Chapter IV: Part 4

The editor tells one of the several causes of the exodus which is embracing many of the most valuable citizens of the old lands where class distinctions still linger. Man longs not only to be free but to be equal, if he has much manhood in him; and that America is the home for such men, numbers of the best are fast finding out. But England will soon march forward; she is not going to rest behind very long. There will soon be no superior political advantages here for the masses, nor educational ones either. England is at work in earnest, and what she does, she does well. I prophecy that young England will give young America a hard race for supremacy.

Some of us walked ahead of the coach for several miles, and I had a chat with a man whom we met. He was a rough carpenter and his wages were sixteen shillings per week ($4). A laborer gets eleven shillings (not $2.75), but some "good masters" pay thirteen to fourteen shillings ($3.25 to $3.50), and give their men four or five pounds of beef at Christmas. Food is bacon and tea, which are cheap, but no beef. Men's wages have not advanced much for many years (I should think not!), but women's have. An ordinary woman for field work can get one shilling per day (24 cents); a short time ago ninepence (18 cents) was the highest amount paid. Is it not cheering to find poor women getting an advance? But think what their condition still is, when one shilling per day is considered good pay! I asked whether employers did not board the workers in addition to paying these wages, but he assured me they did not. This is southern England and these are agricultural laborers, but the wages seem distressingly low even as compared with British wages in general. The new system of education and the coming extension of the suffrage to the counties will soon work a change among these poor people. They will not rest content crowding each other down thus to a pittance when they can read and write and vote. Thank fortune for this.

Our ladies were unusually gay in their decorations to-day, with bunches of wild flowers on their breasts and hats crowned with poppies and roses. They decked the Queen Dowager out until she looked as if ready to play Ophelia. Their smiles too were as pretty as their flowers. What an embodied joy bright, happy ladies are under all conditions, and how absolutely essential for a coaching party! Was it not Johnson's idea of happiness to drive in a gig with a pretty woman? He wasn't much of a muff! If anything could have kept him in good humor, this would have done it. If he could have been on top of a coach with a bevy of them, not even he could have said a rude thing.

[Sidenote: _Oxford._]

Oxford was reached before the sun went down. Its towers were seen for miles--Magdalen, Baliol, Christ Church, and other familiar names. We crossed the pretty little Isis, marvelling at every step, and drove up the High Street to the Clarendon.

The next day was to be Commencement, and only a few rooms were to be had in the hotel, but we were distributed very comfortably among houses in the neighborhood. Several hours before dinner were delightfully spent in a grand round of the colleges. We peeped into the great quads, walked the cloisters, and got into all kinds of queer old-fashioned places. But the stroll along the Isis, and past Magdalen Tower, and up the long walk--that was the grand finish! We pardon Wolsey his greed of getting, he was so princely in giving. To the man who did so much for Oxford much may be forgiven.

* * * * *

OXFORD, June 21.

This morning was devoted to visiting the principal colleges more in detail, and also to the ascent of the tower of the Sheldonian Theatre, which no one should ever miss doing. Below us lay the city of palaces, for such it seems, palaces of the right kind too--not for idle kings or princes to riot in, and corrupt society by their bad example, but for those who "scorn delights and live laborious days."

Our Cambridge member, Mr. B., tells us it does not cost more than L200 ($1,000) per annum for a student here. This seems very cheap. The tariff which we saw in one of the halls gave us a laugh:

"Commons.
Mutton, long, 11_d._
do. short, 9_d._
do. half, 7_d._"

The long and the half we could understand, but how could they manage the short? This must be a kind of medium portion for fellows whose appetites are only so-so. You see how fine things are cut even in Oxford. Our party thought if the students were coaching there would be little occasion for them to know anything of either short or half. At least we were all in for long commons at eleven pence.

[Sidenote: _Martyrs._]

We drove past the martyrs' memorial, Latimer and Ridley's. Cranmer does not deserve to be named with them. A visit to such a monument always does me good, for it enables me to say to those who doubt the real advancement of mankind: Now look at this, and think for what these grand men were burnt! Is it conceivable that good, sterling men shall ever again be called upon in England to die for opinion's sake! That Cranmer wrote and advocated the right and necessity of putting to death those who differed from him, and therefore that he met the fate he considered it right to mete to others, shows what all parties held in those dark days. I claim that the world has made a distinct and permanent advance in this department which in no revolving circle of human affairs is ever to be lost. The persecution of the Rev. Mr. Green, of Professor Robertson Smith, and of Bishop Colenso in the present day proves, no doubt, that there is much yet to be done ere we can be very proud of our progress; but these are the worst of to-day's persecutions, and could occur only in England and Scotland. There is a long gap between them and burning at the stake! Grand old Latimer was prophetic when he called out from amid the faggots to his colleague: "Be of good comfort and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace as I trust shall never be put out!"

I think it certain that the candle will never again be put out. The bigots of to-day can annoy only in Britain. In other English-speaking communities even that power has passed away, and persecution for opinion's sake is unknown. "A man may say the thing he will"--there is a further and a higher stage yet to be reached when a man will consider it a man's part to have an opinion upon all matters and say what he thinks boldly, concealing nothing.

We left Oxford with just a sprinkle of rain falling, but we had scarcely got fairly out of the city when it ceased and left the charming landscape lovelier than ever. Banbury Cross was our destination, and on our route lay magnificent Blenheim, the estate given by the nation to the Duke of Marlborough. See what the nations do for the most successful murderers of their fellows! and how insignificant have ever been the rewards of those who preserve, improve, or discover--for a Marlborough or a Wellington a fortune, for a Howard or a Wilberforce a pittance. It is only in heathen China that the statesman, the man of letters, heads the list. No military officer, however successful as a destroyer, can ever reach the highest rank there, for with them the victories of peace are more renowned than those of war; that is reserved for the men who know--the Gladstones and the Disraelis, the Darwins and the Spencers, the Arnolds and the Ruskins. It is only in civilized countries that the first honors are given to butchers.

[Sidenote: _Blenheim._]

Blenheim is superb, grand, and broad enough to satisfy princely tastes. And that noble library! As we walked through it we felt subdued, as if in the presence of the gods of ages past, for a worthy collection of great books ever breathes forth the influence of kings dead yet present, of

"Those dead but sceptred sovereigns
Whose spirits still rule us from their urns."

And to think that this library, in whose treasures we revelled, reverently taking one old tome after another in our hands, has since then been sold by auction! Degenerate wretch! but one descended from Marlborough can scarcely be called degenerate. You may not even be responsible for what seems like family dishonor; some previous heir may have rendered the sale necessary; but the dispersion of such treasures as these must surely open the eyes of good men in England to the folly of maintaining hereditary rank and privilege. Perhaps, however, the noble owner had no more use for his books than the lord whose library Burns was privileged to see, which showed no evidences of usage. The bard wrote in a volume of Shakespeare he took up:

"Through and through the inspired leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But oh! respect his lordship's taste
And spare his golden bindings."

With many notable exceptions, the aristocracy of Britain took its rise from bad men who did the dirty work of miserable kings, and from women who were even worse than their lords. It seems hastening to an end in a manner strictly in accordance with its birth. Even Englishmen will soon become satisfied that no man should be born to honors, but that these should be reserved for those who merit them. But what kind of fruit could be expected from the tree of privilege? Its roots lie in injustice, and not the least of its evils are those inflicted upon such as are born under its shadow. The young peer who succeeds in making somebody of himself does so in spite of a vicious system, and is entitled to infinite praise; but though our race is slow to learn, the people hear a wee bird singing these stirring days, and they begin to like the song. The days of rank are numbered.

* * * * *

BANBURY, June 22.

[Sidenote: _Banbury Cross._]

Banbury Cross was reached about five o'clock, and few of us were so far away in years or feeling from the days of childhood as not to remember the nursery rhyme which was repeated as we came in sight of the famous Cross. We expected to see a time-worn relic of days long past, and I verily believe that some of us hoped for a glimpse of the old lady on the white horse, with "rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes." Imagine our disappointment, then, when we saw an elaborate Gothic structure, looking as new and modern as if it had received its finishing touches but yesterday. And so indeed it had, for it was recently erected by public subscription. The charm was gone.

I like new political institutions for my native land, but prefer the old historical structures; and as we drove past this spick-and-span imitation of antiquity I felt like criticising the good people of Banbury for the sacrilege I supposed they had committed in thus supplanting the ancient landmark which had made their town known the wide world over. I could not help entertaining a hope, too, that the original "goodly Crosse with many degrees about it," had been put away in some museum or other safe place where it could receive the homage of all devoted lovers of Mother Goose. Alas! inquiry developed the fact that the Puritanic besom of destruction, which demolished so many images and other ornaments in the churches in good Queen Bess's time, swept away Banbury Cross as early as 1602, and that not a piece of it remains to tell of its ancient glory.

Banbury was early noted as a stronghold of Puritanism, and was famous, as Fuller says, for "zeale, cheese and cakes." The zeal and the cheese are not now as strong as they were, but Banbury cakes are still in as high repute as ever, and are largely made and exported. They are probably the same now as in the days of Ben Jonson, who tells of them in "Bartholomew Fair,"--a kind of miniature mince pie, generally lozenge-shaped, consisting of a rich paste with a filling of Zante currants and other fruits.

Banbury has the celebrated works of my friend, Mr. Samuelson, M.P.; and before dinner I walked out to see them, and if possible to learn something of Mr. Samuelson's whereabouts. Upon returning to the hotel I found that he was at that moment occupying the sitting-room adjoining ours. We had an evening's talk and compared notes as brother manufacturers. If England and America are drawing more closely together politically, it is also true that the manufacturers of the two countries have nearly the same problems to settle. Mr. Samuelson was deep in railway discriminations and laboring with a parliamentary commission to effect changes, or rather, as he would put it, to obtain justice.

I gave an account of our plans, our failures, and our successes, of which he took note. This much I am bound to say for my former colleagues upon this side (for before I reformed I was a railway manager), that the manufacturers of Britain have wrongs of which we know nothing here, though ours are bad enough. I add the last sentence lest Messrs. Vanderbilt, Roberts, Cassatt, and the Garretts (father and son), might receive a wrong impression from the previous admission; for these are the gentlemen upon whom our fortunes hang.

[Sidenote: _Political Economy Club._]

The evidence given before the Parliament Commission in Britain, proves that the people there are subjected to far worse treatment at the hands of railway companies than we are here. American grain is transported from Liverpool to London, for one-half the rate charged upon English grain from points near Liverpool--I give this as one instance out of hundreds. The defence of the railway company is that unless they carry the foreign article at half rates the ships will carry it to London direct, or that it will go by sea from Liverpool. I attended a meeting of the Political Economy Club, in London, where the question of legislative interference with railway charges was ably discussed. The prevalent opinion seemed to be that it was doubtful whether the evils could be cured by legislation. Being called upon to state our experience here, I gave them an account of the unwise policy pursued by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company (now happily reversed) at Pittsburgh and its consequences; for the great riot in Pittsburgh had for its real source the practice of the Railway Company of carrying the manufactures of the East, from New York and Philadelphia, through the city of Pittsburgh to the West for less than it would carry the same articles for from Pittsburgh, although the distance was twice as great. Many such anomalies as this still exist in England.

The members seemed interested in hearing that the result was that the railway company finally agreed that in no case should the rates to and from the shorter exceed those charged for the greater distance, and Pittsburgh manufactures are now taken East and West at ten per cent. less than the through rates between Chicago and the seaboard, no matter how these may be forced by competition. While this rule does not ensure exact justice nor cover all cases, it is nevertheless a great step in advance and removes most of the more serious causes for just complaint.

The club spoken of is a notable one. It consists of twenty-five members, only vacancies caused by death being filled by election. Admission is considered a great honor. It is said that every question within the range of practical politics upon which the club has declared its opinion, has been legislated upon within a short time in accordance with its decision. Every member is well known and must have a national reputation. Among those present were Sir John Lubbock, who learnt early in youth a rare secret, the way to learn--"_consider the ways of the ant, and be wise_"--and Mr. Fawcett, the blind Postmaster-General, a man whose career proves, as clearly perhaps as ever was proved, the truth that there is no difficulty to him who wills.

Mr. Leonard Courtney, one of the coming men, took a leading part in the discussion on railways; Mr. Giffen, however, read the paper of the evening, which of course was able, although on the wrong side, as I think. He is the noted man of figures, whose recent article, read before the Statistical Society, showing the hundreds of millions America is soon to contain, produced so startling an effect here, as well as in Europe. Mr. Shaw Le Fevre, Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe), and the father of the Corn Law Repeal movement, Mr. Villiers, and several others of note were present.

[Sidenote: _Satires and Epigrams._]

I was indebted to one of the members, my friend Prof. Thorold E. Rogers, M.P., for the coveted opportunity to visit this club. By the way, I wonder the Professor's book of Satires and Epigrams has not been republished in America. It is wonderfully clever, and the Charioteers have had many a laugh and many a pleasant half hour enjoying it.

Here is a specimen, which I may be pardoned quoting, as I found upon inquiry that the hero Brown was no less than one of my own friends, a Dunfermline man too, at that, Mr. Reid, M.P.:

"Sent to a distant land in early youth,
Brown made his way by honor, thrift, and truth;
Ten years he worked and saved, then, satisfied,
Back to his native land our merchant hied.
A man of worth as well as wealth, he sought
How he might wisely use the cash he'd brought:
He clearly saw his fortune could be graced
Only by prudence, candor, judgment, taste;
Assumed no airs, indulged in no pretence,
Guided his words, his acts, by common sense;
Maintained his self-respect, though glad to please,
Seemed not to aim, but won his aims with ease,
And proved that he had learnt the highest tact,
When no one feared and no one dared detract.
(I don't say hate, for some men are so nice
They cannot bear a man without a vice);
Well, such a hater, with a well-bred sneer,
(He took good care that all the room could hear):
Said, 'Dawdle asked me, Brown, if I could tell
What are your shield, your arms, your motto?' Well,
Brown winced, grew red, looked puzzled for a while,
Then answered gayly with a pleasant smile,
'My shield is _or_, sir, and the arms I bear,
Three mushrooms rampant.'--Motto, '_Here we are_.'"

There are many similar good things in the book, so I venture to point it out to the enterprising publishers of America as something worthy of--"conveying."

There is much discussion this morning as to the best route to take, there is so much to tempt us on either of several ways. Shall we go by Compton Verney (there is a pretty English name for you), Wellesbourn, and Hastings? or shall we take our way through Broughton Castle, Tadmarton, Scoalcliffe, Compton Wynyate, and Oxhill? In one way Wroxton Abbey, one of the real genuine baronial abbeys, if one may say so, and Edgehill. Surely no good Republican would miss that! But on the other route we shall see the stronghold of Lord Saye and Sele, older yet than Wroxton, and Compton Wynyate, older and finer than all--"a noble wreck in ruinous perfection," and a third route still finer than either as far as scenery is concerned. Such is this treasure house, this crowded grand old England, whose every mile boasts such attractions to win our love.

"Look where we may, we cannot err
in this delicious region--change of place
Producing change of beauty--ever new."

Every day's journey only proves to us how little of all there is to see we can see; how much we miss on the right and on the left. One might coach upon this Island every summer during his whole life and yet die leaving more of beauty and of interest to visit than all that he had been able to see. When one does not know how to spend a summer's holiday let him try this coaching life and thank heaven for a new world opened to him.

[Sidenote: _Wroxton Abbey._]

We chose the first route, and whatever the others might have proved we are satisfied, for it is unanimously decided that in Wroxton Abbey we have seen our most interesting structure. Though it dates only from the beginning of the seventeenth century, it is a grand building and a fine example of the domestic architecture of the period. Its west front is a hundred and eighteen feet long, and its porch is an elegant specimen of the Italian decorated entrances of the time. Blenheim and Windsor are larger, but had we our choice we would take Wroxton in preference to either. With what interest did we wander through its quaint irregular chambers and inspect its treasures! James I. slept in this bed, Charles I. in that, and George IV. in another; this quilt is the work of Mary Queen of Scots--there is her name; Queen Elizabeth occupied this chamber during a visit, and King William this. Then the genuine old pictures, although in this department Blenheim stands unrivalled. Marlborough knew the adage that "to the victor belongs the spoils," and acted upon it too, for he had rare opportunities abroad to gather treasures. But for a realization of your most picturesque ideal of a great old English house, betake yourselves to Wroxton Abbey. Its little chapel, rich in very old oak carving, is in itself worth a journey to see.

A pretty story is told of the visit of James I. to the Abbey. The wife of Sir William Pope, the owner, had lately presented him with a daughter, and on the King's arrival the babe was brought to him bearing in her little hand a scroll containing the following verses:

"See this little mistres here,
Did never sit in Peter's chaire,
Or a triple crowne did weare;
And yet she is a Pope.

"No benefice she ever sold,
Nor did dispence with sins for gold;
She hardly is a sev'nnight old,
And yet she is a Pope.

"No King her feet did ever kisse,
Or had from her worse look than this:
Nor did she ever hope
To saint one with a rope;
And yet she is a Pope.
A female Pope, you'll say, a second Joan;
No sure--she is Pope Innocent or none."

[Sidenote: _Edgehill._]

We lunched off deal tables and drank home-brewed ale in the tap-room of the Holcroft Inn, a queer old place, but we had a jolly time amid every kind of thing that carried us back to the England of past centuries. Beyond Holcroft we came suddenly upon the grandest and most extensive view by far that had yet rejoiced us. We were rolling along absorbed in deep admiration of the fertile land that spread out before us on both sides of the road, and extolling the never-ceasing peacefulness and quiet charm of England, when, on passing through a cut, a wide and varied panorama lay stretched at our feet. A dozen picturesque villages and hamlets were in sight, and by the aid of our field-glass a dozen more were brought within range. The spires of the churches, the poplars, the hedgerows, the woods, the gently undulating land apparently giving forth its luxuriant harvest with such ease and pleasure, all these made up such a picture as we could not leave. We ordered the coach to go on and wait at the foot of the hill until we had feasted ourselves with the view. We lay upon the face of the hill and gazed on Arcadia smiling below. Very soon some of the neighboring residents came, for one is never long without human company in crowded England; and we found that we were indeed upon sacred ground. This was Edgehill! As sturdy republicans we lingered long upon the spot, gazing on the scene of that bloody fight between king and people which, however, was almost without immediate result--for it was a drawn battle--but which eventually led to so much. Charles's army lay at Banbury, whence we had just come, that of the Parliament at Kineton yonder, and spread out before us was the plain where they met. The ground is now occupied by two farms called the Battle Farms, distinguished as Battleton and Thistleton. Between the farm-houses, on the latter place, are the places where the slain were buried, appropriately called the Grave Fields. A copse of fir trees in one place is said to mark the site of a pit into which five hundred were thrown.

Some of the royalist writers have tried to prove that Cromwell was not present at Edgehill, and one has even countenanced an idle tale that he witnessed the battle from a steeple on one of the neighboring hills, and that he incontinently took to his heels, or rather to his horses' legs, when he thought the meeting had resulted disastrously to the forces of the Parliament. But Carlyle characterizes this story as it deserves, for Lord Nugent expressly mentions Cromwell's troop of dragoons as among those that charged at the close of the battle. No, no, stern old Oliver was not the man to stand aloof when he once had scent of a battle; and we may be sure, although he was then but a captain of horse, that he did good service at Edgehill.

There were good men on both sides that day, and not the least among them was brave Sir Jacob Astley, who commanded Charles's foot. He was withal a man of piety, for the Parliamentarians did not have a monopoly in that line, however much their chroniclers may claim it; and I have always regarded his prayer on that momentous Sunday morning as a model which many clergymen might study with profit to themselves and to their congregations. "O Lord!" said he, as he settled himself firmly in the saddle, "Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me. March on, boys!" Is not that to the purpose?

Let such as are at their appointed work have no fear that they will ever be forgotten--the performance of a duty ranks before the offering of a prayer, any day--nay, is of itself the best prayer. There's plenty of time for lip service when we have served the Lord by hard work in a good cause. When people have nothing better to do let them pray, but don't let them be too greedy and ask much for themselves.

[Sidenote: _Warwick Castle._]

Our route lay through Warwick and Leamington. The view of the castle from the bridge is, I believe, the best of its kind in England. "From turret to foundation stone" it is all perfect. The very entrance tells of the good old days. As we pass beneath the archway, over the drawbridge, and under the portcullis, it all comes back to us.

"Up drawbridge, grooms. What, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall!
To pass there was such scanty room
The bars descending razed his plume."

Warwick, the king-maker! This was his castle. His quarrel with the king was one of our most taking recitations. The Scribe was considered heavy in this:

"Know this, the man who injured Warwick
Never passed uninjured yet."

He found that out, did he not, my lord of the ragged staff!

The view from the great hall looking on the river below is fixed in my mind. Don't miss it; and surely he who will climb to the top of Guy's Tower will have cause for thankfulness for many a year thereafter. You get a look at more of England there than is generally possible. I sympathize with Ruskin in his rage at the attempt to raise funds by subscription to mend the ravages of a recent fire in the castle. A Warwick in the role of a Belisarius begging for an obolus! If the king-maker could look upon this! But historical names are now often trailed in the dust in England; and it must be some consolation to him, wherever he may be, to know that the bearer of the title, if responsible for this, is no scion of the old stock.

[Sidenote: _Guy of Warwick._]

The legend of Guy of Warwick, accepted as an historical fact by the early writers, has been relegated to the garret of monkish superstition, with the ribs of the dun cow and other once undoubted relics; but its romance will always lend an interest to the old castle and attract the traveller to the site of the hermitage on Guy's Cliff where the fabled hero died and was buried. You must not suppose that Guy's Tower had any connection with the original Guy, for the building dates only from the close of the fourteenth century, while the latter boasts an antiquity of nearly a thousand years. Indeed, we can place him to a dot, for the antiquary Rous is very precise in his statement. He says: "On the twelfth of June, 926, being the third year of the reign of Athelstan, a most terrible single combat took place between the champions of the kings of England and Denmark--Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Colebrand the Pagan, an African giant; through the mercy of God the Christian undertook the combat, being advised thereto by an angel; and the faithful servant of God and the Church fortunately vanquished the enemy of the whole realm of England."

Is it not dreadful to contemplate what might have been the consequences if Colebrand the African had got the upper hand of that faithful servant of God and the Church! But it was not to be. The Pagan had a lost fight from the start, for, though the chronicle does not expressly say so, it is very evident to the reflecting mind that Guy was backed throughout by the angel--a mean advantage which, but for the immensity of the stake, would have led any ordinary lover of fair play to side with the weaker party. But not so with the wily monks of those days. In their easy consciences the end justified the means, and so they glorified Guy as the champion of all that was good, and so sedulously trumpeted his fame that the Norman barons who succeeded to the ownership of the old Saxon stronghold saw their interest in adopting the victor as an ancestor. In time these Normans came to believe implicitly in the family tree with Guy at the root, just as some silly people pin their faith to the parchment evidences of the professional genealogists proving their descent from some fabulous hero who followed William and his crew from Normandy. They named their sons after Guy, called the tower his tower, and hung up his arms and armor in the great hall, while their wives and daughters worked his exploits in tapestry.

These proud descendants of a fabulous ancestor remind one of the general in the "Pirates of Penzance" who is found weeping at the tomb in the abbey belonging to the property he has purchased. When it is suggested to him that his tears are misplaced, he replies: "Sir, when I bought this property I bought this abbey and this tomb with its _contents_. I do not know whose ancestors these _were_, but I do know whose ancestors they _are_." And he falls to sobbing again, bound to have an ancestry of some kind, the more important the more to belittle himself by comparison. But the general is very English for all that. Tennyson's lines,

"Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heavens above us bent
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent,"

are well known and repeated by the school children all over the land, but the grown men and women, entirely free from the weakness of trying to figure out a family tree of respectable antiquity, will be found unexpectedly small in this old land. Josh Billings settled the matter as far as Americans are concerned, for the malady is even more ridiculous in the New World. "We can't boast old family here," says he, "the country ain't _long_ enough, unless a feller has Injun in him." That is what the lawyers call an estoppel, I take it.

[Sidenote: _Kenilworth Castle._]

Driving through Leamington we reached Kenilworth Castle for luncheon, to which we had looked forward for several days. Alas! the keeper informed us that no picnic parties are admitted since the grounds have been put into such excellent order by the kind Earl Clarendon (for which thanks, good earl). But he was a man of some discrimination, this custodian of the ruins, and when he saw our four-in-hand and learned who we were--Americans! Brighton to Inverness!--he made us an exception to the rule, of which I trust his lordship will approve, if he ever hears. We had one of our happiest luncheons beneath the walls under a large hawthorn tree, which we decided was the very place where the enraged Queen Bess discovered dear Amy Robsart on that memorable night.

A thousand memories cluster round this ruin; but what should we have known of it had not the great magician touched with his wand this dead mass of stone and lime and conferred immortality upon the actors and their revels? In his pages we live over again the days of old, and take part with the Virgin Queen and her train of lords and ladies in the grand reception so lavishly prepared for her amusement by the then reigning favorite; ruined walls and towers and courts assume their ancient proportions and resound with music and revelry, and the noble park, now so quiet, is alive once more with huntsmen and gayly clad courtiers. But vivid as is Scott's picture, it is exceeded in quaint interest by the original account of the festivities from which the great romancer drew his facts, but which is as little known to the ordinary reader of "Kenilworth" as is the prototype of Hamlet to the common play-goer. Master Robert Laneham, the writer, was a sort of hanger-on of the court, and appears to have accompanied Leicester to Kenilworth. His account is in the form of a letter addressed to "my good friend, Master Humfrey Martin, Mercer," in London, and is written, says Scott, "in a style of the most intolerable affectation, both in point of composition and orthography."

After a brief account of the preliminary journey of the queen, this veracious chronicler informs us that she was "met in the Park, about a flight shoot from the Brayz and first gate of the castl" by a person representing "one of the ten Sibills, comely clad in a Pall of white Sylk, who pronounced a proper Poezi in English Rime and meeter."... "This her majestie benignly accepting, passed foorth untoo the next gate of the Brayz, which, for the length, largenes, and use they call now the Tylt-yard; whear a Porter, tall of Person, big of lim and stearn of countinance, wrapt also all in Sylke, with a club and keiz of quantitee according, had a rough speech full of Passions, in meeter aptly made to the purpose."

[Sidenote: _A Giant's Portrait._]

Be it here recorded that the Charioteers had the pleasure while in London of looking upon the portrait of this giant porter, which hangs in the King's Guard Chamber at Hampton Court Palace. It is supposed to have been painted by the Italian artist Ferdinando Zucchero, who, it will be remembered, visited England. The fellow is truly called "big of lim," for the canvas is more than nine feet high and the figure, which is said to be of life size, measures eight and a half feet. His hand is seventeen inches long. He stands with his left hand on his hip and his right on a long rapier; is dressed in large balloon breeches, with black stockings, and a white quilted vest with a black waistcoat over it; and wears a cap with a feather in it and a small ruff. The picture was painted after the queen's visit to Kenilworth, for the date 1580 is plainly to be seen in one of the upper corners.

When the great porter had concluded, "six Trumpetoours, every one an eight foot hye in due proportion of Parson beside, all in long garments of Sylk suitabl," who stood upon the wall over the gate, sounded a "tune of welcum." These "armonious blasterz mainteined their music very delectably," while the queen rode into the inner gate, "where the Ladye of the Lake (famous in King Arthurz Book) with two Nymphes waiting uppon her, arrayed all in Sylks, attended her highness' coming. From the midst of the Pool, whear uppon a moovable Iland bright blazing with Torches, she floating to land, met her majestie with a well-penned meeter," expressive of the "Anncientie of the castl" and the hereditary dignity of its owners.

"This Pageant was cloz'd up with a delectabl harmony of Hautboiz, Shalmz, Cornets, and such oother loord Muzik," that held on while her majesty crossed a bridge over a dry valley in front of the castle gate, the different posts of which were decorated with fruits, flowers, birds, and other decorations emblematic of the gifts of Sylvanus, Pomona, Ceres, Neptune, and other divinities. Having passed this, the main gate of the castle was reached. Over it, on a "Tabl beautifully garnisht aboove with her Highness' Arms" was inscribed a Latin poem descriptive of the various tributes paid to her arrival by the gods and goddesses. The verses were read to her by a poet "in a long ceruleoous garment, with a side and wide sleevz Venecian wize drawen up to his elboz, his dooblet sleevz under that Crimson, nothing but Sylk: a Bay garland on his head, and a skro in his hand."... "So passing into the inner Coourt, her majesty (that never rides but alone), thear sat down from her palfrey, was conveied up to Chamber: When after did follo so great peal of gunz, and such lightning by fyrwork a long space toagither, as Jupiter woold sheaw himself too be no furthur behind with his welcoom than the rest of his gods."

The chronicler then gives an account of the festivities, which lasted seventeen days and comprised nearly every amusement known to the period. On Sunday, after "divine servis and preaching," the afternoon was spent in "excellent muzik of sundry swet Instruments and in dauncing of Lordes and Ladiez, and other woorshipfull degreez, uttered with such lively agilitee and commendable grace az whither it moought be more straunge too the eye, or pleazunt too the minde, for my part indeed I coold not discern."

[Sidenote: _Bearbaiting._]

One morning was devoted to a bearbaiting, in which thirteen bears and bandogs took part, "with such fending and prooving, with plucking and tugging, skratting and byting, by plain tooth and nayll a to side and toother, such expens of blood and leather waz thear between them, as a moonths licking I ween will not recoover."

Refined amusement, you say, for the Queen of England and her court only three hundred years ago. But not so fast, my dear lady; think what three hundred years hence will say of you and your amusements. Did you not give us a lively description the other evening of your riding after the hounds? Lady Gay Spanker herself, I thought, could not have done it better, and I am sure she was not more fascinating than you. But long before one hundred years shall pass, my friend, ladies in your station will be equally amazed that you could so torture a poor hare or fox and feel it to be not only not _unworthy of a lady_ but a source of enjoyment to you. I say your grandchild will blush for her grandma as she shows to her children the picture of your lovely face. What Queen Elizabeth is now in your eyes, what Roman emperors in the bloody Coliseum were in hers, you will be in the eyes of the third generation after you. Think of this. Remember what Cowper says:

"I would not rank among my list of friends,
Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
That man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm."

Men will give up such sports after a time; but surely we may expect women to find even in this day not only no pleasure but even positive pain in such sports and leave them to coarser natures.

[Sidenote: _Sunday Amusements._]

Another day was marked by the exhibition of an Italian tumbler, who displayed "such feats of agilitee, in goinges, turninges, tumblinges, castings, hops, jumps, leaps, skips, springs, gambaud, soomersauts, caprettiez, and flights; forward, backward, sydewize, a doownward, upward, and with sundry windings, gyrings and circumflexions; allso lightly and with such eaziness, as by me in feaw words it is not expressibl by pen or speech I tell yoo plain." On the second Sunday, after a "frutefull Sermon," a "solemn Brydeale of a proper Coopl was appointed in the tylt-yard," attended by all the country folk in holiday costume. This was followed by Morris dances, a Coventry play, and other games. "By my troth, Master Martyn, 'twaz a lively pastime; I beleeve it woold have mooved sum man to a right meerry mood, though had it be toold him hiz wife lay a dying." And all this on the Holy Sawbath--for shame, Queen Bess!

Nearly every hour had its appointed sport, one amusement following another in endless variety, and the park was peopled with mimic gods and goddesses who surprised the queen with complimentary dialogues and addresses at every turn. Dancing and feasting were kept up all day long and far into the night, for no note was taken of time. "The clok bell sang not a note all the while her highness waz thear; the clok also stood still withall; the handz of both the tablz stood firm and fast, allwayz poynting at two a clok," the hour of banquet.

The day of our visit to Kenilworth was very warm, even for Americans, and after luncheon we became a lazy, sleepy party. I have a distinct recollection of an upward and then a downward movement which awoke me suddenly. One after another of the party, caught asleep on a rug, was treated to a tossing amid screams of laughter. We were all very drowsy, but a fresh breeze arose as the sun declined, and remounting the coach late in the afternoon we had a charming drive to Stratford-on-Avon.

* * * * *

STRATFORD-ON-AVON, June 23.

Our resting-place was the Red Horse Inn, of which Washington Irving has written so delightfully. One can hardly say that he comes into Shakespeare's country, for one is always there, so deeply and widely has his influence reached. We live in his land always; but, as we approached the quiet little village where he appeared on earth, we could not help speculating upon the causes which produced the prodigy. One almost expects nature herself to present a different aspect to enable us to account in some measure for the apparition of a being so far beyond all others; but it is not so--we see only the quiet beauty which characterizes almost every part of England. His sweet sonnets seem the natural outbirth of the land. Where met he the genius of tragedy, think you? Surely not on the cultivated banks of the gentle Avon, where all is so tame. But as Shakespeare resembled other burghers of Stratford so much, not showing upon the surface that he was that

"largest son of time
Who wandering sang to a listening world,"

[Sidenote: _Shakespeare's Tomb._]

our search for external conditions as to his environment need not be continued. Ordinary laws are inapplicable--he was a law unto himself. How or why Shakespeare was Shakespeare will be settled when there shall be few problems of the race left to settle. It is well that he lies on the banks of the Avon, for that requires us to make a special visit to his shrine to worship him. His mighty shade alone fills the mind. True monotheists are we all who make the pilgrimage to Stratford. I have been there often, but I am always awed into silence as I approach the church; and when I stand beside the ashes of Shakespeare I cannot repress stern, gloomy thoughts, and ask why so potent a force is now but a little dust. The inexplicable waste of nature, a million born that one may live, seems nothing compared to this--the brain of a god doing its work one day and food for worms the next! No wonder, George Eliot, that this was ever the weight that lay upon your heart and troubled you so!

A cheery voice behind me. "What is the matter? Are you ill? You look as if you hadn't a friend in the world!" Thanks, gentle remembrancer. This is no time for the Scribe to forget himself. We are not out for lessons or for moralizing. Things are and shall be "altogether lovely." One must often laugh if one would not cry.

Here is a funny conceit. A worthy draper in the town has recently put an upright stone at the head of his wife's grave, with an inscription setting forth the dates of her birth and death, and beneath it the following verse:

"For the Lord has done great things for us, whereof we are
exceeding glad."

The wretch! One of the wives of our party declared that she could not like a man who could think at such a crisis of such a verse, no matter how he meant it. She was confident that he was one of those terribly resigned kind of men who will find that the Lord has done great things for him in the shape of a second helpmeet within two years.

This led to a search for other inscriptions. Here is one which struck our fancy:

"Under these ashes lies one close confined,
Who was to all both affable and kind;
A neighbor good, extensive to ye poor,
Her soul we hope's at rest forevermore."

This was discussed and considered to go rather too far. Good Swedenborgians still dispute about the body's rising again, and make a great point of that, as showing their superior wisdom, as if it mattered whether we rise with this body or another, any more than whether we wear one suit of clothes or another; the great matter being that we rise at all. But this good friend seems to bespeak rest forever for the soul. One of us spoke of having lately seen a very remarkable collection of passages from Scripture which seemed to permit the hope that all for whom a kind father has nothing better in store than perpetual torture will kindly be permitted to rest. One of the passages in question was: "For the wicked shall _perish_ everlastingly." The question was remitted to the theologians of our party, with instructions to give it prayerful consideration and report.

[Sidenote: _Everlasting Punishment._]

If there be Scriptural warrant for the belief, I wish to embrace it at once. Meanwhile I am not going to be sure that any poor miserable sinner is to be disturbed when after "life's fitful fever he sleeps well" on the tender, forgiving bosom of mother earth, unless he can be _finally_ fitted for as good or a better life than this. Therefore, good Emma and Ella and the rest who are staunch dogmatists, be very careful how you report, for it is a fearful thing to charge our Creator unjustly with decreeing everlasting torture even to the worst offender into whom He has breathed the breath of life. Refrain, if possible,

"Under this conjuration speak;
For we will hear, note, and believe in heart
That what you speak is in your conscience washed
As pure as sin with baptism."

I have not yet been favored with the report asked for, and therefore the question rests.

The Charioteers got upon delicate ground occasionally, as was to be expected, and although in all well regulated families two subjects--politics and religion--are proscribed, we came near running foul of the latter to-day. There were wide differences of opinion among us, of course, from the true blue Presbyterian, strong for all the tenets of Calvin, down to the milder Episcopalian who took more hopeful views and asked:

"Shall there not be as good a 'Then' as 'Now'?
Haply much better! since one grain of rice
Shoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,
And all the starry champak's white and gold
Lurks in those little, naked, gray spring-buds."

I related an incident which happened in Rome. As I entered the general drawing room one evening, an exciting discussion was going forward on the very subject which we were then considering. A lady of rank was giving expression to very advanced ideas which others were combatting. An old gentleman at last said: "Ladies and gentlemen, all this reminds me of a discussion we young men were having once in my good old father's hall, when my father happened to enter. After listening to us a few minutes he said: 'Young men, you may as well cease your arguing. I'll tell you all about it. In this life

"Our ingress is naked and bare,
Our progress is trouble and care,
Our egress is--no one knows where.

If you do well here, you'll do well there,--
I could tell you no more if I preached for a year."'"

The effect was instantaneous. Unanimous adhesion was given to the old gentleman's conclusion, and the party bid each other a cordial good night and went reconciled to bed. I am happy to record that such was also the effect upon the Charioteers.

[Sidenote: _Shakespeare Stories._]

It will be taken for granted that while the Charioteers were in this hallowed region many stories were told about Shakespeare. Two of the gentlemen of our party, at least, dated our love of letters to the circumstance that we were messenger boys in the Pittsburgh telegraph office; and when we carried telegrams to the managers of the theatre, good kind Mr. Porter (followed by one equally kind to us, Mr. Foster) permitted us after delivering them to pass up to the gallery among the gods, where we heard now and then one of the immortal plays. Having heard the melodious flow of words, which of themselves seem to have some spiritual meaning apart from the letter--differing in this from all other combinations of words--how could we rest till we got the plays and learnt most of the notable passages by heart, crooning over them till they became parts of our intellectual being? One story, I remember, shows how completely the master pervades literature. It is authentic, too, for the teller was one of the actors in it.

Visiting friends in a country town, he went with the family to church Sunday morning. The clergyman called in the evening and seeing upon the parlor table an open copy of Shakespeare, perhaps suspecting (which was true) that our friend had been entertaining the ladies with selections from it, Sunday evening as it was, he felt moved to say that it was the worldling's bible, which for himself he thought but little of and never recommended for general reading. It was the mainstay of the theatre. That is very strange, said our friend, for we have all been saying that the finest part of your sermon was a short quotation from Shakespeare, and I have been reading the whole passage to the ladies. Here it is:

"The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesses him that gives, and him that takes."

Imagine the feelings of the narrow, ignorant man, who really thought he had a call from God to teach mankind. But he could not help it. A man can no more escape the influence of Shakespeare than he can that of surroundings. Shakespeare is the environment of all English-speaking men.

Davie's Shakespearean story was of a fellow in Venango County who, having just "struck ile," bought from a pedler a copy of "As You Like It." He was so pleased with Touchstone that he wrote to the pedler: "If that fellow Shakespeare ever writes anything more, be sure to get me one of the first copies--and d-- the expense!"

[Sidenote: _Sir Thomas Lucy._]