.

“I will make profession of my faith,” said Cranmer, “and with a good will, too!”

We saw the site of the old pulpit in which he arose in saying this; the walls that had given back the tones of a voice that trembled no longer as he proclaimed his late recantation null and void, “inasmuch as he had been wrought upon by the fear of burning to sign them. He believed in the Bible and all the doctrines taught therein which he had wickedly renounced. As for the Pope, he did refuse him and denounce him as the enemy of Heaven.”

“Smite him upon the mouth; and take him away!” roared Cole.

We would presently see where he was chained to the stake and helped tear off his upper garments, as fearing he might again grow cowardly before the burning began. From a different motive,—namely, the dread that his bald head and silvery beard might move the people to rescue, the Lord Overseer of the butchery ordered the firemen to make haste. “The unworthy hand” was burned first. His heart was left whole in the ashes.

“That was the Oxford spirit, three hundred and twenty years ago!” mused Caput, aloud. “Within fifty years, John Henry Newman,—now a Cardinal—was incumbent of St Mary’s.”

“Yes, sir,” responded the pew-opener (with a bonnet on,) who showed the church. “He was one of the first Puseyites.”

“I know!” turning again toward the site of the old pulpit.

A small square of marble, no bigger than a tile, let into the chancel floor, records that in a vault beneath lies “Amy Robsart, first wife of Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.” Her remains were brought hither from Cumnor Hall, which was but three miles from Oxford, and decently interred in a brick grave under the church. Other monument than this insignificant morsel of stone she has none.

The Martyrs’ Memorial is a handsome Gothic structure of magnesian limestone, hexagonal and three-storied, rising into a pinnacle surmounted by a cross. It is in a conspicuous quarter of the city, in the centre of an open square. In arched niches, facing different ways, are Cranmer, in his prelatical robes, Ridley, and Latimer.

“This place hath long groaned for me!” said Latimer, passing through Smithfield, on his way to the tower after his arrest.

But they brought him to Oxford to die.

We checked the carriage and alighted opposite Balliol College. The street is closely built up on both sides, and in the middle, upon one of the paving-stones, is cut a deep cross. This is the true Martyrs’ Memorial. There, Ridley and Latimer “lighted such a candle by the grace of God as shall never be put out.” The much-abused phrase, “baptism of fire,” grows sublime when we read that Latimer was “seen to make motions with his hands as if washing them in the flames, and to stroke his aged face with them.”

Said an American clergyman—and inferentially, a defender of the Faith—“I have no sympathy with those old martyrs. The most charitable of us must confess that they were frightfully and disgustingly obstinate!”

We may forgive them for failing to win the approbation of latter-day sentimentalists when we reflect that but for this, their unamiable idiosyncrasy, neither Protestant England nor Protestant America would to-day exist, even in name. Not very long since, excavations under the sidewalk nearest to the cross-mark in this street revealed the existence here—as a similar accident had in front of St. Bartholomew-the-Great, in London—of a thick stratum of ashes. “Human ashes mixed with wood,” says the report of the discovery printed by an Antiquarian Society—“establishing beyond question that this was where the public burnings were held.” The inhumanity of sweeping such ashes into a heap by the wayside, as one might pile the refuse of a smelting-furnace, is almost as revolting to most people as the disgusting obstinacy of the consumed heretics. We saw another official record, of an earlier date, relative to this locality,—the bills sent by the Sheriff of Oxford to the Queen, after two “public burnings.” One headed—“To burn Latimer and Ridley” has seven items, including “wood-fagots, furze-fagots, chains, and staples,” accumulating into a total of £1, 5s. 9d. “To burn Cranmer” was a cheaper operation. “Furze and wood-fagots,” the carriage of these, and “2 laborers,” cost but “12s. 8d.” Ridley and Latimer suffered for their obstinacy, October 16, 1555; Cranmer in March of the next year.

The walks and drives in and about Oxford are exceedingly beautiful. The “Broad Walk,” in Christ Church Meadows, deserves the eulogiums lavished upon it by tongue and pen. The interlacing tracery of the elms, arched above the smooth, wide avenue; the glimpses to right and left of “sweet fields in living green;” clumps of superb oaks and pretty “pleasances;” the dark-gray towers, domes and spires of the city, and the ivied walls of private and public gardens; the Isis winding beneath willows and between meadows, and dotted, although it was the long vacation, with gliding boats,—all this, viewed in the clear, tender light of the “Queen’s weather” that still followed us on our journeyings, made up a picture we shall carry with us while memory holds dear and pleasant things.

When we go abroad again—(how often and easily the words slip from our lips!) we mean to give three weeks, instead of as many days, to Oxford.

“Honor bright, now!” said Caput, settling into his place, with the rest of us, in the railway carriage, after the last look from the windows upon the receding scene;—“when you say ‘Oxford’ do you think first of Alfred the Great; of Cœur de Lion, who was born there; of William the Conqueror, who had a tough battle to win it; of Cardinal Wolsey—or of Tom Brown?”

“That reminds me!” said Prima, serenely ignoring the query her elders laughingly declined to answer,—“we must get some sandwiches at Rugby. Everybody does.”

We did—all leaving the train to peep into the “Refreshment Room of Mugby Junction,” and quoting, sotto voce, from the sketch which, it is affirmed, has made this, in very truth, what Dickens wrote it down ironically—“the Model Establishment” of the line. “The Boy” has disappeared, or grown up. Mrs. Sniff,—“the one with the small waist buckled in tight in front, and with the lace cuffs at her wrists, which she puts on the edge of the counter and stands a-smoothing while the Public foams,”—has been supplanted by a tidy dame, cherry-cheeked and smiling. She filled our order with polite despatch, and, in her corps of willing assistants one searches uselessly for the “disdaineous females and ferocious old woman,” objurgated by the enraged foreigner; as vainly in the array of tempting edibles upon the counter for “stale pastry and sawdust sangwiches.” We had our railway carriage to ourselves, and, carrying our parcels thither, prepared to make merry.

“I need not explain to this assembly the ingredients and formation of the British Refreshment Sangwich,” began Prima, who knows Dickens better than she does the Catechism.

The sandwich of Rugby,—as revised—is put up by the half-dozen in neat white boxes, tied with ribbons, like choice confections. The ingredients are sweet, white bread, and juicy tongue or ham. The pastry is fresh and flaky, the cakes delicate and toothsome. We kept our sandwich-boxes as souvenirs.

We did not catch a sight of Banbury Cross, or of the young woman with bells on her toes who cantered through our nursery rhyme to that mythical goal. But we did supplement our Mugby Lunch by Banbury cakes, an indigestible and palatable compound.

CHAPTER IX.
Sky-larks and Stoke-Pogis.

THE only really hot weather we felt in the British Isles fell to our lot at Brighton. The fashionable world was “up in London.” The metropolis is always “up,” go where you will. “The season” takes in July, then everybody stays in the country until after Christmas, usually until April. Benighted Americans exclaim at the unreason of this arrangement, and are told—“It is customary.”

“But you lose the glory of Spring and Summer; and muddy (Anglicé, ‘dirty’) roads and wintry storms must be a serious drawback to country pleasures. We think the American plan more sensible and comfortable.”

“It is not customary with us.”

With the Average Briton, and with multitudes who are above the average in intelligence and breeding, “custom” is an end of all controversy.

For one week of the two we spent in Brighton, it was unequivocally hot. The sea was a burnished mirror between the early morning and evening hours. The Parade and the Links were deserted; the donkey-boys and peripatetic minstrels retired discouraged from the sultry streets. We had a pleasant suite of rooms upon Regency Square and kept tolerably comfortable by lowering the awning of the front balcony and opening all the inner doors and windows to invite the breeze. Our landlord had been a butler in Lord Somebody’s family for twenty-eight years; had married the housekeeper, and with their joint savings and legacies leased the “four-story brick,” No. 60 Regency Square, and kept a first-class lodging-house. Every morning, at nine o’clock, he appeared with slate and pencil for orders for the day. “Breakfast,” “Luncheon,” “Dinner” were written above as many spaces, and beneath each I made out a bill-of-fare. Meals were served to the minute in the back-parlor and the folding-doors, opened by his august hand, revealed him in black coat and white necktie, ready to wait at table. Cookery and service were excellent; the rooms handsomely furnished, including napery, china, silver, and gas. We paid as much as we would have done at a hotel, but were infinitely more contented, having the privacy and many of the comforts of a real home.

Our worthy landlord remonstrated energetically at sight of the open windows; protested against the draughts and our practice of drawing reading-chairs and lounges into the cooling currents.

“The wind is east, sir!” he said to Caput, almost with tears,—“and when it sets in that quarter, draughts are deadly.”

We laughed, thanked him and declared that we were used to east winds, and continued to seek the breeziest places until every one of us was seized with influenza viler than any that ever afflicted us in the middle of a Northern winter. Upon Caput, the most robust of the party, it settled most grievously. The dregs were an attack of bronchitis that defied all remedies for a month, then sent him back to the Continent for cure. I mention this instance of over-confidence in American constitutions and ignorance of the English climate as a warning to others as rash and unlearned.

The wind stayed in the east all the time we were in Brighton and the sun’s ardor did not abate. Our host had a good library,—a rarity in a lodging-house, and we “lazed” away noon-tides, book or fancy-work in hand. We had morning drives into the country and evening rambles in the Pavilion Park, and out upon the splendid pier where the band played until ten o’clock, always concluding, as do all British bands, the world around, with “God save the Queen.” Boy, attended by the devoted Invaluable, divided the day between donkey-rides, playing in the sand,—getting wet through regularly twice per diem, by an in-rolling wave,—and the Aquarium. The latter resort was much affected by us all. It is of itself worth far more than the trouble and cost of a trip from London to Brighton and back.

The restfulness,—the indolence, if you will have it so—of that sojourn in a place where there were few “sights,” and when it was too warm to make a business of visiting such as there were, was a salutary break,—barring the influenza—in our tour. Perhaps our mental digestions are feebler or slower than those of the majority of traveling Americans. But it was a positive necessity for us to be quiet, now and then, for a week or a month, that the work of assimilation and nourishment might progress safely and healthfully. After a score of attempts to bolt an art-gallery, a museum, a cathedral, or a city at one meal, and to follow this up by rapidly successive surfeits, we learned wisdom from the dyspeptic horrors that ensued, and resigned the experiment to others. Nor did we squander time and strength upon a thing to which we were indifferent, merely because Murray or Baedeker prescribed it, or through fear of that social nuisance, the Thorough Traveler. We cultivated a fine obtuseness to the attacks of this personage and never lost an hour’s sleep for his assurance that the one thing worth seeing in Munich was the faïence in a tumbling-down palace only known to virtuosos “who understood the ropes,” and which we, being simple folk unversed in rope-pulling, had not beheld; or that he who omitted to walk the entire length of the Liverpool Docks, or to see the Giant’s Causeway by moonlight, or to go into the Blue Grotto, might better have stayed at home and given his ticket and letter-of-credit to a more appreciative voyager.

Our fortnight at Brighton, then, was one of our resting-spells, and one morning, after a night-shower had freshened the atmosphere, and the wind blew steadily but not too strongly from the sea, we drove, en famille, to the Downs and the Devil’s Dyke, a deep ravine cleaving the Downs into two hills. The devil’s name is a pretty sure guarantee of the picturesque or awful in scenery,—a sort of trade-mark. Our course was through the open, breezy country; the road, fringed and frilled with milk-white daisies and scarlet poppies, overlooking the ocean on one side, bounded upon the other by corn-fields and verdant downs stretching up and afar into the hilly horizon. The evenness of the grass upon these rolling heights, and of the growth of wheat and oats was remarkable, betokening uniformity of fertility and culture unknown in our country. Wheat, oats, barley—all bearded cereals—are “corn” abroad, maize being little known.

Leaving the waggonette at the hotel on the top of the Downs, and turning a deaf ear to the charming of the photographer, whose camera and black cloth were already afield, early in the day as it was, we walked on the ridge for an hour. We trod the springy turf as upon a flowery carpet; the air was balm and cordial; from our height we surveyed five of the richest counties of England, seeming to be spread upon a plane surface, the distance leveling minor inequalities. Sussex, Surrey, and Hampshire were a mottled map below our plateau, a string of hamlets marking highways and knotting up, once in a while, into a larger settlement wound about a church. Some of these were very primitive sanctuaries, with thatched roofs and towers, and the straw gables of the cottages were like so many embrowned hay-ricks.

Then and there, our feet deep in wild thyme and a hundred unknown blossoming grasses, the pastoral panorama unrolled for our vision, from the deep blue sea-line to the faint boundary of the far-off hills, the scented breezes filling lungs that panted to inhale yet larger draughts of their cool spiciness—we first heard the larks sing! We had been sceptical about the sky-lark. And since hearing the musical “jug-jug” and broken cadenzas of Italian nightingales, and deciding that the mocking-bird would be a triumphantly-successful rival could he be induced to give moonlight concerts, we had waxed yet more contemptuous of the bird who builds upon the ground, yet is fabled to sing at heaven’s gate. We had seen imported larks, brown, spiritless things, pecking in a home-sickly way at a bit of turf in the corner of their cage, and emitting an infrequent “tweet.” Our hedge-sparrow is a comelier and more interesting bird, and, for all we could see, might sing as well, if he would but apply his mind to the study of the sustained warble.

Our dear friend, Dr. V——, of Rome, once gave me a description of the serenades of the nightingales about his summer home on the Albanian Hills, so exquisite in wording, so pulsing with natural poetry as to transcend the song of any Philomel we ever listened to. I wished for him on the Downs that fervid July morning. I wish for his facile pen the more now when I would tell, and cannot, how the sky-larks sang and with what emotions we hearkened to them. They arose, not singly or in pairs, but by the score, from the expanse of enameled turf, mounting straight and slowly heavenward. Their notes blended in the upper air into a vibrating ecstasy of music. Pure as the odor of the thyme, free as the rush of the sea-air over the heights, warble and trill floated down to us as they soared, always directly up, up, until literally invisible to the naked eye. I brought the field-glass to bear upon two I had thus lost, and saw them sporting in the ether like butterflies, springing and sinking, tossing over and over upon the waves of their own melody, and, all the while, the lower air in which we stood was thrilling as clearly and deliciously with rapturous rivulets of sound as when they were scarce twenty feet above the earth.

Our last memory of Oxford is a landscape—in drawing, graphic and clear as a Millais, rich and mellow as a Claude in coloring. We brought away both picture and poem from Brighton Downs.

It was still summer-time, but summer with a presage of autumn in russet fields and shortening twilights, when we left the railway train at Slough, a station near Windsor Castle, and took a carriage for Stoke-Pogis. This, the “Country Church-yard” of Thomas Gray, is but two and a half miles from the railway, and is gained by a good road winding between hedge-rows and coppices, with frequent views of quiet country homes. The flag flaunting from the highest tower of Windsor was seldom out of sight on the route.

“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave.”

It was impossible to abstain from repeating the couplet, inevitable that it should recur to us, a majestic refrain, at each glimpse of the royal standard. We stopped in the broad shadow of a clump of oaks at the side of the road; passed through a turn-stile and followed a worn foot-path across the fields. The glimmer of a pale, graceful spire among the trees was our guide. About sixty yards beyond the stile is an oblong monument of granite, surmounted by a sarcophagus with steeply-slanting sides and a gabled cover. The paneled sides of the base are covered with selections from Gray’s poems. The turf slopes from this into a shallow moat, on the outer bank of which reclined two boys. They were well-favored fellows, dressed in well-made jackets and trousers, and had, altogether, the air of gentlemen’s sons. While one copied into a blank book the inscription on the side nearest him, his companion was at work upon a tolerable sketch of the monument.

“Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,”

read Caput from the monument. Then, glancing at the sarcophagus: “Can Gray himself be buried here? I thought his grave was in the church-yard?”

The boys wrote and sketched on, deaf and dumb. Caput approached the elder, who may have been fifteen years old.

“I beg your pardon! but can you tell me if this is the burial-place of the poet Gray?”

The lads looked at each other.

“Gray?” said one—

“Poet?” the other.

Then—this is solemn truth, dear Reader!—both uttered, with the unison and monotony of a church-response—“I really carn’t say!”

We pursued the little foot-path to the church. There would surely be some record there to satisfy our query. Stones should have tongues upon the soil that produces the Average Briton. “The summer’s late repentant smile” cast a pensive beauty over the country-side, made of the sequestered church-yard a home fair to see and to be desired when the “inevitable hour” should come. The wall has a luxuriant coping of ivy throughout its length. Prehensile streamers have anchored in the turf below and bound the graves with green withes. The ivy-mantle of the old square tower leaves not a stone visible except where it has been cut away from the window of the belfry. A new steeple rises out of the green mass. A modest and symmetrical pinnacle, but one that displeases prejudice, if not just taste, and which is as yet shunned by the ivy, that congener of honorable antiquity. It clings nowhere more lovingly than to the double gable, under the oriel window of which is the poet’s grave. This is a brick parallelogram covered by a marble slab. Gray’s mother is buried with him. A tablet in the church-wall tells us in which narrow cell he sleeps.

Just across the central alley the sexton was opening an old grave, probably that it might receive another tenant, possibly to remove the remains to another cemetery. A gentleman in clerical dress stood near, with two young girls. The grave-digger and his assistant completed the group. Caput applied to the clergyman, rightly supposing him to be the parish rector, for permission to gather some of the pink thyme and grasses from the base of the brick tomb. During the minute occupied by courteous question and reply, the contents of the grave were exposed to view.

“A ‘mouldering heap’ of dust!” said Caput, coming back to us, “Here and there a crumbling bone. A mat of human hair. Not even the semblance of human shape. That is what mortality means. Gray may have seen the like in this very place.”

We picked buttercups, clover, and thyme, some blades of grass and sprigs of moss, that had their roots in the fissures of the bricks, and as silently quitted the vicinage of the open pit. Every step furnished proof of the fidelity to nature of the imperishable idyl. It was an impossibility—or so we then believed—that it could have been written elsewhere than in that “church-yard.” The moveless arabesques of the rugged elm-boughs slept upon the ridged earth at our left; the yew-tree blackened a corner at the right. The “upland lawn” was bathed in sunshine; the

“nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,”

at whose foot the recluse stretched his listless length at noontide, still leaned over the brook. We stayed our lingering steps to listen to its babbling, and point out the wood and the “’customed hill.”

We rode back to the station by way of the hamlet, into whose uncouth name genius has breathed music, and saw Gray’s home. It is a plain, substantial dwelling, little better than a farm-house. In the garden is a summer-house, in which, it is said, he was fond of sitting while he wrote and read. Constitutionally shy, and of exceeding delicacy of nerve and taste, his thoughtfulness deepened by habitual ill-health,—one comprehends, in seeing Stoke-Pogis, why he should have preferred it to any other abode, yet how, in this seclusion, gravity and dreaming should have become a gentle melancholy tingeing every line we have from his pen. As, when apostrophizing Eton:—

“Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shades!

Ah, fields, beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain.”

This continual guest, Pain, engendered an indolent habit of body. His ideal Heaven was “where one might lie on the sofa all day and read a novel,” unstung by conscience or the contempt of his kind.

“William Penn was born at Stoke-Pogis!” I remembered, aloud and abruptly.

Caput’s eyes were upon the fast-vanishing spire:

“The Elegy—in which I defy any master of English to find a misapplied word—was written twenty times before it was printed,” he observed sententiously.

“Papa!” from the young lady on the back seat of the carriage—“Now, I thought it was an impromptu——”

“Dashed off upon the backs of a pocketful of letters, between daylight and dark, a flat grave-stone for a desk,—and published in the next morning’s issue of the ‘Stoke-Pogis Banner of Light!’” finished the senior, banteringly.

But there is a lesson, with a moral, in the brief dialogue.

CHAPTER X.
Our English Cousins.

WE had seen the Carnevale at Rome, and the wild confusion of the moccoletti, which is its finale; festas, in Venice, Milan, and almost every other Italian town where we had stayed overnight. There are more festas than working-days in that laughter-loving land. In Paris we had witnessed illuminations, and a royal funeral, or of such shreds of royalty as appertained unto the dead King of Hanover,—the Prince of Wales, very red of face in the broiling sun, officiating as chief mourner in his mother’s absence. In Geneva we had made merry over the extravaganzas of New Year’s Day, and the comicalities of patriotism that rioted in the Escalade. We were au fait to the beery and musical glories of the German fest. We would see and be in the thick of a British holiday. What better opportunity could we have than was offered by the placards scattered broadcast in the streets, and pasted upon the “hoardings” of Brighton, announcing a mammoth concert in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham; a general muster of Temperance Societies; an awarding of prizes to competitive brass bands, and a prospective convocation of 100,000 souls from every town and shire within a radius of fifty miles? Such facilities for beholding that overgrown monster, the British Public, in his Sunday clothes and best humor—might not occur again—for us—in a half-century.

True, the weather was warm, but the Palace and grounds were spacious. The musical entertainment was not likely to be of the classic order, but it would be something worth the hearing and the telling,—the promised chorus of 5,000 voices, led by the immense organ, in “God save the Queen!” Thus we reasoned away Caput’s predictions that we would be heartily sick of the experiment before the day was half-gone, and thankful to escape, as for our lives, from the hustling auditors of the grand chorus. We yielded one point. Instead of going up to Sydenham in an excursion-train, the better to note the appearance and manners of the Public, we waited for a quieter and later, at regular prices, and so reached the Crystal Palace Station about eleven o’clock.

The punishment of our contumacy began immediately. Wedged in a dark passage with a thousand other steaming bodies, with barely room enough for breathing—not for moving hand or foot—retreat cut off and advance impracticable, we waited until the pen was filled to overflowing by the arrival of the next train before the two-leaved doors at the Palaceward end split suddenly and emptied us into the open air. We made a feint of going through the main building with those of our party who had not already seen it, but every staircase was blocked by ascending and descending droves, and nobody gave an inch to anybody else. The Mothers of England were all there, each with a babe in arms and another tugging at her skirts. Men swore—good-humoredly,—women scolded as naturally as in their own kitchens and butteries, and babies cried without fear or favor. The police kept a wise eye upon the valuables of the Palace, and let the people alone. Repelled in every advance upon art-chamber and conservatory, we collected our flurried forces and withdrew to the grounds. When sore-footed with walking from fountain to flower-bed, the gentlemen watched for and obtained seats for the ladies upon a bench near the stand, where the competitive brass bands were performing, heard, perhaps by themselves and their rivals, but few besides.

The avenues were choked in every direction with swarms of the commonest-looking people our eyes had ever rested upon. Rags and squalor were seldom seen, and the yeomanry and their families were fresh-colored and plump. The representatives from London and other large cities were easily distinguishable by a sharper, sometimes a pinched look, leaden complexions and smarter clothes. There is a Continental saying that in England, blacksmiths make the women’s dresses and men’s hats. If the ladies of rank, beginning with the queen, are notably ill-dressed, what shall we say of the apparel of mechanics’, small tradesmen’s and farmers’ wives and daughters, such as we beheld at Sydenham? Linsey skirts, quite clearing slippered feet and ankles clothed in home-knit hose, were converted into gala-suits by polonaises of low-priced grenadine, or worked muslin of a style twenty years old, and bonnets out-flaunting the geranium-beds. The English gardeners may have borrowed the device of massing lawn-flowers from their countrywomen’s hats. White was in high favor with the young, generally opaque stuffs such as piqué and thick cambric, but we did not see one that was really clean and smooth. Most had evidently done holiday-duty for several seasons and were still considered “fresh enough.” Elderly matrons and spinsters panted in rusty black silk and shiny alpacas, set off by broad cotton lace collars, astounding exhibitions of French lace, cheap flowers and often white feathers, upon hats that had not seen a milliner’s block in a dozen seasons. Old and young were prone to ribbon-sashes with flying or drooping ends, and cotton gloves. Some wore fur tippets over their summer-robes. These we remarked the less for having seen ladies, traveling first-class, with footmen and maids in attendance, wear in August, grenadine and muslin dresses and sealskin jackets.

The women were more easy in their finery than were the men in broadcloth, shirt-fronts and blackened boots. These huddled in awkward groups, talked loudly and laughed blusteringly, while their feminine companions strolled about, exchanging greetings and gossip. The little girls kept close to their mothers in conformity with British traditions on the government of girls of all ages; the small boys munched apples and gingerbread-nuts, and stared stolidly around; those of the bigger lads who could afford the few pence paid for the privilege, rode bicycles up and down the avenues until the blood threatened to start from the pores of their purple faces, and their eyes from the sockets. From that date to this, the picture of a half-grown Briton,—done up to the extreme of uncomfortableness in best jacket and breeches that would “just meet,”—careering violently over the gravel under the fierce July sun, directing two-thirds of his energies to the maintenance of his centre of gravity upon the ticklish seat, the rest to the perpetual motion of arms and legs,—stands with me as the type of the pitiable-ludicrous. Of men, women and children, at least one-half wore ribbon badges, variously lettered and illuminated. Standards were borne in oblique, undress fashion, upon shoulders, and leaned against trees, advertising the presence of “Bands of Hope,” “Rain Drops,” “Rechabites,” “Summer Clouds,” “Snow-Flakes” and “Cooling Springs.” Many men, and of women not a few, had velvet trappings, in shape and size resembling Flemish horse-collars, about their necks, labeled in gold with cabalistic characters, denoting the title borne by the wearer in some one of the Temperance Societies represented.

Caput was right. The element of the picturesque was utterly wanting from the holiday crowd. The naïve jollity that almost compensates for this deficiency in the fests of Deutschland was likewise absent. The brass bands pealed on perseveringly, the crowd shifted lumberingly to and fro, and we grew hungry as well as tired. The Palace Restaurant would be crowded, we knew, but we worked our way thither by a circuitous course, avoiding the densest “jams” in corridors and stairways, and were agreeably surprised at finding less than twenty persons at lunch, and in the long, lofty dining-room, the coolest, quietest retreat we had had that day. The dinner was excellent, the waiters prompt and attentive, and with the feeling that the doors (bolted by the restaurant-prices), were an effectual bulwark against the roaring rabble, we dallied over our dessert as we might in the back drawing-room in Brighton with good Mr. Chipp behind Caput’s chair.

We would fain have lingered in the concert-hall to hear the chorus of five thousand voices upborne by the full swell of the mighty organ. There were the tiers of singers, mostly school-girls in white frocks, piled up to the ceiling, waiting for the signal to rise. Somebody said the organ was preluding, but of this we were not sure, such was the reigning hubbub. The important moment came. The thousands of the choir were upon their feet; opened their mouths as moved by one unseen spring. The conductor swung his bâton with musical emphasis and discretion. The mouths expanded and contracted in good time. We heard not one note of it all. Men shouted to one another and laughed uproariously; women scolded and cackled; babies screamed,—as if music, “heavenly maid,” had never been born, and it was no concern of theirs whether the Queen might, could, would, or should be saved.

Caput put his mouth to my ear.

“This will kill you!” he said, and by dint of strong elbows and broad shoulders, fought a way for us out of the press.

“From all such—and the rest of it!” gasped Prima, when we were seeking lost breath, and smoothing rumpled plumage in the outer air.

That blessed man was magnanimous! He never so much as looked—“You would come!”

He only said solicitously to me—“I am afraid your head aches! Would you like to sit quietly in the shade for awhile before we go home?”

Fallacious dream! The British Public had lunched out-of-doors while we sat at ease within. The park, containing more than two hundred acres, was littered with whitey-brown papers that had enwrapped the “British Sangwich;” empty beer-bottles were piled under the trees, and the late consumers of the regulation-refreshments lounged upon the grass in every shady corner, smoking, talking and snoring. Abandoning the project of rest within the grounds, we walked toward the gate of egress. Everywhere was the same waste of greasy papers, cheese-parings, bacon-rinds and recumbent figures, and, at as many points of our progress we saw three drunken women—too drunk to walk or rise. One lay in the blazing sunshine, untouched by Good Samaritan or paid police, a baby not over two years old sitting by her, crying bitterly. Caput directed a policeman to the shocking spectacle. He shook his head.

“She’s werry drunk!” he admitted. “But she h’aint noisy. We must give the h’attention of the Force to them w’ot h’is!”

It was but two o’clock when we entered the waiting-room of the station. Out-going trains were infrequent at that time of the day, and we must wait an hour. I found a comfortable sofa in the ladies’ parlor and laid down my throbbing head upon a pillow of the spare shawls without which we never stirred abroad. A kindly-faced woman suspended her knitting and asked what she could do for me.

“Maybe the lady would like a cup of tea with a teaspoonful of brandy in it? Or a glass of h’ale?”

I thanked her, but said I only wanted rest and quiet.

“Which I mean to say, mem, it’s ’ard to get to-day. I’ve been ’ere five year, keeper of this ’ere waiting-room, and never ’ave I seen such crowds. The trains h’are a-comin’ h’in constant still, and will, till h’evening. And h’every train, h’it do bring a thousand. A Temperance pic-nic, you see, mem, do allers draw h’uncommon!”

We saw, not of choice, one more fête-day in England—the Bank holiday lately granted to all classes of working-people. It fell on Monday, August 5th, and caught us in London with a day full of not-to-be-deferred engagements, the departure of some of our family-party being near at hand. The Banks, all public offices and shops were closed. The British Museum, Zoölogical Gardens, The Tower and parks would be crowded, we agreed, in modifying our plans. St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey seemed safe. We were right with respect to the Cathedral. An unusually large number of people strayed in and sauntered about, looking at monuments and tablets in church and crypt, but we were free to move and examine. It was a “free day” at the Abbey. The chapels locked at other seasons, and only to be seen in the conduct of a verger, were now open to everybody, and everybody was there. We threaded the passage-ways in the wake of a fleet of cockneys, great and small, to whom the tomb that holds the remains of the Tudor sisters, and on which their greatest queen lies in marble state, signified no more than a revolving doll in a hair-dresser’s window; who slouched aimlessly from Ben Jonson’s bust to Chaucer’s monument, and trod with equal apathy the white slab covering “Old Parr,” and the gray flagging lettered, “Charles Dickens.”

That this judgment of the rank and file is not uncharitable we had proof in the demeanor and talk of the visitors.

“James!” cried a wife to her heedless husband, when abreast of the tomb of Henry III. “You don’t look at nothink you parss. Don’t you see this is the tomb of ’Enry Thirteenth?”

“’Enry or ’Arry!” growled her lord without taking his hands from his pocket—“Wot do I care for he?”

None of the comments, we overheard, upon the treasures of this grandest of burial-places amused us more than the talk of a respectable-looking man with his bright-eyed ten-year old son over the memorial to Sir John Franklin. Beneath a fine bust of the hero-explorer is a bas-relief of the Erebus and Terror locked in the ice.

“See the vessels in the rocks, Pa!” cried the boy. “Or—is it ice?”

“I don’t rightly know, Charley. Don’t touch!”

“I wont, Pa! I just want to read what this is on the ship. E, R, E, B, U, S!—E. R. Bruce! Is he buried here, do you ’spose?”

“In course he is, me lard! They wouldn’t never put h’another man’s name h’upon ’is tombstone—would they?”

It is obviously unfair, say some of those for whom I am writing, to gauge the intelligence and breeding of a great nation by the manners of the lower classes. Should I retort that upon such data, as collected by British tourists in a flying trip through our country, is founded the popular English belief that we are vulgar in manner and speech, superficial in education and crude in thought, I should be told that these are the impressions and opinions of a bygone period,—belong to a generation that read Mrs. Trollope’s and Marryatt’s “Travels,” and Boz’s “American Notes;” that the Briton of to-day harbors neither prejudice nor contempt for us; appreciates all that is praiseworthy in us as individuals and a people; is charitable to our faults. There are Americans resident abroad who will assert this. Some, because having made friends of enlightened English men and women, true and noble, they see the masses through the veil of affectionate regard they have for the few. Others, flattered in every fibre of their petty natures by the notice of those who arrogate superiority of race and training, affect to despise their own land and kind; would rather be Anglicized curs beneath the tables of the nobility than independent citizens of a free and growing country. We know both classes. We met them every day and everywhere for two years. America can justify herself against such children as those I have last described.

But I have somewhat to say about the popular estimate in England of America and Americans, and I foresee that I shall write of other matters with more comfort when I have eased my spirit by a little plain speech upon this subject:

“You agree with me, I am sure, in saying, ‘My country, right or wrong!’” said a dear old English lady, turning to me during a discussion upon the policy of Great Britain with regard to the Russian-Turkish war.

“We say—‘My country, always right!’” replied I, smiling. “We are, as you often tell us, ‘very young’—too young to have committed many national sins. Perhaps when we are a thousand or fifteen hundred years nearer the age of European governments, we, too, may have made dangerous blunders.”

An English gentleman, hearing a portion of this badinage, came up to me.

“You were not in earnest in what you said just now?” he began, interrogatively. “I honor America. I have studied her history, and I hail every step of her march to the place I believe God has assigned her—the leadership of the Christian world. She is fresh and enthusiastic. She is sound to the core. But she does make mistakes. Let us reason together for a little while. There is the Silver Bill, for example.”

“I was talking nonsense,” I said, impulsively. “Mere braggadocio, and in questionable taste. But it irks me that the best and kindest of you patronize my country, and excuse me! that so many who do it know next to nothing about us. Mrs. B—— asked me, just now, if it were ‘quite safe to promenade Broadway unarmed—on account of the savages, you know.’ And when I answered—‘the nearest savages to us are in your Canadian provinces,’ she said, without a tinge of embarrassment—‘Ah! I am very, very excessively ignorant about America. In point of fact, it is a country in which I have no personal interest whatever. I have a son in India, and one in Australia, but no friends on your side of the world.’ Yet she is a lady, well educated and well-born. She has traveled much; speaks several languages, and converses intelligently upon most topics. She is, moreover, too kind to have told me that my country is uninteresting had she dreamed that I could be hurt or offended by the remark. Another lady, a disciple of Dr. Cummings, and his personal friend, asked my countrywoman, Mrs. T——, ‘if she came from America by steamer or by the overland route?’ and a member of Parliament told Mr. J——, the other day, that the ‘North should have let the South go when she tried to separate herself from the Union. The geographical position of the two countries showed they should never have been one nation.’ ‘The hand of the Creator,’ he went on to say, ‘had placed a rocky rampart between them.’ ‘A rocky rampart!’ repeated Mr. J——, his mind running upon Mason’s and Dixon’s line. ‘Yes! The Isthmus of Darien!’

“Americans are accused of over-sensitiveness and boastfulness. Is it natural that we should submit tamely to patronage and criticism from those who calmly avow their ‘excessive ignorance’ of all that pertains to our land and institutions? Can we respect those who assume to teach when they know less upon many subjects than we do? A celebrated English divine once persisted in declaring to my husband that Georgia is a city, not a State. Another informed us that Pennsylvania is the capital of New England. Even my dear Miss W—— cannot be convinced that boys of nine years old are considered minors with us. She says she has been told by those who ought to know that, at that age, they discard parental authority; while her sister questioned me seriously as to the truth of the story that the feet of all American babies—boys and girls—are bandaged in infancy to make them small. Don’t laugh! This is all true, and I have not told you the tenth. The Silver Bill! I have never met another Englishman who knew anything about it!”

My friend laughed, in spite of my injunction.

“It is not ‘natural’ for Americans to ‘submit tamely’ to any kind of injustice, I fancy. But be merciful! Have you read in the ‘Nineteenth Century’ Dr. Dale’s ‘Impressions of America?’”

“I have. They are like himself, honest, sincere, thorough! But I have also read Trollope’s ‘American Senator,’ a product of the nineteenth century that will be read and credited by many who cannot appreciate Dr. Dale’s scholarship and logic. May I tell you an anecdote—true in every particular—to offset the Senator’s behavior in the Earl’s drawing-room? An English novelist, than whom none is better known on both sides of the water, dined, by invitation, at the house of a bona fide Senator in Washington. After dinner he approached the hostess in the drawing-room to take leave.

“‘It is very early yet, Mr.——,’ she said politely.

“‘I know it. But the fact is I must write ten pounds’ worth before I go to bed!’

“Yet this man is especially happy in clever flings at American society. We have faults—many and grievous! But we might drop them the sooner if our monitors were better qualified to instruct us, and would admonish in kindness, not disdain.”

Because he was an Englishman, and I liked him, I withheld from my excited harangue many and yet more atrocious absurdities uttered in my hearing by his compatriots. At this distance and time, and under the shelter of a nom de plume, I may relate an incident I forebore religiously from giving to my transatlantic acquaintances, albeit sorely tempted, occasionally, by their unconscious condescension and simplicity of arrogance—too amusing to be always offensive.

We were taking a cup of “arfternoon tea” with some agreeable English people, who had invited their rector and his wife to meet us. My seat was next the wife, a pretty, refined little woman, who graciously turned the talk into a channel where she fancied I would be at ease. She began to question me about America. Perceiving her motive, and being by this time somewhat weary of cruising in one strait, I, as civilly, fought shy of my native shores, and plied her with queries in my turn. I asked information, among other things, concerning Yorkshire and Haworth, stating our intention of visiting the home and church of the Brontës. The rectoress knew nothing about the topography of Yorkshire, but had heard of the Brontë novels.

“Wasn’t ‘Jane Eyre’ just a little—naughty? I fancy I have heard something of the kind.”

Our English cousins “farncy” quite as often as we “guess,” or “reckon,” or “presume,” and sometimes as incorrectly.

I waived the subject of Jane Eyre’s morals by a brief tribute to the author’s genius, and passed to Mrs. Gaskell’s description of the West Riding town, Haworth. Our hostess caught the word “Keighley.”

“I was in Keighley last year, at a wedding,” she interpolated. “It is near Haworth—did you say? And you have friends in Haworth?”

I explained.

“Ah!” politely. “I did not know Charlotte Brontë ever lived there. Her ‘Jane Eyre’ was a good deal talked about when I was a girl. She was English—did you say?”

Dropping the topic for that of certain local antiquities, I discussed these with my gentle neighbor until I happened to mention the name of an early Saxon king.

“The familiarity, of Americans with early English history quite astonishes me,” she remarked. “I cannot understand why they should be conversant with what concerns them so remotely.”

I suggested that their history was also ours until within a hundred years. That their great men in letters, statesmanship and war belonged to us up to that time as much as to the dwellers upon English soil, the two countries being under one and the same government.

The blue eyes were slightly hazy with bewilderment.

“A hundred years! I beg your pardon—but I fancied—I was surely under the impression that America was discovered more than a hundred years ago?”

“It was!” I hastened to say. “Every American child is taught to say—

‘In fourteen hundred, ninety-two,

Columbus crossed the ocean blue.’

But”—feeling that I touched upon delicate ground,—“we were provinces until 1776, when we became a separate government.”

I just avoided adding—“and independent.”

The little lady’s eyes cleared before a gleam that was more than the joy of discovery. It was, in a mild and decorous way, the rapture of creation. Her speech grew animated.

“1776! And last year was 1876! Pardon me! but perhaps you never thought—I would say—has it ever occurred to you that possibly that may have been the reason why your National Exposition was called ‘The Centennial’?”

Magnanimity and politeness are a powerful combination. By their aid, I said—“Very probably!” and sipped my tea as demurely as an Englishwoman could have done in the circumstances.

It is both diverting and exasperating to hear Englishmen sneer openly and coarsely at the attentions bestowed by American gentlemen upon the ladies under their care. Their dogged assumption—and disdainful as dogged—that this is an empty show exacted by us cannot be shaken by the fact of which they certainly are not ignorant,—to wit, that our countrymen are cowards in naught else. I will cite but one of the many illustrations that fell under my eye of their different policy toward the weaker sex. I had climbed the Ventnor Downs one afternoon by the help of my escort, and stood upon the brow of the highest hill, when we espied three English people, known to us by sight, approaching. The short grass was slippery, the direct ascent so steep that the last of the party, a handsome woman of fifty or thereabouts, was obliged, several times, to fall upon her hands and knees to keep from slipping backward. Her son, a robust Oxonian, led the way, cane in hand. Her hale, bluff husband came next, also grasping a stout staff. At the top they stopped to remark upon the beauty of the view and evening, thus giving time to the wife and mother to join them. She was very pale; the sweat streamed down her face; she caught her breath in convulsive gasps. Her attendants smiled good-humoredly.

“Pretty well blown—eh?” said her lord.

Her affectionate son—“Quite knocked-up, in fact!”

Yet these were gentlemen in blood and reputation.

I do not defend the ways and means by which the Travelling American makes his name, and, too often, that of his country a by-word and a hissing in the course of the European tour, which is, in his parlance, “just about the thing” for the opulent butcher, baker, and candlestick-maker, now-a-days. I do affirm that, judging him by the representative of the class corresponding to his in the Mother Country, he is no more blatant and objectionable to people of education and refinement than the Briton who is his fellow-traveller. In aptness and general intelligence he will assuredly bear off the palm. If the American of a higher grade be slow to abandon his provincial accent, and his wife her shrill, “clipping” speech; if what Bayard Taylor termed “the national catarrh” be obstinate in both,—the Englishman has his “aws” and “you knows,” and lumbering articulation; calls the garçon who cannot comprehend his order at the table d’hôte “a stupid ass,” in the hearing of all, declares the weather to be “nosty,” the wine “beastly,” and the soup “filthy,” while I have seen his wife bring her black-nosed pug to dinner with her, and feed him and herself with blanc mange from the same spoon.

We received much courtesy and many kindnesses from English people in their own country and upon the continent; formed friendships with some the memory of which must warm our hearts until they cease to beat. Their statesmen, their scholars, and their philanthropists have, as such, no equals in any clime or age. If we wince under censures we feel are unjust, and under sarcasms that cut the more keenly because edged with truth:—if, when they tell us we are “young,” we are disposed to retort that they are old enough to know and to do better, let us, in solemn remembrance of our kinship in blood and in faith, borrow, in thought, my friend’s advice, and “be merciful.”

CHAPTER XI.
Over the Channel.

I LAUGHED once on the route from Dover to Calais. The fact deserves to be jotted down as an “Incident of Travel.” For the boat was crowded, the wind brisk, and we had a “chopping sea” in the Channel. Words of woe upon which we need not expatiate to those who have lost sight of Shakspeare’s Cliff in like circumstances. The voyage was filled with disgust as Longfellow’s Night with music, and with untold misery to all of our party excepting Caput, to whom smooth and turbulent seas are as one. If he has a preference, it is for the latter. He led off in the laugh that extended even to the wretched creature I had known in calmer hours, as Myself.

An elderly lord was on board. A very loud lord as to voice. A mighty lord in rank and honors, if one might judge from the attentions of deck-stewards and some of the initiated passengers. A very big lord as to size. A very rich lord, if the evidence of furred mantles, and a staff of obsequious servants be admitted. A very pompous lord, whose stiffened cravat, beef-steak complexion and goggle-eyes reminded us of “Joey Bagstock, Tough Jo, J. B., sir!”

If, having sunk to the depths of suffering and degradation, we could have slid into a lower deep, it would have been by reason of that man’s struttings and vaporings and bullyings in our sight. He tramped the deck over and upon the feet of those who were too sick, or too much crowded to get out of his path,—courier and valet at his heels, one bearing a furled umbrella and a mackintosh in case it should rain, the other a second furred surtout should “my lord” grow chilly.

“Ill, sir! what do you mean, sir! I am never ill at sea!” he vociferated to the captain, who ventured a query and the offer of his own cabin should his lordship require the refuge.

“Pinafore” had not then been written, and the assertion went unchallenged.

“I have travelled thousands of miles by water, sir, and never known so much as a qualm of sea-sickness—not a qualm, sir! Do you take me for a woman, sir, or a fool?”

In his choler he was more like Bagstock than ever, as he continued his promenade, gurgling and puffing, goggling and wagging his head like an apoplectic china mandarin.

We were in mid-channel where there was a rush of master, servants, and officious deck-hands to the guards, that made the saddest sufferers raise their eyes. In a few minutes, the parting of the group of attendants showed the elderly lord, upon his feet, indeed, but staggering so wildly that the courier and a footman held him up between them while the valet settled his wig and replaced his hat. His complexion was ashes-of-violets, if there be such a tint,—his eyes were as devoid of speculation as those of a boiled fish. The steward picked up his gold-headed cane, but the flabby hands could not grasp it. The captain hastened forward.

“Very sorry, me lud, I’m sure, for the little accident. But it’s a nosty sea, this trip, me lud, as your ludship sees. An uncommon beastly sea! I hope your ludship is not suffering much?”

The British lion awoke in the great man’s bosom. The crimson of rage burned away the ashes. The eyes glared at the luckless official.

“Suffering, sir! Do you suppose I care for suffering? It is the dommed mortification of the thing!”

Then, as I have said, Caput laughed, and the sickest objects on board joined in feeble chorus.

Prima lifted her head from her father’s shoulder. “I am glad I came!” she said, faintly.

So was I—almost—for the scene lacked no element of grotesqueness nor of poetical retribution.

The long room in the Paris station (gare), where newly-arrived travellers await the examination of their luggage, is comfortless, winter and summer. It was never drearier than on one March morning, when, after a night-journey of fifteen hours, we stood, for the want of seats, upon the stone floor, swept by drifts of mist from the open doors, until our chattering teeth made very broken French of our petition to the officers to clear our trunks at their earliest convenience, and let us go somewhere to fire and breakfast. The inspection was the merest form, as we found it everywhere. Perhaps we looked honest (or poor), or our cheerful alacrity in surrendering our keys and entreating prompt attendance, may have had some share in purchasing immunity from the annoyances of search and confiscation complained of by many. One trunk was unlocked; the tray lifted and put back, without the disturbance of a single article; all the luggage received the mystic chalking that pronounced it innocuous to the French Republic; we entered a carriage and gave the order: “61 Avenue Friedland!”

Caput, to whom every quarter of the city and every incident of the Commune Reign of Terror were familiar, pointed out streets and squares, as we rode along, that gained a terrible notoriety through the events of that bloody and fiery era. I recollect leaning forward to look at one street—not a wide one—in which ten thousand dead had lain at one time behind the barricades. For the rest, I was ungratefully inattentive. Paris, in the gray of early morning, looked sleepy, respectable, and dismal. The mist soaked us to the bone; the drive was long; we had void stomachs and aching heads. Some day we might listen to and believe in the tale of her revolutions, her horrors and her glories. Now this was a physical, and therefore, a mental impossibility.

“At last!”

Almost in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, looming gigantic through the fog, the carriage stopped at a handsome house. A porter came out for our luggage, the concierge gave us into the care of a waiter.

“But yes, monsieur, the rooms were ready. Perfectly. And the fires. Perfectly—perfectly! Monsieur would find all as had been ordered.”

Up we went, two flights of polished stairs,—where never an atom of dust was allowed to settle—along one hall, across an ante-chamber, and the waiter threw back a door. A large chamber stood revealed, made lightsome by two windows; heartsome by a glowing fire of sea-coal. And set in front of the grate was a round table draped whitely, and bearing that ever-blessed sight to a fagged-out woman—a tea equipage. By the time I, as the family invalid, was divested of bonnet and mufflers, and laid in state upon the sofa at one side of the hearth, a tap at the door heralded the entrance of a smiling English housekeeper in a black dress and muslin cap with flowing lappets. She carried a tray; upon it were hissing tea-urn, bread and butter, and light biscuits.

“Miss Campbell hopes the ladies are not very much fatigued after their long journey, and that they will find themselves quite comfortable here.”

How comfortable we were then, and during all the weeks of our stay in Hôtel Campbell; how we learned to know and esteem, as she deserved, the true gentlewoman who presides with gracious dignity at her table, and makes of her house a genuine home for guests from foreign lands, I can only state here in brief. Neither heart nor conscience will let me pass over in silence the debt of gratitude and personal regard we owe her. I shall be only too happy should these lines be the means of directing other travelers to a house that combines, in a remarkable degree, elegance and comfort in a city whose hotels, boarding-houses, and “appartements” seldom possess both.

The March weather of Paris is execrable. Some portion of our disappointment at this may have been due to popular fictions respecting sunny France, and a city so fair that the nations come bending with awe and delight before her magnificence; where good Americans—of the upper tendom—wish to go when they die; the home of summer, butterflies, and Worth! To one who has heard, and, in a measure, credited all this, the fog that hides from him the grand houses across the particular Rue or Avenue in which he lodges, are more penetrating, the winds more bitter, the flint-dust they hurl into his eyes is sharper, the rain, sleet, and snow-flurries that pelt him to shelter more disagreeable—than London fog or Berlin gloom and dampness. There were whole days during which I sat, perforce, by my fire, or, if I ventured to the window to enjoy the prospect of sheets of rain, dropping a wavering curtain between me and the Rothschild mansion opposite, I must wrap my shawl about my shoulders, so “nipping and eager” was the air forcing its way between the joints of the casements.

But there were other days in which out-door existence was tolerable in a fiacre, jealously closed against the whirling dust. Where it all came from we could not tell. The streets of Paris are a miracle of cleanliness. Twice a day they are swept and washed, and the gutters run continually with clear, living water.

The wind was keen, the dust pervasive, the sky a bright, hard blue when we went, for the first time, to the tomb of Napoleon in the Hôtel des Invalides. The blasts held revel in the courtyard we traversed in order to gain the entrance. The sentinels at the gate halted in the lee of the lodges before turning in their rounds to face the dust-laden gusts. Once within the church a great peace fell upon us—sunshine and silence. It was high noon, and the light flowed through the cupola crowning the dome directly into the great circular crypt in the centre of the floor, filling—overflowing it with glory. We leaned upon the railing and looked down. Twenty feet below was the sarcophagus. It is a monolith of porphyry, twelve feet in length, six in breadth, with a projecting base of green granite. Around it, wrought into the tesselated marble pavement, is a mosaic wreath of laurel—glossy green. Between this and the sarcophagus one reads—“Austerlitz, Marengo, Jena, Rivoli,” and a long list of other battle-fields, also in brilliant mosaic. Without this circle, upon the balustrade fencing in the tomb, are twelve statues, representatives of as many victories. A cluster of fresh flowers lay upon the sarcophagus. And upon all, the sunshine, that seemed to strike into the polished red marble and bring out the reflection of hidden flame. It was a strange optical illusion, so powerful one had to struggle to banish the idea that the porphyry was translucent and the glow reddening the sides of the crypt such gleams as one sees in the heart of an opal—“the pearl with a soul in it.” It was easier to give the rein to fancy and think of a Rosicrucian lamp burning above the stilled heart of the entombed Emperor. The quiet of the magnificent burial-place is benignant, not oppressive. In noting the absence of the sentimental fripperies with which the French delight to adorn the tombs of the loved and illustrious dead we could not but hope that the grandeur of the subject wrought within the architect this pure and sublime conception of more than imperial state.

We followed the winding staircase from the right of the high altar,—above which flashes a wonderful golden crucifix—to the door of the crypt. Bertrand on one side, Duroc on the other, guard their sleeping master. “The bivouac of the dead!” The trite words are pregnant with dignity and with power when quoted upon that threshold. Over the doorway is a sentence in French, from Napoleon’s will:

“I desire that my ashes may repose on the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French people, whom I have so much loved.”[A]

The Communists tore down the bronze column in the Place Vendôme. The bas-reliefs, winding from bottom to top, were cast from cannon captured by Napoleon, and his statue surmounted the shaft. They battered the Tuileries, where he had lived, to a yawning ruin, and outraged the artistic sensibilities of the world by setting fire to the Louvre. But, neither paving-stone, nor bomb, nor torch, was flung into the awful circle where rests the hero, with his faithful generals at his feet.

Jerome Bonaparte, his brother’s inferior and puppet, is buried in a chapel at the left of the entrance of the Dôme. A bronze statue of him rests upon his sarcophagus. His eldest son—by his second marriage—is near him. A smaller tomb holds the heart of Jerome’s Queen. Joseph Bonaparte is interred in a chapel opposite, the great door being between the brothers.

We took the Place de la Concorde in our ride uptown. We did this whenever we could without making too long a détour. The Luxor obelisk, three thousand years old, is in the middle of the Square. A beautiful fountain plays upon each side of this, and the winds, having free course in the unsheltered Place, flung the waters madly about. Twelve hundred people were trampled to death here once. A discharge of fireworks in celebration of the marriage of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette caused a panic and a stampede among the horses attached to the vehicles blocking up the great square. They dashed into the dense mass of the populace, and in half-an-hour the disaster was complete. Sixteen years later there was another panic,—another rush of maddened brutes, that lasted eighteen months. Twenty-eight hundred souls were driven to bliss or woe in the hurly-burly—the devil’s dance of the eighteenth century. The bride and groom, whose nuptial festivities had caused the minor catastrophe, duly answered to their names at the calling of the death-roll. The most precious blood of the kingdom was flung to right and left as ruthlessly as the March winds now tore the spray of the fountains.

Nobody knows, they say, exactly where the guillotine stood;—only that it was near the obelisk and the bronze basins, where Tritons and nymphs bathe all day long. We were in the Place one evening when an angry sunset tinged the waters to a fearful red. Passers-by stopped to look at the phenomenon, until quite a crowd collected. A very quiet crowd for Parisians, but eyes sought other eyes meaningly, some in superstitious dread. While we reviewed, mentally, the list of the condemned brought hither in those two years, it would not have seemed strange had the dolphins vomited human blood into the vast pools.

“Monsieur will see the Colonne de Juillet?” said our coachman, who, as we gazed at the fountains on this day, had exchanged some words with a compatriot. “There has been an accident to” (or at) “the Colonne. Monsieur and mesdames will find it interesting, without doubt.” The wind was too sharp for bandying words. We jumped at the conclusion that the colossal Statue of Liberty, poised gingerly upon the gilt globe on the summit of the monument, had been blown down; bade him drive to the spot, and closed the window.

The Colonne de Juillet stands in the Place de la Bastille. No need to tell the story of the prison-fastness. The useless key hangs in the peaceful halls of Mount Vernon. The leveled stones are built into the Bridge de la Concorde. These “French” titles of squares, bridges, and streets, are sometimes apt, oftener fantastic, not infrequently horribly incongruous. The good Archbishop of Paris was shot upon the site of the old Bastille, in the revolution of 1848, pleading with both parties for the cessation of the fratricidal strife, and dying, like his Lord, with a prayer for his murderers upon his lips. Under the Column of July lie buried the victims of still another revolution—that of 1830,—with some who fell at the neighboring barricade, in 1848. One must carry a pocket record of wars and tumults, if he would keep the run of Parisian émeutes.

Our cocher’s information was correct. A throng gathered about the railed-in base of the column. But Liberty still tip-toed upon the gilded world, and the bronze shaft was intact.

“If Monsieur would like to get out”—said the driver at the door—“he can learn all about the accident. Le pauvre diable leaped—it is now less than an hour since.”

“Leaped!” Then the interesting accident was described. A man had jumped down from the top of the monument. They often did it.

We ought to have been shocked. But the absurdity of the misunderstanding, the man’s dramatic enjoyment of the situation, and his manner of communicating the news, rather tempted us to amusement.

“Was he killed?”

“Ah! without doubt, Madame! The colonne has one hundred and fifty-two feet of height. Perfectly killed, Monsieur!”

Impelled by a wicked spirit of perversity, or a more complex caprice, I offered another query:

“What do you suppose he thought of while falling?”

The fellow scanned my impassive face.

“Ah, Madame! of nothing! One never thinks at such a moment. Ma foi! why should he? He will be out of being—rien—in ten seconds. He has no more use for thought. Why think?”

We declined to inspect the stone on which the suicide’s head had struck. Indeed, assented our cocher, where was the use? The body had been removed immediately, and the pavement washed. The police would look to that. Monsieur would see only a wet spot. The wind would soon dry it. Ah! they were skilful (habile) in such accident at the monument. If a man were weary of life, there was no better place for him—and no noise made about it afterward.

“Somehow,” said Prima, presently, “I cannot feel that a Frenchman’s soul is as valuable as ours. They make so light of life and death, and as for Eternity, they resolve it into, as that man said—‘nothing.’”

“‘He giveth to all life and breath and all things, and hath made of one blood all nations of men,’” I quoted, gravely.

I would not admit, unless to myself, that the coachman’s talk of the wet spot upon the pavement and the significant gesture of blowing away a gas, or scent, that had accompanied his “Nothing,” brought to my imagination the figure of a broken phial of spirits of hartshorn—pungent, volatile—rien!

On another windy morning we made one of our favorite “Variety Excursions.” We had spent the previous day at the Louvre, and eyes and minds needed rest. I have seen people who could visit this mine of richest art for seven and eight consecutive days, without suffering from exhaustion or plethora. Three hours at a time insured for me a sleepless night, or dreams thronged with travesties of the beauty in which I had reveled in my waking hours. Instead then, of entering the Louvre on the second day, we checked the carriage on the opposite side of the street before the church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois.

Dionysius the Areopagite, converted by Paul’s sermon on Mars’ Hill, went on a mission to Paris, suffered death for his faith upon Montmartre—probably a corruption of Mons Martyrum,—and was interred upon the site of St. Germain l’Auxerrois. His tomb and chapel are there, in support of the legend. Another chapel is dedicated to “Notre Dame de la Compassion.” The name reads like a sorrowful satire. For we had not come thither out of respect for St Dionysius—alias St. Denis—nor to gaze upon frescoes and paintings—all fine of their kind,—nor to talk of the battle between Bourbons and populace in 1831, when upon the eleventh anniversary of the Duc de Berry’s assassination, as a memorial mass was in progress, the church was stormed by a mob—that canaille-deep that was ever boiling like a pot—the priests violently ejected, the friends of the deceased Duc forced to fly for their lives, and the old church itself closed against priests and worshippers for seven years. It was the royal parish church, for a long time. Catherine de Medicis must have attended it, being a good daughter of the Church. Hence there was especial propriety in her order that from the belfry of this sanctuary should be given the signal for the massacre of her dear son’s heretic subjects on St. Bartholomew’s Night, 1572. From a window in his palace of the Louvre, Charles fired as fast as his guards could load carbines, upon the flying crowds in the streets. In obedience to tradition, a certain window was, up to the beginning of this century, designated as that in which he was stationed on that occasion, and an inscription to this effect was engraved beneath it:

“C’est de cette fenêtre que l’infâme Charles 9 d’exécrable mémoire a tiré sur le peuple avec une carabine.”

“Upon the people!” It was not safe even in 1796 to write that the murdered were Huguenots and that they perished for that cause and none other. The cautious inscription was removed upon the belated discovery that the part of the palace containing this window was not built until the execrable Charles was in his grave. The balcony from which he “drew” upon all who did not wear the white badge of Romanism, was in the front of the palace where the deep boom of the bell must have jarred him to his feet, pealing from midnight to dawn. The government suffered no other knell to sound for the untimely taking-off of nearly one hundred thousand of the best citizens of France.

A modern steeple lifts a stately spire between the church-porch and the adjoining Mayor’s Court. The little old belfry is thrown into background and shadow, as if it sought to slink out of sight and history. We paused beneath it, within the church upon the very spot pressed by the ringer’s feet that awful night. The sacristan stared when we asked what had become of the bell, and why it had not been preserved as a historical relic.

“There is a carillon (chime) in the new steeple. Fine bells, large and musical. Unfortunately, they do not at present play.”

The ceiling of the church is disproportionately low; the windows, splendid with painted glass, light the interior inadequately, even in fine weather. As we paced the aisles the settling of the clouds without was marked by denser shades in the chapels and chancel, blotting out figures and colors in frescoes and paintings, and making ghostly the trio of sculptured angels about the cross rising above the holy-water basin—or bénitier. Fountains of holy-water at each corner of the Place would not be amiss.

The Parisian Panthéon has had a hard struggle for a name. First, it was the Church of Ste. Géneviève, the patron saint of Paris, erected soon after her martyrdom, A.D. 500. The present building, finished in 1790, bore the same title until in 1791, the Convention, in abolishing Religion at large, called it “the Panthéon” and dedicated it to “the great men of a grateful country.” This dedication, erased thirty years afterward, was in 1830, again set upon the façade, and remains there, malgré the decree of Church and State, giving back to it the original name.

Under the impression that Ste. Géneviève was buried in the chapel named for her and the church decorated with scenes from her life, I accosted a gentlemanly priest and asked permission on behalf of a namesake of the girl-saint to lay a rosary entrusted to me, upon her tomb. He heard me kindly, took the chaplet and proceeded to inform me that Ste. Géneviève was burned (brûlée), but that “we have here in her shrine, her hand, miraculously preserved, and her ashes.”

“That must do, I suppose,” said I, as deputy for American Géneviève. The chaplet was laid within the shrine, blessed, crossed and returned to me. I had no misgivings until our third visit to Paris, when, going into St. Étienne du Mont, situated also in the Place du Panthéon, I discovered that Ste. Géneviève had not been burned; had been buried, primarily, in the Panthéon, then removed to St. Étienne du Mont, and had now rested for a thousand years or so, in a tomb grated over to preserve it from being destroyed by the kisses and touches of the faithful. I bought another rosary; the priest undid a little door on the top of the grating, passed the beads through and rubbed them upon the sacred sarcophagus. Novices are liable to such errors and consequent discomfiture.

The Panthéon, imposing in architecture and gorgeous in adornment, assumed to us, through a series of disappointments, the character of a vast receiving-vault. The crypt is massive and spacious, supported by enormous pillars of masonry, and remarkable for a tremendous echo, whereby the clapping of the guide’s hands is magnified and multiplied into a prolonged and deafening cannonade, rolling and bursting through the dark vaults, as if all the sons of thunder once interred (but not staying) here were comparing experiences above their vacated tombs, and suiting actions to words in fighting their battles over again.

Mirabeau’s remains were taken from this crypt for re-interment in Père Lachaise. Marat—the Abimelech of the Jacobin fraternity—was torn from his tomb, tied up in a sack like offal, and thrown into a sewer. There is here a wooden sarcophagus, cheap and pretentious, inscribed with the name of Rousseau and the epitaph—“Here rests the man of Nature and of Truth.” The door is ajar—a hand and wrist thrust forth, upbear a flaming torch—an audacious conception, that startled us when we came unexpectedly upon it.

“A sputtering flambeau in this day and generation,” said Caput.

The guide, not understanding one English word, hastened to inform us that the tomb was empty.

“Where, then, is the body?”

A shrug. “Ah! monsieur, who knows?”

Another wooden structure, with a statue on top, is dedicated, “Aux manes de Voltaire.”

“Poet, historian, philosopher, he exalted the man of intellect and taught him that he should be free. He defended Calas, Sirven, De la Barre, and Montbailly; combated atheists and fanatics; he inspired toleration; he reclaimed the rights of man from servitude and feudalism.” Thus runs the epitaph.

“Empty, also!” said the guide, tapping the sarcophagus. “The body was removed by stealth and buried—who can say where?”

“Was anybody left here?”

“But yes, certainly, monsieur!” and we were showed the tombs—as yet unrifled—of Marshal Lannes, Lagrange, the mathematician, and Soufflot, the architect of the Panthéon; likewise, the vaults in which the Communists stored gunpowder for the purpose of blowing up the edifice. It was a military stronghold in 1848, and again in 1871, and but for the opportune dislodgment of the insurgents at the latter date the splendid pile would have followed the example of the noted dead who slumbered, for a time, beneath her dome—then departed—“who can tell where?”

The Hôtel and Museum de Cluny engaged our time for the rest of the forenoon. A visit to it is a “Variety Excursion” in itself. The hall, fifty feet high, and more than sixty in length, and paved with stone—headless trunks, unlidded sarcophagi, like dry and mouldy bath-tubs; broken marbles carved with pagan devices, and heaps of nameless débris lying about in what is, to the unlearned, meaningless disorder—was the frigidarium, or cold-water baths, belonging to the palace of the Roman Emperor Constantius Chlorus, built between A.D. 290 and 306. It was bleak with the piercing chilliness the rambler in Roman ruins and churches never forgets—which has its acme in the more than deathly cold of that ancient and stupendous refrigerator, St. John of Lateran, and never departs in the hottest noon-tide of burning summer from the frigidaria of Diocletian and Caracalla. But we lingered, shivering, to hear that the Apostate Julian was here proclaimed Emperor by his soldiers in 360, and to see his statue, gray and grim, near an altar of Jupiter, found under the church of Nôtre Dame. Wherever Rome set her foot in her day of power, she stamped hard. Centuries, nor French revolutions can sweep away the traces.

In less than three minutes the guide was pointing out part of Molière’s jaw-bone affixed to a corridor-wall in the Musée. This, directly adjoining the Roman palace, was a “branch establishment” of the celebrated Abbey of Cluny, in Burgundy; next, a royal palace, first occupied by the English widow of Louis XII., sister of Bluff King Hal. “La chambre de la Reine Blanche,” so called because the queens of France wore white for mourning—is now the receptacle of a great collection of musical instruments, numbered and dated. James V. of Scotland married Madeleine, daughter of Francis I., in this place. After the first Revolution, when kings’ houses were as if they had not been, Cluny became state property, and was bought by an archæologist, who converted it into a museum. There are now upward of nine thousand articles on the catalogue. The reader will thankfully excuse me from attempting a summary, but heed the remark that the collection is valuable and varied, and better worth visit and study than any other assortment of relics and ancient works of art we saw in France. The fascination it exerted upon us and others is doubtless, in part, referable to the character of the building in which the collection is stored. Palissy faïence, ivory carvings, rich with the slow, mellow dyes of centuries; enamels in copper, executed for Francis I.; Venetian glasses; old weapons; quaint and ornate tilings; tapestries, more costly than if woof and broidery were pure gold—are tenfold more ravishing when seen in the light from mullioned windows of the fifteenth century, and set in recesses whose carvings vie in beauty and antiquity with the objects enclosed by their walls. Gardens, deep with shade, mossy statues and broken fountains dimly visible in the alleys, great trees tangled and woven into a thick roof over walks and green sward—all curiously quiet in the heart of the restless city, seclude Thermæ and Hôtel in hushed and dusky grandeur.

The Rue St. Jacques, skirting the garden-wall on one side, was an old Roman road. By it we were transported, without too violent transition from the Past, into the Paris of To-Day.

CHAPTER XII.
Versailles—Expiatory Chapel—Père Lachaise.

THE guide-books say that the visitor to the palace of Versailles is admitted, should he desire it, to five different court-yards. We cared for but one—the cour d’honneur whose gates are crowned with groups emblematical of the victories of le grand Monarque.

It is an immense quadrangle, paved with rough stones, and flanked on three sides by the palace and wings. The central château, facing the entrance, was built by Louis XIII., the wings by Louis XIV. The prevailing color is a dull brick-red; the roofs are of different heights and styles; the effect of the whole far less grand, or even dignified, than we had anticipated. The pavilions to the right and left are lettered, “À toutes les gloires de la France.” Gigantic statues, beginning, on the right hand, with Bayard, “sans peur et sans reproche,” guard both sides of the court. In the centre is a colossal equestrian statue in bronze of Louis XIV., the be-wigged, be-curled, and be-laced darling of himself and a succession of venal courtezans. At the base of this statue we held converse, long and low, of certain things this quadrangle had witnessed when, through it, lay the way to the most luxurious and profligate court that has cursed earth and insulted Heaven since similar follies and crimes wrought the downfall of the Roman Empire. Of the throngs of base parasites that flocked thither in the days when Pompadour and Du Barry held insolent misrule over a weaker, yet more vicious sovereign than Louis XIV. Of the payment exacted for generations of such amazing excesses, when Parisian garrets and slums sent howling creditors by the thousand to settle accounts with Louis XVI. Vast as is the space shut in by palace-walls and folding gates, they filled it with ragged, bare-legged, red-capped demons. Upon the balcony up there, the king, also wearing the red cap, appeared at his good children’s call. Anything for peace and life! Upon the same balcony stood, the same day, his braver wife, between her babes, true royalty sustaining her to endure, without quailing, the volleys of contumely hurled at “the Austrian woman.” Having secured king, queen, and children as hostages for the payment of the national debt of vengeance, the complainants sacked the palace, made an end of its glory as a kingly residence, until Louis Philippe repaired ravages to the extent of his ability, and converted such of the state apartments as he adjudged unnecessary for court uses into an historical picture-gallery.

The history of the French nation—of its monarchs, generals, marshals, victories, coronations, and hundreds of lesser events—is there written upon canvas. Eyes and feet give out and the brain wearies before it is half read. The polished floors, inlaid with different-colored woods, smooth as glass, are torture to the burning soles; the aching in the back of the neck becomes agony. Yet one cannot leave the work unfinished, where every step is a surprise and each glance discovers fresh objects of interest.

“If only we had the moral courage not to look at the painted ceilings!” said Dux, meditatively; “or if it were en règle for a fellow to lie upon his back in order to inspect them!”

We were in the Gallery of Mirrors, two hundred and forty feet long; seventeen windows looking down upon gardens and park, upon fountains, groves, and lakelets; seventeen mirrors opposite these repeating the scenes framed by the casements.

“The ceiling by Lebrun represents scenes in the life of the Grand Monarch,” uttered the guide.

Hence the plaint, echoed groaningly by us all.

The chamber in which Louis XIV. died is furnished very much as it was when he lay breathing more and more faintly, hour after hour, within the big bed lifted by the dais from the floor, that, sleeping or dying, he might lie above the common walks of men. Communicating with the king’s bed-room is the celebrated Salle de l’œil de Bœuf, the ox-eyed window at one side giving the name. The courtiers awaited there each day the announcement that the king was awake and visible, beguiling the tedium of their long attendance by sharp trades in love, court, and state honors. It is a shabby-genteel little room, the hardness, glass and glare that distinguish palatial parlors from those in which sensible, comfort-loving people live, rubbed and tarnished by time and disuse. Filled with a moving throng in gala-apparel, this and the expanse of the royal bed-chamber may have been goodly to behold; untenanted, they are stiff and desolate.

The central balcony, opening from the great chamber—the balcony on which, forty-four years later, Marie Antoinette stood with her children—was, upon the death-night of the king, occupied by impatient officials—impatient, but no longer anxious, for the decease of their lord was certain and not far off. The hangings of the bed, cumbrous with gold embroidery, had been twisted back to give air to the expiring man. As the last sigh fluttered from his lips, the high chamberlain upon the balcony broke his white wand of office, shouting to the crowds in the court-yard, “Le roi est mort!” and, without taking breath, “Vive le roi!”

No incident in French history is more widely known. In talking of it in the bed-chamber and balcony, it was as if we heard it for the first time.

The “little apartments of the queen” were refreshment to our jaded senses and nerves. They are a succession of cozy nooks in a retired wing. Boudoirs, where were the soft lounges and low chairs, excluded by etiquette from the courtly salons; closets, fitted up with writing-desk, chair, and footstool; others, lined on all sides with books; still others, where the queen, whether it were Maria Lesczinski or Marie Antoinette, might sit, with a favorite maid of honor or two, at her embroidery. Through these apartments, all the “home” she had had in the palace, a terrified woman fled to gain a secret door of escape, while the marauders, the delegation from Paris, were yelling and raging for her blood in the corridors and state apartments.

If this row of snug resting and working rooms were the “Innermost” of her domestic life, the Petit Trianon was her play-ground. It is a pretty villa, not more than half as large as the Grand Trianon built for Madame de Maintenon by Louis XIV. Napoleon I. had a suite of small apartments in the Petit Trianon—study, salon, bath and dressing-rooms, and bed-chamber. They are furnished as he left them, even to the hard bed and round, uncompromising pillows. All are hung and upholstered with yellow satin brocade; the floors are polished and waxed, uncarpeted, save for a rug laid here and there. A door in the arras communicates with the Empress’ apartments. The villa was built by Louis XV. for the Du Barry, but interests us chiefly because of Marie Antoinette’s love for it. Her spinnet is in the salon where she received only personal and intimate friends. It is a common-looking affair, the case of inlaid woods ornamented with brass handles and corners. The keys are discolored—some of them silent; the others yielded discordant tinklings as we touched them with reverent fingers. Her work-table is in another room. Her bed is spread with an embroidered satin coverlet, once white. Her monogram and a crown were worked near the bottom. The stitches were cut out by revolutionary scissors, but their imprint remains, enabling one to trace clearly the design. In this room hang her portrait and that of her son, the lost Dauphin, a lovely little fellow, with large, dark-blue eyes like his mother’s, and chestnut hair, falling upon a wide lace collar. His coat is blue; a strap of livelier blue crosses his chest to meet a sword-belt; a star shines upon his left breast, and he carries a rapier jauntily under his arm. His countenance is sweet and ingenuous, but there is a shading of pensiveness or thought in the expression which is unchildlike. It was easy and pleasant to picture him running up and down the marble stairs, and filling the now uninhabited rooms with boyish talk and mirth. It was yet easier to reproduce in imagination the figures of mother and children in the avenues leading to the Swiss village, her favorite and latest toy.

This is quite out of sight of palace and villas. The intervening park was verdant and bright as with June suns, although the season was November, and the sere leaves were falling about us. A miniature lake and the islet in the middle, a circular marble temple upon the island, giving cover to a nude nymph or goddess, were there, when the light steps of royal mother and children skimmed along the path, she, in her shepherdess hat, laughing and jesting with attendants in sylvan dress. The day was very still with the placid melancholy that consists in our country with Indian summer. The smell of withering leaves hung in the air, spiciest in the sunny reaches of the winding road, almost too powerful in shaded glens, heaped with yellow and brown masses. We met but two people in our walk—an old peasant bent low under a bundle of faggots, and an older woman in a red cloak, who may have been a gypsy. The woods are well kept, the brushwood cut out, and the trees, the finest in the vicinity of Paris, carefully pruned of decaying boughs. We saw the village between their boles long before reaching the outermost building—a mill, with peakéd gables and antique chimneys, the hoary stones overgrown with ivy. We mounted the flight of steps leading, on the outside, to the second story; shook the door, in the hope that it might, through inadvertence, have been left unlocked. Hollow echoes from empty rooms answered. Bending over the balustrade, we looked down at the little water-wheel, warped by dryness; at the channel that once led supplies to it from the lake hard by. A close body of woods formed the background of the deserted house. In the water of the lake were reflected the gray and moss-green stones; barred windows; the clinging cloak of ivy; our own forms—the only moving objects in the picture. Louis XVI., amateur locksmith for his own pleasure, played miller here to gratify his wife’s whim, grinding tiny sacks of real corn, and taking pains to become more floury in an hour than a genuine miller would have made himself in six weeks, in order to give vraisemblance to the play enacted by the queen and her coterie. Around the bend of the pond lay the larger cottages which served as kitchen, dining, and ball-rooms. All are built of stone, with benches at the doors where peasants might rest at noon or evening; all are clothed with ivy; all closed and locked. We skirted the lake to get to the laiterie, or dairy. It is a one-storied cottage, with windows in the tiled roof. Long French casements and glazed doors allowed us to get a tolerable view of the interior. The floor, and the ledges running around the room, are marble or smooth stone. Within this building court-gallants churned the milk of the Swiss cows that grazed in the lakeside glades; maids of honor made curds and whey for the noonday dinner, and the leader of the frolic moulded rolls of butter with her beautiful hands, attired like a dairy-maid, and training her facile tongue to speak peasant patois. The industrious ivy climbs to the low-hanging eaves, and, drooping in long sprays that did not sway in the sleeping air, touched the busts of king and queen set upon tall pedestals, the one between the two windows in the side of the house, the other between the glass doors of the front gable. An observatory tower, with railed galleries encircling the first and third stories, is close to the laiterie.

Many sovereigns in France and elsewhere have had expensive playthings. Few have cost the possessors more dearly than did this Swiss hamlet.

Innocent as the pastimes of miller and dairymaid appear to us, the serious student of those times sees plainly that the comedy of happy lowly life was a burning, cankering insult to the apprehension of the starving people to whom the reality of peace and plenty in humble homes, was a tradition antedating the reign of the Great Louis. While their children died of famine, and men prayed vainly for work, the profligate court, to maintain whose pomp the poor man’s earnings were taxed, demeaned their queen and themselves in such senseless mummeries as beguiled Time of weight in the pleasure-grounds of the Petit Trianon.

The Place de la Concorde, from which Marie Antoinette waved farewell to the Tuileries—dearer to her in death than it had been in life—is the connecting link between the toy-village in the Versailles Park and the Expiatory Chapel, in what was formerly the Cemetery of the Madeleine in Paris. Leaving the bustling street, one enters through a lodge, a garden, cheerful in November, with roses and pansies. A broad walk connects the lodge and the tomb-like façade of the chapel. On the right and left of paved way and turf-borders are buried the Swiss Guard, over whose dead bodies the insurgents rushed to seize the queen in the Tuileries, when compromise and the mockery of royalty were at an end. The chapel is small, but handsome. On the right, half-way up its length, is a marble group, life-size, of the kneeling king, looking heavenward from the scaffold, in obedience to the gesture of an angel who addresses him in the last words of his confessor—“Son of St. Louis, ascend to Heaven!”

Opposite is an exquisite portrait-statue of the queen, her sinking figure supported by Religion. Anguish and resignation are blended in the beautiful face. Her regards, like those of the king, are directed upward. The features of Religion are Madame Elizabeth’s, the faithful sister of Louis, who perished by the guillotine May 12, 1794. Both groups are admirably wrought, and seen in the dim light of the stained windows, impressively life-like.

In the sub-chapel, gained by a winding stair, is an altar of black marble in a recess, marking the spot where the unfortunate pair were interred after their execution. The Madeleine was then unfinished, and in the orchard back of it the dishonored corpse of Louis, and, later, of his widow, were thrust into the ground with no show of respect or decency. The coffins were of plain boards; the severed heads were placed between the feet; quicklime was thrown in to hasten decomposition; the grave or pit was ten feet deep, and the soil carefully leveled. No pains were spared to efface from the face of the earth all traces of the victims of popular fury. But loving eyes noted the sacred place; kept watch above the mouldering remains until the nation turned to mourn over the slaughter wrought by their rage. Husband and wife were removed to the vaults of the Kings of France, at St. Denis, in 1817, by Louis Philippe. The consciences of himself and people fermented actively about that time, touching the erection of a monument expiatoire. The Place de la Concorde was re-christened “Place de Louis XVI.,” with the ulterior design of raising upon the site of his scaffold, obelisk or church, which should bear his name and be a token of his subjects’ contrition. To the like end, the king of the French proposed to change the Temple de la Gloire of Napoleon I.—otherwise the Madeleine—into an expiatory church, dedicated to the manes of Louis XVI., Louis XVII. (the little Dauphin), Marie Antoinette, and Madame Elizabeth, a hapless quartette whose memory needed rehabilitation at the hands of the reigning monarch and his loving subjects, if ever human remorse could atone for human suffering.

The Chapelle Expiatoire is the precipitate and settlement into crystallization of this mental and moral inquietude.

“No, madame!” said the custodian, in a burst of confidence. “We have not here the corpses of Louis XVI. and his queen. Their skeletons repose at St. Denis. But only their bones! For there are here”—touching the black marble altar—“the earth, the lime, the clothing that enclosed their bodies. And upon this spot was their deep, deep grave. People of true sensibility prefer to weep here rather than in the crypt of St. Denis!”

On the same day we saw St. Roch. Bonaparte planted his cannon upon the broad steps, October 3, 1795, and fired into the solid ranks of the advancing Royalists—insurgents now in their turn. The front of the church is scarred by the balls that returned the salute. The chief ornament of the interior is the three celebrated groups of statuary in the Chapelle du Calvaire. These—the Crucifixion, Christ on the Cross, and the Entombment—are marvelous in inception and execution. The small chapel enshrining them becomes holy ground even to the Protestant gazer. They moved us as statuary had never done before. Returning to them, once and again, from other parts of the church, to look silently upon the three stages in the Story that is above all others, we left them finally with lagging tread and many backward glances. At the same end of the church is the altar at which Marie Antoinette received her last communion, on the day of her death.

“Were they here, then?” we asked of the sacristan, pointing to the figures in the Chapelle du Calvaire.

“But certainly, Madame! They are the work, the most famous, of Michel Anguier, who died in 1686. The queen saw them, without doubt.”

While the bland weather lasted, we drove out to Père Lachaise, passing en route, the Prison de la Roquette, in which condemned prisoners are held until executed. The public place of execution is at its gates. This was a slaughter-pen during the Commune. The murdered citizens,—the Archbishop of Paris, and the curé of the Madeleine among them,—were thrown into the fosses communes of Père Lachaise. These common ditches, each capable of containing fifty coffins, are the last homes donated by the city of Paris to the poor who cannot buy graves for themselves. One is thankful to learn that the venerable Archbishop and his companions were soon granted worthier burial. Our cocher told us what may, or may not be true, that the last victim of the guillotine suffered here; likewise that one of the fatal machines is still kept within the walls ready for use.

For a mile—perhaps more—before reaching Père Lachaise, the streets are lined with shops for the exhibition and sale of flowers,—a few natural, many artificial,—wreaths of immortelles, yellow, white and black, and an incredible quantity of bugle and bead garlands, crosses, anchors, stars and other emblematic devices. Windows, open doors, shelves and pavement are piled with them. Plaster lambs and doves and cherubs, porcelain ditto; small glazed pictures of deceased saints, angels and other creatures; sorrowing women weeping over husbands’ death-beds, empty cradles and little graves,—all framed in gilt or black wood,—are among the merchandise offered to the grief-stricken. A few of the mottoes wrought into the immortelle and bead decorations will give a faint idea of the “Frenchiness” of the display.

“Hélas!” “À ma chère femme,” “Chère petite,” “Ah! mon amie,” “Bien-aimée,” “Chérie,” and every given Christian name known in the Gallic tongue.

The famous Cemetery, which contains nearly 20,000 monuments, great and small, is a curious spectacle to those who have hitherto seen only American and English burial-grounds. Père Lachaise is a city of the dead; not “God’s Acre,” or the garden in which precious seed have been committed to the dark, warm, sweet earth in hope of Spring-time and deathless bloom. The streets are badly paved and were so muddy when we were there, that we had to pick our steps warily in climbing the steep avenue beginning at the gates. Odd little constructions, like stone sentry-boxes, rise on both sides of the way. Most of these are surrounded by railings. All have grated doors, through which one can survey the closets within. Flagging floors, plain stone, or plastered walls and ceilings; low shelves or seats at the back, where the meditative mourner may sit to weep her loss, or kneel to pray for the belovéd soul,—these are the same in each. The monotony of the row is broken occasionally by a chapel, an enlarged and ornate edition of the sentry-box, or a monument resembling in form those we were used to see in other cemeteries. The avenues are rather shady in summer. At our November visit, the boughs were nearly bare, and rotting leaves, trampled in the mud of the thoroughfares, made the place more lugubrious. Really cheerful or beautiful it can never be. The flowers set in the narrow beds between tombs and curbings, scarcely alleviate the severely business-like aspect. Still less is this softened by the multitudinous bugled and beaded ornaments depending from the spikes of iron railings, cast upon sarcophagi, and the marble ledges within the gates. All Soul’s Day was not long past and we supposed this accounted for the superabundance of these offerings. We were informed subsequently that there are seldom fewer than we saw at this date. About and within one burial-closet—a family-tomb—we counted fifty-seven bugle wreaths of divers patterns, in all the hues of the rainbow, besides the conventional black-and-white. The parade of mortuary millinery, for a while absurd, became presently sickening, horribly tawdry and glistening. It was a relief to laugh heartily and naturally when we saw a child pick up a garland of shiny purple beads, and set it rakishly upon the bust of Joseph Fourier, the inclination of the decoration over the left eyebrow making him seem to wink waggishly at us, in thorough enjoyment of the situation.

We wanted to be thoughtful and respectful in presence of the dead, but the achievement required an effort which was but lamely successful. Dispirited we did become, by and by, and fatigued with trampling up steep lanes and cross-alleys. Carriages cannot enter the grounds, and even a partial exploration of them is a weariness. We drooped like the weeping-willow set beside Alfred de Musset’s tomb, before we reached it. An attenuated and obstinately disconsolate weeper is the tree planted in obedience to his request:—

“Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai,

Plantez un saule au cimetière;

J’aime son feuillage éploré,

La pâleur m’en est douce et chère;

Et son ombre sera légère,

À la terre où je dormirai.”

The conditions of the sylvan sentinel whose sprays caressed his bust, were, when we beheld it, comically “according to order.” There were not more than six branches upon the tree, a few sickly leaves hanging to each. At its best the foliage must have been “pale” and the shade exceedingly “light.”

The Gothic chapel roofing in the sarcophagus of Abelard and Heloïse, was built of stones from the convent of Paraclet, of which Heloïse was, for nearly half a century, Lady Superior. From this retreat she addressed to her monkish lover letters that might have drawn tears of blood from the heart of a flint; which impelled Abelard to the composition of quires of homilies upon the proper management of the nuns in her charge, including by-laws for conventual housewifery. Under the pointed arches the mediæval lovers rest, side by side, although they were divided in death by the lapse of twenty-two years. Sarcophagus and effigies are very old, having been long kept among the choice antiquities of a Parisian museum and placed in Père Lachaise by the order of Louis Philippe. The monument was originally set up in the Abbey of Heloïse near the provincial town of Nogent-sur-Seine, where the rifled vault is still shown. Prior and abbess slumbered there for almost seven centuries. Their statues are of an old man and old woman, vestiges of former beauty in the chiseled features; more strongly drawn lines of thought and character in brow, lip, and chin. They wear their conventual robes.

Peripatetic skeletons and ashes are à la mode in this polite country. The “manes,” poets and epitaphs are so fond of apostrophizing, should have lively wits and faithful memories if they would keep the run of their mortal parts.

Marshal Ney has neither sentry-box, nor chapel, nor memorial-tablet. His grave is within a square plat, railed in by an iron fence. The turf is fresh above him, and late autumn roses, lush and sweet, were blooming around. The ivy, which grows as freely in France as brambles and bind-weed with us, made a close, green wall of the railing. We plucked a leaf, as a souvenir. It is twice as large as our ivy-leaves, shaded richly with bronze and purple, and whitely veined, and there were hundreds as fine upon the vine.

One path is known as that of the “artistes,” and is much frequented. Upon Talma’s head-stone is carved a tragic mask. Music weeps over the bust of Bellini and beside Chopin’s grave, and, in bas-relief, crowns the sculptured head of Cherubini. Bernardin de St. Pierre lies near Boïeldieu, the operatic composer. Denon, Napoleon’s companion in Egypt, and general director of museums under the Empire, sits in bronze, dark and calm as a dead Pharaoh, in the neighborhood of Madame Blanchard, the aëronaut, who perished in her last ascent. There was a picture of the disaster in Parley’s Magazine, forty years ago. I remembered it—line for line, the bursting flame and smoke, the falling figure—at sight of the inscription setting forth her title to artistic distinction. Upon another avenue lie La Fontaine, Molière,—(another itinerant, re-interred here in 1817,) Laplace, the astronomer, and Manuel Garcia, the gifted father of a more gifted daughter,—Malibran. “Around the corner,” we stumbled, as it were, upon the tomb of Madame de Genlis.

Rachel sleeps apart from Gentile dust in the Jewish quarter of Père Lachaise. Beside the bare stone closet above her vault is a bush of laurestinus, with glossy green leaves. The floor inside was literally heaped with visiting-cards, usually folded down at one corner to signify that he or she, paying the compliment of a post-mortem morning-call, deposited the bit of pasteboard in person. There was at least a half bushel of these touching tributes to dead-and-gone genius. No flowers, natural or false, no immortelles—no bugle wreaths! Only visiting-cards, many engraved with coronets and other heraldic signs, tremendously imposing to simple Republicans. We examined fifty or sixty, returning them to the closet, with scrupulous care, after inspection. Some admirers had added to name and address, a complimentary or regretful phrase that would have titillated the insatiate vanity of the deceased, could she have read it,—wounded to her death as she had been by the success of her rival Ristori. Her votaries may have had this reminiscence of her last days in mind, and a shadowy idea that her “manes,” in hovering about her grave, would be cognizant of their compassionate courtesies.

Most of the offerings were from what we never got out of the habit of styling “foreigners.” There were a few snobbish-looking English cards,—one with a sentence, considerately scribbled in French—“Mille et mille compliments.” So far as our inspection went, there was not one that bore an American address. Nor did we leave ours as exceptions to this deficiency in National appreciation of genius and artistic power—or National paucity of sentimentality.

CHAPTER XIII.
Southward-Bound.

“DO NOT go to Rome!” friends at home had implored by letter and word of mouth, prior to our sailing from the other side. English acquaintances and friends caught up the cry. In Paris, it swelled into impassioned adjuration, reiterated in so many forms, and at times so numerous and unseasonable that we nervously avoided the remotest allusion to the Eternal City in word. But sleeping and waking thoughts were tormented by mental repetitions that might, or might not be the whispers of guardian angels.

“Do not go to Rome! Do not thou or you go to Rome! Do not ye or you go to Rome!”

Thus ran the changes in the burden of admonition and thought. Especially, “Do not ye or you go to Rome!”

“Go, if you are bent upon it, me dear!” said a kind English lady. “Your husband is robust, and it may be as you and he believe, that your health requires a mild and sedative climate. But do not take your dear daughters. The air of Rome is deadly to young English and American girls. Quite a blight, I assure you!”

Said one of our Paris bankers to Caput:—“I can have no conceivable interest in trying to turn you aside from your projected route, but it is my duty in the cause of common humanity to warn you that you are running into the jaws of danger in taking your family to Rome. We have advices to-day that the corpses of thirteen Americans, most of them women and children,—all dead within the week—are now lying at Maquay and Hooker’s in Rome awaiting transportation to America.”

This was appalling. But matters waxed serious in Paris, too. Indian Summer over, it began to rain. In Scriptural phrase,—“Neither sun nor stars in many days appeared, and no small tempest”—of mist, sleet and showers—“lay upon us.” Deprived of what was my very life—(what little of it remained,) daily exercise in the open air, the cough, insomnia and other terrors that had driven us into exile, increased upon me rapidly and alarmingly. Weakening day by day, it was each morning more difficult to rise and look despairingly from my windows upon the watery heavens and flooded streets. Sunshine and soft airs were abroad somewhere upon the earth. Find them we must before it should be useless to seek them. The leader of the household brigade ordered a movement along the whole line. Like a brood of swallows, we fled southward. “Certainly to Florence. Probably to Rome. Should the skies there prove as ungenial as those of France,—as a last and forlorn hope—to Algiers.” Such were the terms of command.

We arrived in Florence, the Beautiful, at ten o’clock of a December night. The facchini and cocchieri at the station stared wildly when we addressed them in French, became frantic under the volley of Latin Caput hurled upon them, in the mistaken idea that they would understand their ancestral tongue. Italian was, as yet, an unknown realm to us, and our ignominious refuge was in the universal language of signs. Porters and coachmen were quick in interpretation, much of their intercourse with their fellow-countrymen being carried on in like manner. The luggage was identified, piece by piece, and fastened upon the carriages. The human freight was bestowed within, and as Prima dropped upon the seat beside me, she lifted her hand in a vow:

“I begin the study of Italian to-morrow!”

It was raining steadily, the streets were ill-lighted, the pavements wretched; and when a slow drive through tortuous ways brought us to our desired haven, the house was so full that comfortable accommodations for so large a party could not be procured. The proprietor kindly and courteously directed us to a neighboring hotel, which he could conscientiously recommend, and sent an English-speaking waiter—a handsome, quick-witted fellow—to escort us thither and “see that we were not cheated.”

“Babes in the woods—nothing more!” grumbled the high-spirited young woman at my elbow.

She was the mistress of a dozen telling Italian words before she slept. Our bed-rooms and adjoining salon were spacious, gloomy, and cheerless to a degree unknown out of Italy. The hotel had been a palace in the olden times, after the manner of three-fourths of the Italian houses of entertainment. Walls and floor were of stone, the chill of the latter striking through the carpets into our feet My chamber, the largest in the suite, contained two bier-like beds set against the far wall, bureau, dressing-table, wash-stand, six heavy chairs, and a sofa, and, between these, a desolate moor of bare carpeting before one could gain the hearth. This was a full brick in width, bounded in front by a strip of rug hardly wider—at the back by a triangular hole in the wall, in which a chambermaid proceeded, upon our entrance, to build a wood fire. First, a ball of resined shavings was laid upon the bricks; then, a handful of dried twigs; then, small round sticks; then, diminutive logs, split and seasoned, and we had a crackling, fizzing, conceited blaze that swept all the heat with it up the chimney. The Invaluable’s spirit-lamp upon the side-table had more cheer in it. If set down upon the pyramid of Cheops, and told we were to camp there overnight, this feminine Mark Tapley would, in half-an-hour, have made herself and the rest of us at home; got up “a nice tea;” put Boy to bed and sat down beside him, knitting in hand, as composedly as in our nursery over the sea.

Her “comfortable cup of tea” was ready by the time our supper was brought up—a good supper, hot, and served with praiseworthy alacrity. We ate it, and drank our tea, and looked at the fire, conscious that we ought also to feel it, it was such a brisk, fussy little conflagration. Landlord and servants were solicitous and attentive; hot-water bottles were tucked in at the foot of each frozen bed, and we sought our pillows in tolerable spirits.

Mine were at ebb-tide again next morning, as, lying upon the sofa, mummied in shawls, a duvet, covered with satinet and filled with down, on the top of the heap, yet cold under them all, my eyes wandered from the impertinent little fire that did not thaw the air twelve inches beyond the hearth, to the windows so clouded with rain I could hardly see the grim palace opposite, and I wondered why I was there. Was the game worth the expensive candle? Why had I not stayed at home and died like a Christian woman upon a spring-mattress, swathed in thick blankets, environed by friends and all the appliances conducive to euthanasia? I had begged the others to go out on a tour of business and sight-seeing. I should be quite comfortable with my books, and the thought of loneliness was preposterous. Was I not in Florence? Knowing this, it would be a delight to lie still and dream. In truth, I was thoroughly miserable, yet would have died sooner than confess it. I did not touch one of the books laid upon the table beside me, because, I said to my moody self, it was too cold and I too languid to put my hand out from the load of wraps.

There was a tap at the door. It unclosed and shut again softly. An angel glided over the Siberian desert of carpet—before I could exclaim, bent down and kissed me.

“Oh!” I sighed, in hysterical rapture. “I did not know you were in Italy!”

She was staying in the hotel at which we had applied for rooms the night before, and the handsome interpreter, Carlo, had reported our arrival to the Americans in the house.

Shall I be more glad to meet her in heaven than I was on that day to look upon the sweet, womanly face, and hear the cooing voice, whose American intonations touched my heart to melting? She sat with me all the forenoon, the room growing warmer each hour. Her party—also a family one—had now been abroad more than a year. The invalid brother, her especial charge, was wonderfully better for the travel and change of climate. He was far more ill than I when they left home. Of course I would get well! Why not, with such tender nurses and the dear Lord’s blessing? No! it did not “rain always in Florence;” but the rainy season had now set in, and “Frederic and I are going to Rome next week.” I question if she ever named herself, even in thought or prayer, without the prefix of “Frederic.”

“To Rome!” cried I, eagerly. “Dare you!”

My story of longing, discouragement, dreads—that had darkened into superstitious presentiments—followed. The day went smoothly enough after the confession, and the reassurances that it elicited. We secured smaller and brighter bed-rooms, and almost warmed them by ruinously dear fires, devouring as they did basketful after basketful of the Lilliputian logs. It was the business of one facchino to feed the holes in the walls of the three rooms we inhabited in the day-time. Other friends called—cordial and lavish of kind offices and offers as are compatriots when met upon foreign soil. One family—old, old friends of Caput—had, although now resident in Florence, lived for a year in Rome, and laughed to scorn our fears of the climate. They rendered us yet more essential service in suggestions as to clothing, apartments, and general habits of life in Central Italy. To the adoption of these we were, I believe, greatly indebted for the unbroken health which was our portion as a household during our winter in the dear old city.

We were in Florence ten days. Nine were repetitions, “to be continued,” of such weather as we had left in Paris. One was so deliciously lovely that, had not the next proved stormy, we should have postponed our departure. We made the most of the sunshine, taking a carriage, morning and afternoon, for drives in the outskirts of the town and in the suburbs, which must have given her the name of bella. The city proper is undeniably and irremediably ugly. The streets are crooked lanes, in which the meeting of two carriages drives foot-passengers literally to the wall. There are no sidewalks other than the few rows of cobble-stones slanting down from the houses to the gutter separating them from the middle of the thoroughfare. The far-famed palaces are usually built around courtyards, and present to the street walls sternly blank, or frowning with grated windows. If, at long intervals, one has snatches through a gateway of fountains and conservatories, they make the more tedious block after block of lofty edifices that shut out light from the thread-like street—shed chill with darkness into these dismal wells. This is the old city in its winter aspect. Wider and handsome streets border the Arno—a sluggish, turbid creek—and the modern quarters are laid out generously in boulevards and squares. We modified our opinions materially the following year, when weather and physical state were more propitious to favorable judgment. Now, we were impatient to be gone, intolerant of the praises chanted and written of Firenze in so many ages and tongues. The happiest moment of our stay within her gates was when we shook off so much of her mud as the action could dislodge from our feet and seated ourselves in a railway carriage for Rome.

It was a long day’s travel, but the most entrancing we had as yet known. Vallambrosa, Arezzo (the ancient Arretium), Cortona; Lake Thrasymene! The names leaped up at us from the pages of our guide-books. The places for which they stood lay to the right and left of the prosaic railway, like scenes in a phantasmagoria. We had, as was our custom when it could be compassed by fee or argument, secured a compartment to ourselves. There were no critics to sneer, or marvel at our raptures and quotations. Boy, ætat four, whose preparation for the foreign tour had been readings, recitations, and songs from “Lays of Ancient Rome,” in lieu of Mother Goose and Baby’s Opera, and whose personal hand-luggage consisted of a very dog-eared copy of the work, illustrated by stiff engravings from bas-reliefs upon coins and stones—bore a distinguished part in our talk. He would see “purple Apennine,” and was disgusted at the commonplace roofs of Cortona that no longer

“Lifts to heaven

Her diadem of towers.”

At mention of the famous lake, he scrambled down from his seat; made a rush for the window.

“Papa! is that ‘reedy Thrasymene?’ Where is ‘dark Verbenna?’”

As a reward for remembering his lesson so well, he was lifted to the paternal knee, and while the train slowly wound along the upper end of the lake, heard the story of the battle between Hannibal and Flaminius, upon the weedy banks, B. C. 217; saw the defile in which the brave consul was entrapped; where, for hours, the slaughter of the snared and helpless troops went on, until the little river we presently crossed was foul with running blood. It is Sanguinetto to this day.

The vapors of morning were lazily curling up from the lake; dark woods crowd down to the edge on one side; hills dressed in gray olive orchards border another; a bold promontory on the west is capped by an ancient tower. A monastery occupies one of the three islands that dot the surface. A light film, like the breath upon a mirror, veiled the intense blue of the sky—darkened the waters into slaty purple.

A dense fog filled the basin between the hills on the May-day when Rome’s best consul and general marched into it and to his death.

On we swept, past Perugia, capital of old Umbria, one of the twelve chiefest Etruscan cities; overcome and subjugated by the Roman power B. C. 310. It was a battle-field while Antony and Octavius contended for the mastership of Rome; was devastated by Goth, Ghibelline and Guelph; captured successively by Savoyard, Austrian, and Piedmontese. It is better known to this age than by all these events as the home of Perugino, the master of Raphael, and father of the new departure from the ancient school of painting. The view became, each moment, more novel because more Italian. The roads were scantily shaded by pollarded trees—mostly mulberry—from whose branches depended long festoons of vines, linking them together, without a break, for miles. Farms were separated by the same graceful lines of demarcation. Other fences were rare. We did not see “a piece of bad road,” or a mud-hole, in Italy. The road and bridge-builders of the world bequeathed to their posterity one legacy that has never worn out, which bids fair to last while the globe swings through space. As far as the eye could reach along the many country highways we crossed that day, the broad, smooth sweep commanded our wondering admiration. The grade from crown to sides is so nicely calculated that rain-water neither gathers in pools in the road, nor gullies the bed in running off. Vehicles are not compelled, by barbarous “turnpiking,” to keep the middle of the track, thus cutting deep ruts other wheels must follow. It is unusual, in driving, to strike a pebble as large as an egg.

The travellers upon these millennial thoroughfares were not numerous. Peasants on foot drove herds of queer black swine, small and gaunt, in comparison with our obese porkers—vicious-looking creatures, with pointed snouts and long legs. Women, returning from or going to market, had baskets of green stuff strapped upon their backs, and often children in their arms; bare-legged men in conical hats and sheepskin coats, trudged through clouds of white dust, raised by clumsy carts, to which were attached the cream-colored oxen of the Campagna. Great, patient beasts they are, the handsomest of their race, with incredibly long horns symmetrically fashioned and curved. These horns are sold everywhere in Italy as a charm against “the evil eye”—the dread of all classes.

About the middle of the afternoon we descended into the valley of the Tiber—the cleft peak of Soracte (Horace’s Soracte!) visible from afar like a rent cloud. We crossed a bridge built by Augustus; halted for a minute at the Sabine town that gave Numa Pompilius to Rome; watched, with increasing delight, the Sabine and Alban Mountains grow into shape and distinctness; gazed oftenest and longest—as who does not?—at the Dome, faint, for a while, as a bubble blown into the haze of the horizon—more strongly and nobly defined as we neared our goal; crossed the Anio, upon which Romulus and Remus had been set adrift; made a wide détour that, apparently, took us away from, not toward the city, and showed us the long reaches of the aqueducts, black and high, “striding across the Campagna,” in the settling mists of evening. Then ensued an odd jumble of ruins and modern, unfinished buildings, an alternation, as incongruous, of strait and spacious streets, and we steamed slowly into the station. It is near the Baths of Diocletian, and looks like a very audacious interloper by daylight.

It was dusk when our effects were collected, and they and ourselves jolting over miserable pavements toward our hotel in the guardianship of a friend who had kindly met us at the station. By the time we had reached the quarters he had engaged for us; had waited some minutes in a reception-room in the rez-de-chaussée that felt and smelt like a newly-dug grave; had ascended two flights of obdurate stone stairs, cruelly mortifying to feet cramped and tender with long sitting and the hot-water footstools of the railway carriage; had sat for half an hour, shawled and hatted, in chambers more raw and earthy of odor than had been the waiting-room, watching the contest betwixt flame and smoke in the disused chimneys, we discovered and admitted that we were tired to death. Furthermore, that the sensation of wishing oneself really and comfortably deceased, upon attaining this degree of physical depression, is the same in a city almost thirty centuries old, and in a hunter’s camp in the Adirondacks. Even Caput looked vexed, and wondered audibly and repeatedly why fires were not ready in rooms that were positively engaged and ordered to be made comfortable twenty-four hours ago; and the Invaluable, depositing Boy, swathed in railway rugs, upon one of the high, single beds, lest his feet should freeze upon “the murdersome cold floors,” “guessed these Eyetalians aren’t much, if any of fire-makers.” Thereupon, she went down upon her knees to coax into being the smothering blaze, dying upon a cold hearth under unskilfully-laid fuel. The carpet in the salon we had likewise bespoken was not put down until the afternoon of the following day. The fires in all the bed-rooms smoked. By eight o’clock we extinguished the last spark and went to bed. In time, we took these dampers and reactions as a part of a hard day’s work; gained faith in our ability to live until next morning. Being unseasoned at this period, the first night in Rome was torture while we endured it, humiliating in the retrospect.

It rained from dawn to sundown of the next day. Not with melancholy persistency, as in Florence, as if the weather were put out by contract and time no object, but in passionate, fitful showers, making rivers of the streets, separated by intervals of sobbing and moaning winds and angry spits of rain-drops. We stayed in-doors, and, under compulsion, rested. The fires burned better as the chimneys warmed to their work; we unpacked a trunk or two; wrote letters and watched, amused and curious, the proceedings of two men and two women who took eight hours to stretch and tack down the carpet in our salon. Each time one of us peeped, or sauntered in to note and report progress, all four of the work-people intermitted their ceaseless jargon to nod and smile, and say “Domane!” Young travelled in Italy before he wrote “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!”

Our morrow was brilliantly clear, and freshness like the dewy breath of early Spring was in the air. Our first visit was, of course, to our bankers, and while Caput went in to inquire for letters (and to learn, I may add, that the story of the thirteen American corpses was unsupported by the presence, then or during the entire season, of a single one), we lay back among the carriage-cushions, feeling that we drank in the sunshine at every pore—enjoying as children or Italians might the various and delightful features of the scene.

The sunlight—clarified of all vaporous grossness by the departed tempest—in color, the purest amber; in touch and play beneficent as fairy balm, was everywhere. Upon the worn stones paving the Piazza di Spagna, and upon the Bernini fountain (one of them), the Barcaccia, at the foot of the Spanish Steps,—a boat, commemorating the mimic naval battles held here by Domitian, when the Piazza was a theatre enclosing an artificial lake. Upon beggars lolling along the tawny-gray Steps, and contadini—boys, women, and girls—in fantastic costume, attitudinizing to catch the eye of a chance artist. Upon the column, with the Virgin’s statue on top, Moses, Isaiah, Ezekiel, and David at the base, rusty tears, from unsuspected iron veins, oozing out of the sides,—decreed by Pius IX. in honor of his pet dogma of the Immaculate Conception. Upon the big, dingy College of the Propaganda, founded in 1622, Barberini bees in bas-relief conspicuous among the architectural ornaments. More of Bernini’s work. Urban VIII., his patron, being a Barberini. Upon the Trinita di Monti at the top of the Spanish Staircase, where the nuns sing like imprisoned canaries—as sweetly and as monotonously—on Sabbath afternoons, and all the world goes to hear them. Upon the glittering windows of shops and hotels fronting the Piazza—the centre of English and American colonies in Rome. Upon the white teeth and brown faces of boys—some beautiful as cherubs—who held up great trays of violets for us to buy, and wedded forever our memories of the Piazza and this morning with violet scent. Upon the wrinkles and rags of old women—some hideous as hags—who piped entreaties that we would “per l’amore di Dio” make a selection from their stock of Venetian beads, Naples lava trinkets, and Sorrento wood-work. Upon the portly figure and bland countenance of Mr. Hooker, coming out to welcome us to the city which has given him a home for thirty years, and which he has made home-like to so many of his country-people. Lastly, and to our fancy most brightly, upon the faces of my Florence angel of mercy and her family party, alighting from their carriage at the door of the bank, and hurrying up to exchange greetings with us.

This was our real coming to Rome! Not the damp and despondency of the thirty-six hours lying just behind us; dreariness and doubts never renewed in the five fleet-footed months during which we lingered and lived within her storied gates.

CHAPTER XIV.
Pope, King, and Forum.

I WAS sorry to leave the hotel, the name of which I withhold for reasons that will be obvious presently. Not that it was in itself a pleasant caravansary, although eminently respectable, and much affected by Americans and English. Not that the rooms were ever warm, although we wasted our substance in fire-building; or that the one dish of meat at luncheon, or the principal dessert at dinner, always “went around.” We had hired a commodious and sunny “appartamento” of seven well-furnished rooms in Via San Sebastiano—a section of the Piazza di Spagna—and were anxious to begin housekeeping.

I did regret to leave, with the probability of never seeing her again—a choice specimen of the Viatrix Americana, a veritable unique, whose seat was next mine at luncheon and dinner. Our friendship began through my declaration, at her earnest adjuration, of my belief that the “kick-shaws,” as she called them, offered for our consumption were harmless and passably digestible by the Yankee stomach. She was half-starved, poor thing! and after this I cheerfully fulfilled the office of taster, drawing my salary twice per diem in the liberal entertainment of her converse with me. She had been three-quarters of the way around the world, with her husband as banker and escort; was great upon Egyptian donkeys and the domestic entomology of Syria, and could not lisp one word of any dialect excepting that of her native “Vairmount” and of her adopted State, which we will name—Iowa.

“You sight-see so slow!” was her unintentional alliteration, on the fifth day of our acquaintanceship. “Aint bin to see a church yet, hev you?”

I answered, timidly, that I was waiting to grow stronger. “The churches are so cold in Winter that I shall probably put off that part of my sight-seeing until Spring.”

“Good gracious! Be you goin’ to spend the winter here?”

“That is our hope, at present.”

“You’ll be bored to death! You wont see You-rope in ten year, if you take it so easy. We calkerlate to do up Rome under a fortnight. We’ve jest finished up the churches. On an averidge of thirty-five a day! But we hed to work lively. Now we’re at the villers. One on ’em you must see—sick or well. ’Taint so very much of it upstairs. The beautifullest furnitur’ I ever see. Gildin’ and tay-pistry, and velvet and picters and freskies, common as dirt, as you may say. The gardings a sight to behold. You make your husband take you! Set your foot down, for oncet!”

“What villa—did you say?”

“The Land! I don’t bother with the outlandish names. But you’ll find it easy. Napoleon Boneypart did somethin’ or ’nother ther oncet. Or, his son, or nephey, or some of the family. Any way, I do know I never see sech winder-curtains anywhere. Thick as a board! Solid satin. No linin’s, for I fingered ’em and took a peek at the wrong side to be positive. We wound up the churches by goin’ to see the tomb the Pope’s been a buildin’ of for himself. A kind o’ square pit, or cellar right in the middle of the church of What’s-his-name?”

“Santa Maria Maggiore?”

“That’s the feller! You go down by two flights of stun steps. One onto each side of the cellar. Its all open on top, you understand, on a level with the church-floor, and jest veneered with marble. Every color you can think of. Floor jest the same. Old Pope Griggory, he aint buried yet. Lies ’bove-ground, in a red marble box. He can’t be buried for good ’tell Pious, he dies. And he must hev the same spell o’ waitin’ for the next one. Ther’ must be two popes on the top of the yearth at the same time. One live and one dead. Thinks-I, when I looked inter the cryp’—as they call it—jest a-blazin’ and a-dazzlin’ with red, blue, green and yellow, and polished like a new table-knife blade.—If this aint vanity and vexation! I’d ruther hev our fam’ly lot in the buryin’ groun’ to Meekinses Four Corners—(a real nice lot it is! With only one stun’ as yet. ‘To my daughter Almiry Jane, Agéd six months and six days,’) where I could be tucked up, like a lady, safe and snug. Oncet for all and no bones about it!”

On the tenth and last day of our sojourn at the hotel, she went to see the Pope.

“May I come inter your sittin’-room?” was her petition at evening. “I am fairly bustin’ to tell you all about it. And if we go inter the public parler, them Englishers will be makin’ fun behind my back. For, you see, ther’s considerable actin’ to be done to tell it jest right.”

I took her into our salon, established her in an arm-chair, and was attentive. I had seen her in her best black silk with the regulation black lace shawl, which generally does duty as a veil, pinned to her scanty hair. Ladies attending the Pope’s levees must dress in black, without bonnets, the head being covered by a black veil. When thus attired, my acquaintance had wound and hung at least half a peck of rosaries upon her arms, “to have ’em handy for the old cretur’s blessin’.” I was now to hear how her husband had hired at the costumer’s the dress-coat prescribed for gentlemen.

“Come down to his heels, if you’ll believe me! He bein’ a spare man, and by no manner of means tall. Sleeves a mile too long. Collar over his ears. A slice of his bald head showed atop of it like a new moon!”

She stopped to laugh, we all joining in heartily.

“Mr. Smith from St. Lewis,—he was along and his coat was as much too small for him as my husband’s was too big for him. Mr. Smith daresn’t breathe for fear of splittin’ it down the back.”

I recollected the story of Cyrus and the two coats, and restrained the suggestion that they might have exchanged garments.

“Eight francs an hour, they paid—one dollar ’n’ sixty cents good money, for the use of each of the bothering machines. Well! when we was all got up to kill as it were—(’twas some like it!) we druv’ off, two carriage-fulls, to the Pope’s Palace—the Vacuum. Up the marble steps we tugged, through five or six monstrous rooms, all precious marbled and gilded and tapestried, into a long hall, more like a town-meeting house than a parler. Stuffed benches along the side, where we all sat down to wait for the old man. Three mortal hours, he kept us coolin’ of our heels after the time advertised for the levy. I hev washed an’ ironed and churned and done my own housework in my day. I ain’t ashamed to say I’d ruther do a good day’s heft at ’em all, than to pass another sech tiresome mornin’. I don’t call it mannerly to tell people when to come, and then not be ready. Mr. Smith, he nearly died in his tight coat with the circulation stopped into both arms. At last, the door at the bottom of the hall was flung open by a fellow in striped breeches, and in he come. A man in a black gownd to each side on him. He is powerful feeble-lookin’, but I will say, aint quite so ancient as I’d expected to see. He leaned upon the arm of one man. Another went ’round the room with ’em, collectin’ of our names to give ’em to him. I forgot to tell you that everybody dropped on their knees, the minute the door opened and we saw who ’twas. That is, except Mr. Smith. He stood straight up, like a brass post. He says, ‘because American citizens hadn’t oughter bend the knee to no human man.’ I say he was afraid on account of the coat. I didn’t jest like kneelin’ myself. So, I saved my conscience by kinder squattin’! So-fashion!”

I was glad “the Englishers” were not by as she “made a cheese” of her skirts by the side of her chair, and was up again in the next breath.

“He wore a white skull-cap and a long white gownd belted at the waist. Real broadcloth ’twas. I thought, at first, ’twas opery flannel or merino, but when he was a-talkin’ to them next me, I managed to pinch a fold of it. ’Twas cloth—high-priced it must ’a been—soft and solid. But after all that’s said and done, he looks like an ole woman and a fat one. Kind face, he hez, and a sort of sweet, greasy smile onto it the whole time. He blessed us all ’round, and said to the Americans how fond he was of their country, and how he hoped we and our children would come back to the True Fold. It didn’t hurt us none to hev him say it, you know, and we hed a fair look at him while one of the black-gowners was a-translatin’ of it. Ther’ was two sisters of charity or abbesses or nuns, or somethin’ of that sort there, who dropped flat onto their faces on the bare floor when he got to them,—and kissed his slipper. White they was—the slippers, I mean—with a gold cross worked onto them. He gave us all his hand to kiss, with the seal-ring held up. I aint much in the habit of that sort o’ thing, and it did go agin my stomach a leetle. So, I tuk his hand, this way”—seizing mine—“and smacked my lips over it without them a-touchin’ on it.”

Again illustrating the narrative by “acting.”

“I tuk notice ’twas yellow, like old ivory, but flabby, as ’twas to be counted upon at his time o’ life. Well, ’twas a sight to see them charitable sisters mumblin’ and smouchin’ over the Holy Father’s hand, and sayin’ prayers like a house a-fire, after they’d done with his slipper and got up onto their knees; and him a-smiling like a pot of hair-oil, and a-blessin’ on his dear daughters! One of ’em had brought along a new white cap for him, embroidered elegant with crosses and crowns and other rigmarees, by her own hands, most likely. When she giv it to him, still on her knees and a-lookin’ up, worshippin’-like, he very politely tuk off his old one and put on the new. You’d a thought the poor thing would ’a died on that floor of delight when he nodded at her, a smilin’ sweeter than ever, to show how well it fitted. She’ll talk about it to her dyin’ day as the biggest thing that ever happened to her, and never think, I presume, that he must have about a hundred caps, given to him by other abbesses, kickin’ ’round in the Vacuum closets. After he’d done up the row of visitors—a hundred and odd—and blessed all the crosses, and bunches of beads, and flowers, and artificial wreaths, and other gimcracks, and all we had on to boot, he stopped in the middle of the room and made us a little French sermon. Sounded neat—but, of course, I didn’t get a word of it. Then he raised his hand and pronounced the benediction, and toddled out. He rocks considerable in his walk, poor old man! He ain’t long for this world; and, indeed, he hez lived as long as his best friends care to hev him.”

I have had many other descriptions of the Pope’s receptions, which were semi-weekly in this the last year of his life. In the main, these accounts tallied so well with the charcoal sketch furnished by my Yankee-Western dame, that I have given it as nearly as possible as I received it from her lips.

Victor Emmanuel had reigned in Rome six years when we were there. The streets were clean; the police vigilant and obliging; every museum and monastery and library was unbarred by the Deliverer of Italy. Protestant churches were going up within the walls of the city; Protestant service was held wherever and whenever the worshippers willed, without the visible protection of English or American flag. One scarcely recognized in the renovated capital the Rome of which the travelers of ’69 had written, so full and free had been the sweep of the tidal wave of liberty and decency. The Pope, than whom never man had a more favorable opportunity to do all the King had accomplished, and more, was a voluntary prisoner in his palace of a thousand rooms, with a beggarly retinue of five hundred servants, and stables full of useless state-coaches and horses. Whoever would see him shorn of the beams of temporal sovereignty must bend the knee to him as spiritual lord. Without attempting to regulate the consciences or actions of others, we declined to make this show of allegiance. Since attendance in the temple of Rimmon was a matter of individual option, we stayed without—Anglicé—we “stopped away.”

Victor Emmanuel we saw frequently in his rides and drives about Rome, and at various popular gatherings, such as reviews and state gala-days. He was the homeliest and best belovèd man in his dominions. Somewhat above medium height and thick-set, his military bearing, especially upon horseback, barely redeemed his figure from clumsiness. The bull-neck, indicative of the baser qualities, the story of which is a blot upon his early life, upbore a massive head, carried in manly, kingly fashion. His complexion was purple-red; the skin, rough in grain, streaked with darker lines, as if blood-vessels had broken under the surface. The firm mouth was almost buried by the moustache, heavy and black, curling upward until the tips threatened the eyes. The nose thick and retroussé, with wide nostrils, corroborated the testimony of the neck. But, beneath the full forehead, the eyes of the master of men and of himself shone out so expressively that to meet them was to forget blemishes of feature and form, and to do justice to the hero of his age—the Father of United Italy.

Prince Umberto was often his father’s companion in the carriage and on horseback—a much handsomer man, whom all regarded with interest as the king of the future, with no premonition that the eventful race of the stalwart parent was so nearly run, or that the aged Pope, whose serious illnesses were reported from week to week, would survive to send a message of amity to the monarch’s death-bed.

The prettiest sight in Rome was one yet more familiar than that of King and heir-apparent driving in a low carriage on the crowded Pincio, unattended by so much as a single equerry. The Princess Margherita, the people’s idol, took her daily airing as any lady of rank might do, her little son at her side, accompanied by one or two ladies of her modest court, and returning affably the salutations of those who met or passed her. The frank confidence of the royal family in the love of the people was with her a happy unconsciousness of possible danger that stirred the most callous to enthusiasm of loyalty. A murmur of blessing followed her appearance among the populace. They never named her without endearing epithets. During the Carnival, she drove, attended as I have described, down the middle of the Corso, wedged in by a slow-moving line of vehicles, the people packing side-walks and gutters up to the wheels, a storm of cheering and waving caps breaking out along the close files as they recognized her. We were abreast of her several times; saw her bow to this side and that, swaying with laughter while she put up both hands to ward off the rain of bouquets poured upon her from balcony and pavement and carriage, until her coach was full above her lap. The small Prince of Naples, on his part, stood up and flung flowers vigorously to left and right, shouting his delight in the fun.

We were strolling in the grounds of the Villa Borghese, one afternoon, when we espied the scarlet liveries of the Princess approaching along the road. That Boy, who was au fait to many tales of her sweetness and charitable deeds, might have a better look at one who ranked, in his imagination, with the royal heroines of fairy-tales, his father lifted him to a seat upon the rail dividing the foot-path from the drive. As the Princess came up, our group was the only one in the retired spot, and Boy, staring solemnly with his great, gray eyes, at the beautiful lady, of his own accord pulled off his Scotch cap and made a profound obeisance from his perch upon the rail. The Princess smiled brightly and merrily, and, after acknowledging Caput’s lifted hat by a gracious bend of the head, leaned forward to throw a kiss at Boy, as his especial token of favor, while her boy took off and waved his cap with a nod of good-fellowship.

One can believe that with this trivial incident in our minds it hurt us to read, eighteen months later, of the little fellow’s terror at sight of the blood streaming from his father’s arm upon his mother’s dress, and at the clash over his innocent head of loyal sword and assassin’s dagger.

The change in the government of Rome is not more apparent in the improved condition of her streets and in the enforcement of sanitary laws unknown or uncared-for under the ancien régime, than in the aspect of the ruins—her principal attraction for thousands of tourists. The Forum Romanum described by Hawthorne and Howells as a cow-pasture, broken by the protruding tops of buried columns, has been carefully excavated, and the rubbish cleared away down to the original floor of the Basilica Julia, commenced by Julius Cæsar and completed by Augustus. The boundaries of this, which was both Law Court and Exchange, are minutely defined in the will of Augustus, and the measurements have been verified by classic archæologists. The Forum, as now laid bare, is a sunken plain with steep sides, divided into two unequal parts by a modern street crossing it. Under this elevated causeway, one passes through an arch of substantial masonry from the larger division—containing the Comitium, Basilica Julia, Temple of Castor and Pollux, site of Temple of Vesta and the column of Phocas—Byron’s “nameless column with the buried base,” now exposed down to the lettered pedestal—into the smaller enclosure, flanked by the Tabularium on which is built the modern Capitol. On a level with the Etruscan foundation-stones of this are the sites of the Tribune and the Rostrum—fragments of colored marble pavement on which Cicero stood when declaiming against Catiline, eight majestic pillars, the remains of the Temple of Saturn, three that were a part of the Temple of Vespasian, and the arch of Septimius Severus. Upon the front of the latter is still seen the significant erasure made by Caracalla, of his brother Geta’s name, after the latter had fallen by his—Caracalla’s—hand. Near the mighty arch is a conical heap of earth and masonry, which was the Golden Milestone, the centre of Rome and of the world.

There were not many days in the course of that idyllic winter that did not see some of us in the Forum. We haunted it early and late; alighting for a few minutes, en route for other places, to run down the slight wooden stair leading from the street-level, to verify to our complete satisfaction some locality about which we had read or heard, or studied since yesterday’s visit. Or coming, with books and children, when the Tramontana was blowing up and down every street in the city, and we could find no other nook so sheltered and warm as the lee of the wall where once ran the row of butchers’ stalls, from one of which Virginius snatched the knife to slay his daughter. My favorite seat was upon the site of the diminutive Temple of Julius Cæsar (Divus Julius) the first reared in Rome in honor of a mortal. The remnants of the green-and-white pavement show where lay the body of great Cæsar when Mark Antony delivered his funeral oration, and where Tiberius performed the like pious office over the bier of Augustus.

The Via Sacra turns at this point, losing itself in one direction in the bank, which is the limit of the excavation, winding in the other through the centre of the exposed Forum, up to the Capitol foundations. Horace was here persecuted by the bore whose portrait is as true to life now as it was then. Dux read the complaint aloud to us once, with telling effect, substituting “Broadway” for the ancient name. Cicero sauntered along this fashionable promenade as a young man waiting for clients; trod these very stones with the assured step of the successful advocate and famous orator, and upon them dripped the blood from his severed hand and head, and the tongue pierced by Fulvia’s bodkin. Beyond the transversing modern street is a mound, once a judgment-seat. There Brutus sat, his face an iron mask, while his sons were scourged and beheaded before his eyes. In the Comitium was the renowned statue of the she-wolf, now in the Capitoline Museum, which was struck by lightning at the moment of Cæsar’s murder in Pompey’s Theatre. Cæsar passed by this way on the Ides of March from his house over there—the Regia—where were enacted the mysteries of the Bona Dea when Pompeia, Calphurnia’s predecessor, admitted Clodius to the forbidden rites. The soothsayer who cried out to him may have loitered in waiting by the hillock, which is all that is left of Vesta’s Fane, where were kept the sacred geese.

Boy knew each site and meant no disrespect to the “potent, grave, and reverend” heroes who used to pace the ancient street, while entertaining himself by skipping back and forth its entire length so far as it is uncovered, “telling himself a story.” He was always happy when thus allowed to run and murmur, a trick begun by the time he could walk. Content in this knowledge, the Invaluable sat upon the steps of the Basilica Julia, knitting in hand, guarding a square aperture near the Temple of Castor and Pollux, the one danger (to Boy) in the Forum. For, looking into it, one saw the rush of foul waters below hurrying to discharge themselves through the Cloaca Maxima—built by Numa Pompilius—into the Tiber. Here, it is said, yawned the gulf into which Curtius leaped, armed and mounted.

“A quagmire, drained and filled up by an enterprising street contractor of that name,” says Caput, to whom this and a score of other treasured tales of those nebulously olden times are myths with a meaning.

While I rested apart in my sunny corner, and watched the august wraiths trooping past, or pretended to read with eyes that did not see the book on my knees, Boy’s “story-telling” drifted over to me in rhymical ripples:

“On rode they to the Forum,

While laurel-wreaths and flowers

From house-tops and from windows

Fell on their crests in showers.

When they drew nigh to Vesta,

They vaulted down amain,

And washed their horses in the well

That springs by Vesta’s fane.” . . . .

Or—

“And they made a molten image,

And set it up on high,

And there it stands unto this day

To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium,

Plain for all folk to see—

Horatius in his harness

Halting upon one knee.”

“Where is it now, Mamma? And Horatius? and the Great Twin Brethren—and the rest of them?”

“Are gone, my darling!”

CHAPTER XV.
On Christmas-Day.

ON Christmas-Day, we went, via the Coliseum, for a long drive in the Campagna. The black cross, at the foot of which many prayers have been said for many ages, has disappeared from the centre of the arena. It was necessary to take it down in the course of the excavations that have revealed the subterranean cells whose existence was unsuspected until lately. These are mere pits unroofed by the removal of the floor of the amphitheatre, and in winter are half-full of water left by the overflow of the Tiber and the autumnal rains. The abundant and varied Flora of the Coliseum, including more than three hundred different wild flowers and such affluence of foliage as might almost be catalogued in the terms used to describe the botanical lore of the philosopher-king of Israel: “Trees from the cedar that is in Lebanon, even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall,”—all these have been swept away by the unsparing hand of Signore Rosa, the superintendent to whom the care of the ruins of the old city has been committed. To the artistic eye, the Coliseum and other structures have suffered irretrievable damage through the measures which, he asserts, are indispensable to their preservation. We who never saw the rich fringe of ilex and ivy that made “the outside wall with its top of gigantic stones, seem like a mountain-barrier of bare rock, enclosing a green and varied valley,” forget to regret our loss in congratulating ourselves that filth has been cleared away with the evergreen draperies. Despite the pools of stagnant water now occupying half of the vast circle enclosed by the scraped and mended walls, the Coliseum is not one-tenth as dangerous to the health of him who whiles away a noontide hour there, or threads the corridors by moonlight as when it was far more picturesque.

The sunlight of this Christmas-Day lay peacefully upon and within the walls, as we walked around the circular arcades, and paused in the centre of the floor, looking up to the seats of honor—(the podium) reserved, on the day of dedication, for Titus, his family, the Senate, and the Vestal Virgins. When, according to Merrivale, “the capacity of the vast edifice was tested by the slaughter of five thousand animals in its circuit.”

The site was a drained lake in the gardens of Nero. His colossal statue used to stand upon the little pile of earth on the other side of the street. Twelve thousand captive Jews were overworked to their death in building the mighty monument to the destroyer of Jerusalem. After describing the dedicatory pageant and its items of battles between cranes and pigmies, and of gladiators with women, and a sea-fight for which the arena was converted into a mimic lake, the historian adds: “When all was over, Titus himself was seen to weep, perhaps from fatigue, possibly from vexation and disgust.”

If the last-named emotions had any share in the reactionary hysteria characterized as “effeminate” by his best friends, his successors did not profit by the lesson. Hadrian slaughtered, on a birth-day frolic in the Coliseum, one thousand wild beasts, not to mention less valuable human beings. The prudent Augustus forbade the entrance of the noble classes into the arena as combatants, and to avoid a hustle of death, decreed that not more than sixty pairs of gladiators should be engaged at one time in the fashionable butchery. Commodus had no such scruples on the subject of caste or humanity. His imperial form bound about with a lion’s skin, his locks bedusted with gold, he fought repeatedly upon the bloody sands, killing his man—he being both emperor and beast—in every encounter. Ignatius—reputed to have been one of the children blessed by Our Lord—uttered here his last confession of faith:

“I am as the grain of the field, and must be ground by the teeth of the lions, that I may become bread fit for His table.”

The Christians sought the deserted Coliseum by stealth, that night, to gather the few bones the lions had left. Some of these, his friends, may have been among the one hundred and fifteen “obstinates” drawn up upon the earth scarcely dried from the blood of Ignatius, a line of steady targets for the arrows of skilled bowmen—a kind of archery practice in high favor with Roman clubs just then.

The life-blood that followed the arrow-thrust was a safe and rapid stream to float the soul into harbor. One hour of heaven were worth all the smiting, and thrusting, and tearing, and theirs have been centuries of bliss. But our hearts ached with pain and sympathy inexpressible in the Coliseum, on that Christmas-Day. There is poetic beauty and profound spiritual significance in the churchly fable that Gregory the Great pressed fresh blood from a handful of earth taken from the floor of the amphitheatre.

“While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall—

And when Rome falls—the world!”

Thus runs the ancient prophecy.

Plundering cardinals and thrifty popes had never heard the saying, or were strangely indifferent to the fate of their empire and globe for four hundred years of spoliation and desecration. Cardinal Farnese built his palace out of the marble casings. It is amazing even to those who have inspected the massive walls cemented by mortar as hard as the stones it binds together, that the four thousand men appointed to tear down and bear off in twelve hours the materials needed for the Farnese palace, did not demolish or impair the solidity of the whole structure. After abortive attempts on the part of sundry popes to utilize the building by turning the corridors into bazaars and establishing manufactories of woolen goods and saltpetre in the central space, the place was left to quiet decay and religious rites. Clement XI. consecrated it to the memory of the faithful disciples who perished there “for Christ’s sake.” Stations were appointed in the arcades, the black cross was set up and indulgences granted to all believers who would say a prayer at its foot for the rest of the martyrs’ souls. Masses were said every Friday afternoon, each station visited in turn with chant and prayer, and then a sermon preached by a Capuchin friar. Vines thickened and trees shot upward from tier and battlement, night-birds hooted in the upper shades, thieves and lazzaroni prowled below. Dirt and miasma marked the sacred precincts for their own. We can but be grateful that the march of improvement, begun when the Italian troops entered Rome in 1870 through the breach near the Porta Pia, has reached the Coliseum, cleansing and strengthening, although not beautifying it.

About midway between the Forum and Coliseum we had passed—as no Jew ever does—under the Arch of Titus. It spans the Via Sacra, leading right on from the southern gate of the city through the Forum to the Capitol. The pavement of huge square blocks of lava is the same on which rolled, joltingly in their springless chariots, the conquerors returning in triumph with such griefful captives in their train as are sculptured upon the inside of this arch. The Goths, the Middle Ages, and the Popes (or their nephews), dealt terrible blows at the procession of Jewish prisoners, bearing the seven-branched candlestick, the table of shew-bread, and the golden trumpets of the priests. Arms and legs are missing, and features sadly marred. But drooping heads and lax figures, and the less mutilated faces express the utter dejection, the proud but hopeless humiliation of the band who left their happier countrymen dead by famine, crucifixion, the sword and fire, in the ashes of their city.

A rod or two further, and we were in the Via Appia.

“In that vineyard,” said I, pointing to a rickety gate on our left, “are the remains of the Porta Capena, where the surviving Horatius met and killed his sister as she bewailed the death of her lover, the last of the Curatii. Her brother presented himself to her wearing the cloak she had embroidered for and given to her betrothed.”

“The whole story is a highly figurative history of a war between the Romans and Albans,” began Caput, mildly corrective. “The best authorities are agreed that Horatii and Curatii are alike mythical.”

I should have been vexed upon any other day. Had I not seen, beyond the fifth milestone on this very road, the tombs of the six combatants? Had not my girlish heart stood still with awe when Rachel, as Camille, fell dead upon the stage beneath the steel of her irate brother?

I did say—I hope, temperately—“Cicero was welcomed at the Porta Capena, by the Senate and people, on his return from banishment, B. C. 57. That is, if there was ever such a man as Cicero!”

The Baths of Caracalla; the tombs of the Scipios; the Columbaria of the Freedmen of Augustus; the Catacombs of St. Sebastian and of St. Calixtus—are situate upon the Appian Way. Each should have its visit in turn. Any one of them was, in speculators’ slang, “too big a thing” for one Christmas forenoon. We were on pure pleasure bent—not in bondage to Baedeker. A quarter of a mile from the road, still to our left, the ground falls away into a cup-like basin, holding the Fountain of Egeria enshrined in a grove of dark ilex-trees. A couple of miles further, and we passed through the Gate of San Sebastian, supported by two towers in fair preservation. We were still within the corporate limits of Old Rome. At this gate welcoming processions from the city met those who returned to her in triumphal pomp, or guests, to whom the Senate decreed extraordinary honors. A little brook runs across the road at the bottom of the next hill, and, just beyond it, is the ruined tomb of the murdered Geta. At a fork in the highway near this is a dirty little church, set down so close to the road that the mud from passing wheels has spattered the front. Here, according to the legend, Peter, fleeing from Nero’s persecution, met his Lord with His face toward the city.

“Lord! whither goest Thou?” exclaimed the astonished apostle.

“I go to Rome to be again crucified!” answered the Master.

Peter, taking the vision as a token that he should not shrink from martyrdom, returned to Rome.

The chapel—it is nothing more—of “Domine quo vadis” commemorates the interview. We stepped from the carriage upon the broken threshold, and tried the locked door. A priest as slovenly as the building unclosed it. Directly opposite the entrance is a plaster cast of Michael Angelo’s statue of Our Saviour in the act of addressing Peter. The foot extended in the forward step has been almost kissed away by pilgrims. On the right wall is a fresh and flashy, yet graphic fresco of the Lord, walking swiftly toward Rome; upon the left kneels the conscience-smitten Peter. Between them, upon the floor, secured by a grating from the abrading homage of the vulgar, is a copy of the footprints left upon the rock at the spot where the meeting took place. The original is in the church of San Sebastiano. The marble is stained with yellowish blotches. The impression is coarsely cut; the conception is yet coarser. Two brawny, naked feet, enormous in size, plebeian in shape, are set squarely and straight, side by side, as no living man would stand of his own accord. The impudence of these priestly relics would be contemptible only, were the subjects less sacred. We turned away from the “fac-simile” in sad disgust. The legend had been a favorite with us both. We were sorry we had entered the mouldy little barn. The offer of the sacristan to sell us beads, medals, and photographs was in keeping with the rest of the show. We gave him a franc; plucked from the cracked door-stone a bit of pellitory—herba parietina, the sobriquet given to Trajan in derision of his habit of writing his name upon much which he had not built—and returned to our carriage.

The way is bordered, until one reaches the tomb of Cæcilia Metella by vineyard and meadow walls. Most of the stones used in building these were collected from the ancient pavement, or the débris of fortresses and tombs that encumbered this. Imbedded in the mortar, and often defaced by clots and daubs of it, put in beside common rubble-stones and sherds of tufa, are many sculptured fragments. Here, the corner of a richly-carved capital projects from the surface; there, a cluster of flowers, with a serpent stealing out of sight among the leaves. Now, a baby’s head laughs between lumps of travertine or granite; next comes a part of a gladiator’s arm, or the curve of a woman’s neck. The ivy is luxuriantly aggressive and of a species we had never seen elsewhere, gemmed with glossy, saffron-colored berries. “Wee, crimson-tippéd” daisies mingled with grass that is never sere. In March we found anemones of every hue; pink and white cyclamen; wild violets, at once diffusive and retentive of odor, embalming gloves, handkerchiefs, and the much-thumbed leaves of our guide-books; reddish-brown wall-flowers, and hosts of other “wild” blossoms on this road. The dwelling-houses we passed were rude, slight huts, hovels of reeds and straw, often reared upon the foundation of a tomb.

For this Way of Triumph was also the Street of Tombs. Sepulchres, or their ruins, are scattered on every side. We looked past them, where there occurred a break in the road-wall over the billowing Campagna, the arches of ancient and modern aqueducts dwindling into cobweb-lines in the hazy distance; above them at the Sabine and Alban hills, newly capped with snow, while Spring smiled warmly upon the plains at their base. We alighted at the best-known of these homes of the dead, not many of which hold the ashes that gave them names.

Hawthorne describes it in touches few and masterly. “It is built of great blocks of hewn stone on a vast square foundation of rough, agglomerated material, such as composes the mass of all the other ruinous tombs. But, whatever might be the cause, it is in a far better state of preservation than they. On its broad summit rise the battlements of a mediæval fortress, out of the midst of which grow trees, bushes, and thick festoons of ivy. This tomb of a woman has become the dungeon-keep of a castle, and all the care that Cæcilia Metella’s husband could bestow to secure endless peace for her belovèd relics only sufficed to make that handful of precious ashes the nucleus of battles long ages after her death.”

The powerful family of the Gaetani added the battlements that tooth the top of the enormous tower, when they made it their château and fortress in the thirteenth century. The ruins of their church are close to the walls. We paid a trifling fee for the privilege of entering the court-yard of the Tomb where there was nothing to see, and for peeping into the ruinous cellar, once the “cave” where “treasure lay, so locked, so hid”—the sarcophagus about which all these stone swathings were wound as layers of silk and wool about a costly jewel. The empty marble coffin is in a Roman museum. A public-spirited pope ripped off the sculptured casing of the exterior that he might build the Fountain of Trevi. It would be as futile to seek for this woman’s ashes as for those of Wickliffe after the Avon had carried them out to sea.

The dreary road-walls terminate here, but the survey of the tombs diverts the attention from the views of Campagna and mountains. They must have formed an almost continuous block of buildings for miles. The foundations may be traced still, and about these are remnants of the statues and symbolic ornaments that gave them individuality and beauty. The figure which occurred most frequently was that of a man in the dress of a Roman citizen, the arm laid over the breast to hold the toga in place and fold. Most of the heads were missing, and usually the legs, but the torso had always character, sometimes beauty, in it. There were hundreds of them here once, probably mounted sentinel-wise at the doors of the tombs, changeless effigies of men who had been, who were now a pinch of dust, preserved in a sealed urn for fear the wind might take them away.

There is a so-called “restored” tomb near the “fourth mile-stone.” A bas-relief, representing a murder, is let into a brick façade.

“The tomb of Seneca!” said our cocchière, confidently.

“Dubious!” commented the genius of wary common sense upon the front seat. “If he was put to death by Nero’s officers near the fourth mile-stone, is it probable that he was interred on the spot?”

The driver held to his assertion, and I got out to pick daisies and violets growing in the shelter of the ugly red-brick front—there was no back,—souvenirs that lie to-day, faded but fragrant, between the leaves of my Baedeker. Nearly opposite to the round heaps of turf-grown rubbish with solid basement walls, “supposed to be the tombs of the Horatii and Curatii,” across the road and a field, are the ruins of the Villa of Commodus. He wrested this pleasant country-seat from two brothers, who were the Naboths of the coveted possession. Conduits have been dug out from the ruins, stamped with their names, and convicting him mutely but surely of the theft charged upon him by contemporaries. He and his favorite Marcia were sojourning here when the house was “mobbed” by a deputation, several thousand in number, sent from Rome to call him to account for his misdeeds. He pacified them measurably by throwing from an upper window the head of Cleander, his obnoxious premier, and beating out the brains of that official’s child. The Emperor’s Coliseum practice made such an evening’s work a mere bagatelle.

Six miles from Rome is the Rotondo, believed to have been the family mausoleum of a poet-friend of Horace, Massala Corvinus. It is larger than the tomb of the “wealthiest Roman’s wife,” but not so well-preserved. A miserable wine-shop was in the court-yard, and we paid the mistress half-a-franc for permission to mount a flight of easy steps to the summit. Upon the flat roof, formed by the flooring of the upper story, the walls of which are half gone, olive-trees have taken root and overhang the sides. The eye swept the Campagna for miles, followed the Via Appia, stretched like a white ribbon between grassy slopes and sepulchre-ruins, back into Rome and onward to Albano. A faintly-tinged haze brought the mountains nearer, instead of hiding them—purpled the thymy dells between the swells of the far-reaching prairies. Flocks of sheep browsed upon these, attended by shepherds and dogs. A party of English riders cantered by from Rome, the blue habit and scarlet plume of the only lady equestrian made conspicuous by the white road and green banks. Near and far, the course of the ancient highway was defined by masses of masonry in ruins, some overgrown by herbs, vines, and even trees, but most of them naked to the sun and wind. These have not been the destroyers of the tombs. On the contrary, the uncovered foundations are hardened by the action of the elements, until bricks are as unyielding as solid marble and cement is like flint. Nature and neglect are co-workers, whose operations upon buildings raised by man, are far less to be feared in this than in Northern climates. The North, that let loose her brutish hordes upon a land so much fairer than their own that their dull eyes could not be tempted by her beauty except to wanton devastation. They were grown-up children who battered the choicest and most delicate objects for the pleasure of seeing and hearing the crash.

“Some day,” said Caput, wistful lights in the eyes that looked far away to where the road lost itself in the blue hills—“Some day, I mean to drive all the way to the Appii Forum, and follow St. Paul’s track back to the city.”

He brought out his pocket Testament, and, amid the broken walls, the shadows of the olive-boughs flickering upon the page, we read how the Great Apostle longed to “see Rome,” yet knowing that bonds and imprisonment awaited him wherever he went—the Rome he was never to quit as a free man, and where he was to leave a multitude of witnesses to his fidelity and the living power of the Gospel, of which he was an ambassador in bonds. Thence we passed to the few words describing his journey and reception:

“We came the next day unto Puteoli, where we found brethren, and were desired to tarry with them seven days. And so we went toward Rome. And from thence, when the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us as far as Appii Forum and the Three Taverns. Whom, when Paul saw, he thanked God and took courage.”

For some miles the Way has been cleared down to the ancient pavement. It was something to see the stones over which St. Paul had walked.

We took St. Peter’s in our drive home. When one is used to the immensity of its spaces, has accommodated his imagination comfortably to the aisle-vistas and the height of the ceilings, St. Peter’s is the most restful temple in Rome. The equable temperature—never cold in winter, never hot in summer; the solemn quiet of a vastness in which the footfalls upon the floor die away with out echo, and the sound of organ and chant from one of the many chapels only stirs a musical throb which never swells into reverberation; the subdued light—all contribute to the sense of grateful tranquillity that allures one to frequent visits and slow, musing promenades within the magnificent Basilica. Madame de Staël says in one line what others have failed to express in pages of labored rhetoric:

“L’Architecture de St. Pierre est une musique fixée.”

Listening with all our souls, we strolled up one side of the church past the bronze Image, in appearance more Fetish than saint. A statue of Jupiter was melted down to make it. The frown of the Thunderer still contracts the brows that seem to find the round of glory, spoked like a wheel, too heavy. The projecting toe, often renewed, bright as a new brass kettle from the attrition of kisses, rests upon a pedestal five feet, at least, from the floor. Men can conveniently touch it with their lips. Short women stand on tiptoe, and children are lifted to it. Each wipes it carefully before kissing, a ceremony made necessary by a popular trick of the Roman gamins. They watch their chance to anoint the holy toe with damp red pepper, then hide behind a column to note the effect of the next osculation. At the Jubilee of Pius IX., June 16, 1871, they dressed the hideous black effigy in pontifical vestments, laced and embroidered to the last degree of gorgeousness, and fastened the cope of cloth-of-gold with a diamond brooch!

The baldacchino, or canopy, built above the high altar and overshadowing the tomb of St. Peter, is of gilded bronze that once covered the roof of the Pantheon,—another example of popely thrift. Beneath, yawns an open crypt, lined with precious marbles and gained by marble stairs. Upon the encompassing balustrade above is a circle of ever-burning golden lamps, eighty-six in number. Pius VI. (in marble by Canova) kneels forever, as he requested in his will, before the closed door of St. Peter’s tomb, below.

“I wish I could believe that Peter’s bones are there!” Caput broke a long thought-laden pause, given to silent gazing upon the kneeling form. “Roman Catholic historians say that an oratory was erected here above his remains, A.D. 90. The circus of Nero was hereabouts. The chapel was in honor of the thousands who died a martyr’s death in his reign, as well as to mark the spot of Peter’s burial. In the days of Constantine, a Basilica superseded the humble chapel, at which date St. Peter’s bones were encased in a bronze sarcophagus. Five hundred years afterward, the Saracens plundered the Basilica. Did they take Peter—if he were ever here—or in Rome at all? Or, did they spare his bones when they carried off the gilt-bronze coffin and inner casket of pure silver?”

Another silence.

“The Basilica and tomb were here when English Ethelwolf brought his boy Alfred to Rome,” I said aloud.

“But the Popes did their will upon it afterward. Pulled down and built up at the bidding of caprice and architects until not one of the original stones was left upon another. After two centuries of this sort of work—or play—the present church was planned and was one hundred and seventy-odd years in building. I hope Peter’s bones were cared for in the squabble. I should like to believe it!”

We looked for a long minute more at the praying pope. He believed it so much as to desire to kneel there, with clasped hands and bowed head, awaiting through the coming cycles the opening of the sealèd door.

Wanderings in and out of stately chapels ensued, until we had enough of dead popes, marble and bronze.

The surname of Pope Pignatella, signifying “little cream-jug,” suggested to the sculptor the neat conceit of mingling sundry cream-pots with other ornaments of his tomb.

Gregory XIII., he of the Gregorian calendar, is an aged man, invoking the benediction of Heaven upon whomsoever it may concern, while Wisdom, as Minerva, and Faith hold a tablet inscribed—“Novi opera hujus et fidem.”

Urban VIII., the patron of Bernini, is almost forgiven by those who have sickened over the countless and cruel devices of his protégé when one beholds his master-piece of absurdity in his sovereign’s tomb. The pontiff, in the popular attitude of benediction, towers above the black marble coffin, in charge of Prudence and Justice,—the drapery of the latter evidently a decorous afterthought,—while a very airy gilded skeleton is writing, with a dégagé air, the names and titles of Urban upon an obituary list. The Barberini bees crawl over the monument, as busily officious and in as bad taste as was Bernini himself.

Pius VII., the prisoner-Pope of Napoleon I., is there—a mild old man, looking as if he had suffered and forgiven much—sitting dreamily, or drowsily, in a chair, and kept in countenance by Courage and Faith.

Innocent VIII. sleeps, like a tired man, upon his sarcophagus, while his animated Double is enthroned above it, one hand, of course, extended in blessing, the other holding a copy of the sacred lance that pierced the Saviour’s side, presented to him by Bajazet, and by the pope to St. Peter’s.

More interesting to us than these and the tiresome array of the many other pontifical and prelatical personages, was the arch near the front door of the Basilica, which covers the remains of the last of the Stuarts. Canova carved the memorial-stone of James III. (the Pretender), his sons, Charles Edward (the Young Pretender), and Henry, who,—with desperate fidelity worthy of a better cause, wearied out by the successive failures and misfortunes of his race,—gave himself wholly to the Church, devotion to which had cost his father independence, happiness, and England. Henry Stuart died, as we read here, Cardinal York. Marie Clementine Sobieski, wife of James III., named upon the tablet, “Queen of Great Britain, France and Ireland,” who never set foot within the British Empire,—completes the family group. It is said the expenses of these testimonials were defrayed by the then reigning House of Hanover. It could well afford to do it.

In a chapel at the left of the entrance is a mammoth font of dark-red porphyry which has a remarkable—I can hardly say, in view of cognate facts—a singular history. It is the inverted cover of Hadrian’s sarcophagus. Having rested within its depths longer than his life had entitled him to do, this Emperor was ejected and Otho III. took his place. In due season, a pope of a pious and practical turn of mind ousted Otho, and transferred the lid of the coffin to its present place. The bronze fir-cone from the top of the mausoleum of Hadrian, now the Castle of San Angelo, is a prominent ornament in the gardens of the Vatican. Near it are two bronze peacocks, the birds of Juno, from the porch of the same edifice.

“Entirely and throughout consistent,” said Caput, caustically.

“I beg your pardon! Did you address me, sir?” asked a startled voice.

The Traveling American was upon us. Pater Familias, moreover, to the sanguine young people who had attacked systematically, Baedeker, Murray and Forbes in hand—the opposite chapel, the gem of which is Michael Angelo’s Pietà—the Dead Christ upon his mother’s knees. We recognized our interlocutor. A very worthy gentleman, an enterprising and opulent citizen of the New World, whom we had met, last week, in the salon of a friend. He was making, he had informed a listening circle, “the grand European tour for the third time, now, for educational purposes, having brought his boys and girls along. A thing few of our country-people have money and brains to undertake!”

“I was saying”—explained Caput, “that the Popes have done more toward the destruction of the monuments of pagan Rome than barbarians and centuries combined. I lose patience and temper when I see what they have ‘consecrated’ to the use of their Church. Vandalism is an insipid word to employ in this connection.”

Pater Familias put out one foot; lifted a hortatory hand.

“I have learned to cast such considerations behind me, sir! Anachronisms do not trouble me. Nor solecisms, except in artistic execution. I travel with a purpose—that of self-improvement and the foundation, in the bosoms of my family, of true principles of art, the cultivation of the instinct of the beautiful in their souls and in mine. Despising the statistical, and, to a certain degree, the historical, as things of slight moment, I rise into the region of the purely æsthetic. For example:” The hortatory hand pointed to the opposite arch, within which is a gorgeous modern copy, in mosaic, of Raphael’s “Transfiguration.” “For example, pointing to that inimitable masterpiece, I say to my children—‘Do not examine into the ingredients of the pigments staining the canvas, nor criticise, anatomically, the structure of the figures. But catch, if you can, the spirit and tone of the whole composition. Behold, recognize, and make your own the very soul and mood, the inspiration of Michael Angelo!’”

Caput drew out his watch.

“Do you know, my dear,” he said, plaintively, “that it is an hour past our luncheon-time?”

At the bottom of the gentle incline leading from the church-door into the wide Piazza di San Piétro, we stopped for breath and composure.

Caput grew serious in turning to survey the façade of the Basilica, with the guard of saints and their Master upon the balustrade; the Dome, light in semblance as the clouds swimming in summer languor above it, strong as Soracte; the sweep of the colonnades to the right and left, “with the holy ones walking upon their roofs;” the Obelisk of Heliopolis in the centre of the Court and its flashing fountains—the heaven of rich, tender blue—

“That man has crossed the ocean three times to behold all this!” he said. “He can bring his rabble of children to see it with him. While men who could enter the arcana of whose mysteries he prattles; to whom the life he is leading would be like a walk through Paradise—are tied down to desk and drugs and country parishes! That these things exist is a tough problem!”

We told the story, leaving the pathetic enigma out of sight, over our Christmas-dinner, that evening. My Florentine angel of mercy, her brothers and sister, were our guests. Mince and pumpkin pies were not to be thought of, much less obtained here. But our Italian cook had under my eye, stuffed and roasted a turkey, the best we could buy in the poultry-shop just around the corner from the Pantheon. I did not spoil my friends’ appetites by describing the manner of its “taking-off” which may, however, interest poultry-fanciers. I wanted a larger bird than any displayed by the turkey-vender, and he bade me return in fifteen minutes, when he would have just what I desired.

We gave half an hour to a ramble around the square surrounding the Pantheon, the most nearly perfect pagan building in Rome. Urban VIII. abstracted nearly five hundred thousand pounds of gilt bronze from portico and dome, to be wrought into the twisted columns of St. Peter’s baldacchino, and into cannon for the defence of that refuge for scared and hunted popes—the Castle of San Angelo. In recompense for the liberty he had taken with the Temple of all the Gods, he added, by the hand of his obsequious architect, the comical little towers like mustard-pots, known to the people as the “asses’ ears of Bernini.” Another pope, one of the Benedicts, offered no apology in word or deed, for pulling off the rare old marbles facing the inner side of the dome, and using them for the adornment of churches and palaces.

But to our turkey! The merchant had him well in hand when we got back. He had tied a stout twine tightly around the creature’s neck, and while it died by slow strangulation, held it fast between his knees and stripped off the feathers from the palpitating body. All our fowls came to us with this twine necklace knotted about the gullet, and all had a trick of shrinking unaccountably in cooking.

“He is a-swellin’ wisibly before my eyes!” quoted Caput from the elder Weller, as we gazed, horror-stricken, upon the operation.

The merchant laughed—the sweet, childish laugh of the Italian of whatever rank, that showed his snowy teeth and brought sparkle to his black eyes.

“Altro?” he said. “Buono? Bon? Signora like ’im mooch?”

I tried not to remember how little I had liked it when my guests praised the brown, fat bird.

Canned cranberries and tomatoes we had purchased from Brown, the polite English grocer in Via della Croce, who makes a specialty of “American goods.” Nazzari, the Incomparable (in Rome), furnished the dessert. Soup, fish, and some of the vegetables were essentially Italian, and none the worse on that account.

There was a strange commingling and struggle of pain and pleasure in that “make-believe” Christmas-at-home in a foreign land. It was a new and fantastically-wrought link in a golden chain that ran back until lost in the misty brightness of infancy. We gathered about our parlor-fire, for which we had, with some difficulty, procured a Yule-log of respectable dimensions; talked of loved and distant ones and other days; said, with heart and tongue, “Heaven bless the country we love the best, and the friends who, to-night, remember us as we think of them!” We told funny stories, all we could remember, in which the Average Briton and Traveling American figured conspicuously. We laughed amiably at each other’s jokes. We planned days and weeks of sight-seeing and excursions, waxed enthusiastic over the wealth of Roman ruins, and declared ourselves more than satisfied with the experiment of trans-ocean travel.

We were, or should be, on the morrow.

Now, between the eyes of our spirit and the storied riches of this sunbright elysium, the Italia of kings, consuls, emperors, and popes, glided visions of ice-bound rivers and snow-clad hills—of red firesides and jocund frolic, and clan-gatherings, from near and from far—of Christmas stockings, and Christmas trees, and Christmas greetings—of ringing skates, making resonant moonlit nights, and the tintinnabulations of sleigh-bells—of silent grave-yards, where the snow was lying spotless and smooth.

Beneath laugh and jest, and graver talk of visions fulfilled, and projects for future enjoyment—underlying all these was a slow-heaving main, hardly repressed—an indefinable, yet exquisite, heart-ache very far down.

CHAPTER XVI.
L’Allegro and Il Penseroso.

THERE is music by the best bands in Rome upon the Pincian Hill on Sabbath afternoons. Sitting at the window of our tiny library, affecting to read or write, my eyes wandered continually to the lively scene beyond. My fingers were beating time to the waltzes, overtures, and marches that floated over the wall and down the terraces—over the orange and camellia-trees, the pansy and violet-beds, and lilac-bushes in the court-yard, the pride of our handsome portiere’s heart—up to my Calvinistic ears. Drive and promenade were in full and near view, and up both streamed, for two hours, a tossing tide of carriages and pedestrians. It would flow down in variegated billows when the sun should paint the sky behind St. Peter’s golden-red. Resigning even the pretence of occupation by-and-by, I used to lie back in my easy-chair, my feet upon the fender, hemming in the wood-fire we never suffered to go out, and, watching the pleasure-making on the hill, dream until I forgot myself and the age in which I lived.

At the foot of the Pincio, which now overtops the other hills of Rome, beside the Porta del Popolo, or People’s Gate, are the convent and church of S. Augustine. In the former, Luther dwelt during his stay in the city of his love and longing. At this gate he prostrated himself and kissed the earth in a passion of delight and thankfulness. In the church he celebrated his first mass in Rome, and just before his departure, soon after the change of feeling and purpose which befell him upon the Sacred Staircase, he performed here his last service as a priest of the Romish Church.

S. Augustine’s was raised upon the site of the tomb of Nero—a spot infested, according to tradition, for hundreds of years, by flocks of crows, who built, roosted, and cawed in the neighboring trees, becoming in time such a nuisance as to set one of the popes to dreaming upon the subject. In a vision, it was revealed to him that these noisy rooks were demons contending for or exulting in the possession of the soul of the wicked tyrant—a point on which there could have been little uncertainty, even in the mind of a middle-ages pope. The trees were leveled, and the birds, or devils, scared away by the hammers of workmen employed upon a church paid for by penny collections among the people. The Gate of the People owes its name to this circumstance. Within the antique gateway, Christina of Sweden was welcomed to Rome after her apostasy from Protestantism, cardinals and bishops and a long line of sub-officials meeting her here in stately procession. It is also known as the Flaminian Gate, opening as it does upon the famous Flaminian Way. A side-road, branching off from this a few rods beyond the walls, leads into and through the beautiful grounds of the Villa Borghese.

Turning to the left, after entering the Porta del Popolo, one ascends by a sinuous road the Pincio, or Hill of Gardens. Below lies the Piazza del Popolo, the twin churches opposite the city-gate marking the burial-place of Sylla. The red sandstone obelisk in the middle of the square is from Heliopolis, and the oldest monument in Rome. The most heedless traveler pauses upon the Pincian terraces to look down upon “the flame-shaped column,” which, Merivale tells us, “was a symbol of the sun, and originally bore a blazing orb upon its summit.” Hawthorne reminds us yet more thrillingly that “this monument supplied one of the recollections which Moses and the Israelites bore from Egypt into the desert.” And so strong is the chain with which, in his “Marble Faun,” this subtle and delicate genius has united the historical and the imaginative, one recollects, in the same instant, that the parapet by which he is standing is the one over which Kenyon and Hilda watched the enigmatical pantomime of Miriam and the Model beside the “four-fold fountain” at the base of the obelisk. Nowhere else in Rome is the thoughtful traveler more tempted to borrow from this marvelous romance words descriptive of scene and emotion than when he reaches the “broad and stately walk that skirts the brow” of the Pincio. We read and repeated the paragraph that, to this hour, brings the view to us with the clearness and minuteness of a sun-picture, until it arose of itself to our lips whenever we halted upon the outer edge of the semicircular sweep of wall.

“Beneath them, from the base of the abrupt descent, the city spread wide away in a close contiguity of red-earthen roofs, above which rose eminent the domes of a hundred churches, besides here and there a tower, and the upper windows of some taller, or higher situated palace, looking down on a multitude of palatial abodes. At a distance, ascending out of the central mass of edifices, they could see the top of the Antonine column, and, near it, the circular roof of the Pantheon, looking heavenward with its ever-open eye.”

“The very dust of Rome,” he writes again, “is historic, and inevitably settles on our page and mingles with our ink.”

Thus, the Pincio—the gayest place in Rome on “music-afternoon,” and one of the loveliest at all seasons and every day;—a modern garden, with parterres of ever-green and ever-blooming roses; with modern fountains and plantations, rustic summer-houses and play-grounds, all erected and laid out—if Hare is to be credited—within twenty years, in the “deserted waste where the ghost of Nero was believed to wander” in the dark ages, had its story and its tragedy antedating the bloody death and post-mortem peregrinations of him over whose grave the crows quarrelled at the bottom of the hill. Other gardens smiled here when Lucullus supped in the Hall of Apollo in his Pincian Villa with Cicero and Pompey, and was served with more than imperial luxury. Here, Asiaticus, condemned to die through the machinations of the wickedest woman in Rome, who coveted ground and house, bled himself to death after “he had inspected the pyre prepared for him in his own gardens, and ordered it to be removed to another spot that an umbrageous plantation which overhung it might not be injured by the flames.”

Here grew the tree up which climbed Messalina’s creature on the night of her last and wildest orgy with her lover, and flung down the warning—“I see an awful storm coming from Ostia!” The approaching tempest was the injured husband, Claudius, the Emperor, whose swift advance drove Messalina, half-drunken and half-clad, to a hiding-place “in the shade of her gardens on the Pincio, the price of the blood of the murdered Asiaticus.” There she died. “The hot blood of the wanton smoked on the pavement of his garden, and stained, with a deeper hue, the variegated marbles of Lucullus.”[B]

At the intersection of the two fashionable drives which constitute “the round,”—a circuit that can be accomplished with ease in five minutes—is an obelisk, also Egyptian, erected, primarily, upon the Nile, by Hadrian and his Empress, in memory of the drowned Antinöus.

Urban VIII. left his mark and a memento of the inevitable Bernini on the Pincio, in the Moses Fountain. It commands, through an artful opening in the overhanging trees, an exquisitely lovely view of St. Peter’s, framed in an arch of green. The fountain consists of a circular basin, and, in the middle of this, Jochebed, the mother of Moses, upon an island. She looks heavenward while she stoops to extricate a hydrocephalus babe from a basket much too small for his trunk and limbs, not to say the big head.

Caput’s criticism was professionally indignant.

“It is simply preposterous to fancy that a child with such an abnormal cerebral development could ever have become a leader of armies or a law-giver. The wretched woman naturally avoids the contemplation of the monstrosity she has brought into the world.”

From that section of the Pincian Gardens overlooking the Borghese Villa and grounds projects a portion of the ancient wall of Rome, that was pronounced unsafe and ready to fall in the time of Belisarius. Being miraculously held in place by St. Peter, there is now no real danger, unsteady as it looks, that this end of the Pincio will give way under the weight of the superincumbent wall, and plunge down the precipice among the ilex-trees and stone-pines beneath. In the shadow of this wall, tradition holds that blind Belisarius begged from the passers-by.

With the deepening glow of the sunset—

“Flushing tall cypress-bough,

Temple and tower”—

the Roman promenaders and riders flock homeward from Borghese and Pincio. Foreigners, less familiar with the character of the unwholesome airs and noxious dews of twilight, linger later until they learn better. Mingling with the flood of black coats that poured down the shorter ascent in sight of my windows were rills of scarlet and purple that puzzled me for awhile. At length I made it my business to examine them more closely from the parlor balcony in their passage through the street at the front of the house.

“There go the ganders!” shouted Boy, who accompanied me to the look-out.

“I should call them flamingoes?” laughed I.

The students in the Propaganda wear long gowns, black, red, or purple, and broad-brimmed hats, each nationality having its uniform. The members of each division take their “constitutional” at morning and evening in a body, striding along with energy that sends their skirts flapping behind them in a gale of their own making. They seldom missed a band-afternoon upon the Pincio, and were a picturesque element in the lively display. Boy’s name for them was an honest mispronunciation of a polysyllable too big for him to handle. But I never saw them stalking in a slender row across the Piazza di Spagna and up the hill without a smile at the random shot. The name had a sort of aptness when fitted to the sober youngsters whose deportment was solemn to grotesqueness by contrast with the volatile crowd they threaded in their progress to the pools of refreshment prescribed as a daily recreation—the fleeting glimpses of the world outside of their pasture.

The gates of the avenues by which access is had to the gardens are closed soon after sundown. No one is allowed to walk there after dark, or remain there overnight. But theatres and other places of amusement are open in the evening, the best operatic and dramatic entertainments being reserved for Sunday night. We wearied soon of the bustle and gayety of such Sabbath afternoons. We could not shut out from our apartment the strains that seduced thought away from the books we would fain study. The tramp and hum of the street were well-nigh as bewildering. In the beginning, to avoid this—afterward, from love of the place and the beauty and quiet that reign there, like the visible benediction of the All-Father—we fell into the practice of driving out every week to the Protestant Cemetery.

Boy was always one of the carriage-party. The streets were a continual carnival to him on this, the Christian’s Lord’s Day, being alive with mountebanks and strolling musicians. Behind the block in which were our apartments was an open square, where a miniature circus was held at least one Sabbath per month, it was said, for the diversion of the boy-prince who is now the heir-apparent. In view of the fact that our heir-apparent was to be educated for Protestant citizenship in America, we preferred for him, as for ourselves, Sabbath meditations among the tombs to the divers temptations of the town—temptations not to be shunned except by locking him up in a windowless closet and stuffing his ears with cotton. The route usually selected, because it was quietest on the holiday that drew the populace elsewhere, granted us peeps at many interesting objects and localities.

In the vestibule of the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin is the once-noted Bocca della Verità, or Mouth of Truth—a round, flat wheel, like an overgrown grindstone set on edge, a gaping mouth in the centre. The first time we visited it (it was not on the Sabbath) the Average Briton was before us, and affably volunteered an explanation of the rude mask.

“You see, when a fellah was suspected of perjury—false swearing, you know—he was brought heah and made to put his harnd in those—ah!—confoundedly beastly jaws; when, if he had lied or—ah!—prevaricated, you know, the mouth would shut upon his harnd, and, in short, bit it off! The truth was, I farncy, that there was a fellah behind there with a sword or cleaver, or something of that kind, you know.”

Across the church square, which is adorned by a graceful fountain, often copied in our country, is a small, circular Temple of Vesta, dating back to the reign of Vespasian, if not to Pompey’s time. It is a tiny gem of a ruin, if ruin it can be called. The interior is a chapel, lighted by slits high in the wall. A row of Corinthian columns, but one of them broken, surrounds it; a conical tiled roof covers it. This heathen fane is a favorite subject with painters and photographers. Near it is a much older building—the Temple of Fortune—erected by Servius Tullius, remodeled during the Republic. Other houses have been built into one side, and the spaces between the Ionic columns of the other three been filled in with solid walls to make a larger chamber. It is a church now, dedicated to St. Mary of Egypt.

An alley separates this from the House of Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes. The marble or stucco coating has peeled away from the walls, but, near the eaves are fragments of rich sculpture. The Latin inscription over the doorway has reference to the honors and might of the ancient owners. Beyond these there is not a symptom of beauty or grandeur about the ugly, rectangular homestead. The Tiber rolls near, and its inundations have had much to do with the defacement of the lower part of the house. The suspension-bridge which crosses the slow yellow waters at this point, rests at one end upon piers built by Scipio Africanus. From this bridge—the Ponte Rotto—the pampered body of Heliogabalus was thrown into the river. Further down the stream are the foundations of other piles, which have withstood current and freshet for two thousand years. We always paused when opposite these. Boy knew the point, and never wearied of hearing and telling—

“How well Horatius kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.”

Upon the thither bank were mustered the hosts who made Lars Porsenna “a proud man” “upon the trysting-day.”

“There lacked not men of prowess,

Nor men of lordly race;

For all Etruria’s noblest

Were ’round the fatal place.”

From the same shore captive Clelia plunged into the river on horseback, and swam over to the city. A short distance above our halting-place the Cloaca Maxima, a huge, arched opening upon the brink, debouches into the river, still doing service as the chief sewer of Rome.

Macaulay does well to tell us that the current of Father Tiber was “swollen high by mouths of rain” when recounting the exploit of Horatius Coccles. The ramparts from which the Romans frowned upon their foes exist no longer, but the low-lying river gives no exalted estimate of their altitude when

“To the highest turret-tops

Was splashed the yellow foam.”

“In point of fact,” as the Average Briton would say, the Tiber is a lazy, muddy water-course, not half as wide, I should say, as the Thames, and less lordly in every way. At its best, i. e., its fullest, it is never grand or dignified; a sulky, unclean parent Rome should be ashamed to claim.

“How dirty Horatius’ clothes must have been when he got out!” said Boy, seriously, eying with strong disfavor the “tawny mane,” sleek to oiliness in the calm afternoon light.

Dredging-boats moor fast to the massive piers of the Pons Sublicius, better known to us as the Horatian Bridge. They were always at work upon the oozy bed of the river, to what end, we could never discover.

The Monte Testaccio, a hill less than two hundred feet high, starts abruptly out of the rough plain in front of the English Cemetery. It is composed entirely of pot-sherds, broken crockery of all kinds, covered with a slow accretion of earth thick enough to sustain scanty vegetation. Why, when, and how, the extraordinary pile of refuse grew into its present proportions, is a mystery. It is older than the Aurelian wall in whose shelter nestles the Protestant burying-ground.

The custodian, always civil and obliging, learned to know and welcome us by and by, and after answering our ring at the gate would say, smilingly:—“You know the way!” and leave us to our wanderings. Boy had permission to fill his cap with scarlet and white camellias which had fallen from the trees growing in the ground and open air at mid-winter. I might pick freely the violets and great, velvet-petaled pansies covering graves and borders. When the guardian of the grounds bade us “Good-day” at our egress, he would add to gentle chidings for the smallness of my bouquet, a bunch of roses, a handful of double purple violets or a spray of camellias. We were at home within the enclosure, to us a little sanctuary where we could be thoughtful, peaceful—hardly sad.

“It is enough to make one in love with death to think of sleeping in so sweet a spot,” wrote Shelley.

“Strangers always ask first for Shelley’s tomb,” said the custodian.

It lies at the top of a steep path, directly against the hoary wall where the ivy clings and flaunts, and the green lizards play in the sunshine, so tame they scarcely stir or hide in the crevices as the visitor’s shadow touches them.

“PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,

COR CORDIUM.

NATUS IV. AUG. MDCCXCII.

OBIT VIII. JULY MDCCCXXI.

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.”

Leigh Hunt and Trelawney have made familiar the strange sequel of a wild, strange life. Overtaken upon the Mediterranean by a sudden squall, Shelley had hardly time to start from his lounging-place on deck, and thrust into his jacket-pocket the copy of Keats’ Lamia he was reading, when the yacht capsized. His body, with that of Williams, his friend and fellow-voyager, was cast on shore by the waves several days afterward, and burned in the presence of Byron, Trelawney, Hunt, and others.

“Shelley, with his Greek enthusiasm, would not have been sorry to foresee this part of his fate,” writes Hunt. Frankincense, wine and spices, together with Keats’ volume found in his pocket, open at the page he had been reading, were added to the flames.

“The yellow sand and blue sky were intensely contrasted with one another,” continues the biographer. “Marble mountains touched the air with coolness, and the flame of the fire bore away toward heaven in vigorous amplitude, waving and quivering with a brightness of inconceivable beauty. It seemed as though it contained the glassy essence of vitality.”

Trelawney’s account of the ceremony is realistic and revolting. The heart remained perfect amid the glowing embers, and Trelawney accredits himself with the pious act of snatching it from the fire. It and the ashes were sent to Rome for interment “in the place which he had so touchingly described in recording its reception of Keats.”

On week-days, the little cemetery which we had to ourselves on Sabbath, is a popular resort for travelers. Instead of the holy calm that to us, had become one with the caressing sunlight and violet-breath, the old wall gives back the chatter of shrill tongues and gruff responses, as American women and English men trip and tramp along the paths in haste to “do” this one of the Roman sights. We were by Shelley’s tomb, one day, when a British matron approached, accompanied by two pretty daughters or nieces. Murray was open in her hand at “Burial-ground—English.”

“Ah, Shelley!” she cooed in the deep chest-voice affected by her class, screwing her eye-glass well in place before bringing it to bear upon the horizontal slab. “The poet and infidel, Shelley, me dears! A man of some note in his day. I went to school with his sister, I remember. Quite a nice girl, too, I assure you. Poor Shelley! it was a pity he imbibed such very-very sad notions upon certain subjects, for he really was not without ability!”

The fancy of how the wayward genius would have listened to these comments above a poet’s grave would have provoked a smile from melancholy itself.

In another quarter of the cemetery rests the mortal part of one whom we knew for ourselves, to have been a good man and a useful. Rev. N. C. Burt, formerly a Baltimore pastor, died in Rome, whither he had come for health, and sleeps under heartsease and violets that are never blighted by winter.

“In so sweet a spot!” We said it aloud, in gathering for his wife a cluster of white violets growing above his heart.

Death and the grave cannot be made less fearful than in this garden of the blest:—

“Where, like an infant’s smile, over the dead,

A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.”

Keats is buried in the old cemetery, of which the new is an adjunct. It is bounded at the back by the Aurelian wall; on two sides, by a dry moat, and the fourth by the pyramid of Cestius. An arched bridge crosses the narrow moat, and the gate is kept locked. On the side of the arch next his grave is a profile head of Keats in basso-relievo; beneath it, this acrostic—

“Keats! if thy cherished name be ‘writ in water,’

Each drop has fallen from some mourner’s cheek,—

A sacred tribute, such as heroes seek,

‘Though oft in vain—for dazzling deeds of slaughter.

Sleep on! Not honored less for epitaph so meek!”

The tomb is an upright head-stone, simple but massive, with the well-known inscription:—

“This Grave
Contains all that was Mortal
of a
Young English Poet
Who
on his Death Bed
in the Bitterness of his Heart
at the Malicious Power of his Enemies
Desired
these Words to be engraven on his Tomb Stone:
“Here lies One
Whose Name was writ in Water.”
Feb. 24^th 1821”

A marble bar runs around the sides and foot, and the space enclosed is literally covered with violets. An English lady pays the expense of their renewal as fast as they die, or are plucked. They must bloom forever upon the grave of Keats. So runs her order.

The custodian added to those he gave us, a rose and a sprig of a fragrant shrub that grew by the head-stone, and wondered politely when I knelt to pick the daisies smiling in the grass.

“I gather and I shall preserve them,” I explained, “because when Keats was dying, he said—‘I feel the daisies growing over me!’”

Daisies thronged the place all winter, and blossomed as abundantly in the sward on the other side of the moat. The most distinct mind-picture I have of those Sabbath afternoon walks and talks among and beside the dead shows me the broken battlements of the wall, the ivy streaming through the useless loop-holes; the flowery slope of the graves down to the moat, on the other side of which lies Keats under his fragrant coverlet; the solemn old pyramid casting a shadow upon turf and tomb, and in the foreground Boy skipping over the grass, “telling himself a story,” very softly because the silent sleepers are so near, or busily picking daisies to add to the basket of flowers that are to fill our salle with perfume until we come again.

“So sweet a spot!”

CHAPTER XVII.
With the Skeletons.

IN the Piazza Barberini is the Fountain of the Triton by Bernini, one of the least objectionable of his minor works. A chubby, sonsie fellow is the young Triton, embrowned by wind, water and sun, seated in a shell, supported by four dolphins and blowing into a conch with a single eye to business that should, but does not act as a salutary example to the tribe of beggars, models and gossips who congregate around him.

From the right of the spacious square leads the street on which stands the Palace of the Barberini,—I had nearly written the Bee-hive, so intimate grows the association between the powerful family and these busy stingers to one who has studied the Barberini monuments, erected by them while living, and to them when defunct. I have consistently and resolutely refrained, thus far, from plying my readers with art-criticisms—fore-ordained to be skipped—of pictures and statues which do not interest those who have never seen them, and fail to satisfy those who have. I mention the picture of Beatrice Cenci by Guido Reni because it is the most wonderful portrait extant. Before seeing it, I fairly detested the baby-face, with a towel wound about the head, that looked slyly backward at me from the window of every print-shop. Of the principal feature so raved about by Byronic youths and bilious school-girls, it might be said,—

“Thou hast no speculation in the eyes

That thou dost glare with.”

The other lineaments would have been passable in a Paris doll. Believing these caricatures—or some of them—to be tolerable copies of the original, we lived in Rome four months; made ourselves pretty well acquainted with the half-dozen good pictures among the host of poor ones in the Palazzo Doria, and the choice gems in the small Academia di San Luca; we had seen the Aurora of the Rospiglioso, the Antinöus upon the mantel in Villa Albani; Venus Victrix and Daphne in the Borghese, and the unrivaled frescoes upon the walls and ceilings of the Palazzo Farnese, besides going, on an average, once a week to the Capitoline and Vatican museums;—yet never been persuaded by friends wiser or less prejudiced than we, to enter the meagrely supplied art-gallery of the Barberini Palace. When we did go it was with a languor of curiosity clogging our steps and dulling our perceptions, which found no stimulus in the two outer apartments of the suite. There were the usual proportion of Holy Families, Magdalenes, and Portraits, to an unusual number of which conscientious Baedeker had affixed interrogation-points casting worse than doubt upon their origin;—Christ among the Doctors—which it is difficult to imagine was painted by Dürer, but easy to believe was “done” in five days; Raphael’s Fornarina, a shade more brazen and a thought less handsome than the bar-maid of the same title, in the Uffizzi at Florence, and so plainly what she was, one is sorry to trace Raphael’s name upon her bracelet. Then the guide suddenly turned toward the light a small, shabby frame hung upon a hinge—and a soul looked at us!

“The very saddest picture ever painted or conceived. It involved an unfathomable depth of sorrow, the sense of which came to the observer by a sort of intuition.... It is infinitely heart-breaking to meet her glance and to feel that nothing can be done to help or comfort her; neither does she ask help or comfort, knowing the hopelessness of the case better than we do.”

Hawthorne comprehended and expressed the spirit of the composition (if it be a fancy sketch, as latter-day iconoclasts insinuate), and the language of the doomed girl’s eyes. Even he has told but a part of the story; given but a hint of the nature of the charm that holds cool critic and careless stroller spell-bound before this little square of canvas. There is sorcery in it pen nor tongue can define. It haunted and tormented us until the possession was provoking. After coming many times to experience the same thrill—intense to suffering if we gazed long;—after dreaming of her by day and by night, and shunning, more disgustfully than ever, the burlesques in the shops—“the poor girl with the blubbered eyes,”—we tried to forget her. It was weak to be thus swayed by a twenty-inch painting; unworthy of people who fearlessly pronounced Perugino stiff, and had not been overwhelmed to rapturous incoherence by the sprawling anatomical specimens left by Michael Angelo to the guild of art-lovers under the name of the “Last Judgment.” Saying and feeling thus,—we took every opportunity of slipping without premeditation, or subsequent confession into the Barberini Palace;—finally leaving the picture and Rome, no better able to account for our fascination than after our first grudging visit.

Returning to the square of the Triton after one of these bootless excursions, we ascended a short avenue to the plain old church of the Capuchins. A Barberini founded this also, and the convent next door,—a cardinal, and brother to Urban VIII. He made less use of the bees and Bernini in his edifices than did his kinsman. That he had a juster appreciation of true genius, was evinced by his hospitable attentions to Milton when he was in Rome. Church annals record, moreover, the circumstance that Cardinal Barberini availed himself no further of the family wealth and aggrandizement than to give liberally to the poor and endow this church and monastery. He is buried beneath the high altar, and a modest stone bears the oft-borrowed epitaph—“Hic jacet pulvis, cinis, et nihil!”

There are famous paintings in this church,—the chapel nearest the entrance containing Guido Reni’s “St. Michael,” while upon the walls of the next but one is a fine fresco of the “Death of St. Francis,” by Domenichino. The crypts are, however, the popular attraction of the place.