Reminiscences; or, a few glimpses from over the sea

Preface

The present volume is composed mainly of a record made for future personal reference and pleasure as the scenes came to view— not intended for the public, An after-thought led to the contribution of the Notes as a serial to the columns of the Christian Instructor under the title " Reminiscences." The author is almost surprised at her yielding to the request of many friends to put them in the form of a book. The journey over the sea was in company with her husband, his brother and sister. If but a little of the delight and intelligence realized by the author shall be gathered by the reader, the publication shall not be regretted. The Reminiscences have been to a limited extent revised, and a few pages have been added.

Contents

I. — Across the Ocean and into England, . . i

II. — Warwickshire — Leamington, .... 14

III. — London — Windsor, 33

II

In the waning of the afternoon we came into Warwickshire, the very " Heart of Merrie England." We had previously resolved that when we came to this garden spot, we would take it in somewhat leisurely, much of it on foot, that we might catch the spirit of its mysterious beauty. There are villages and hamlets and peaceful country life amid bright green trees, lovely meadows and rich pasture fields. Besides, there is the halo of stirring life gone long ago, buried down deep in the past, and yet lingering in old-time spots, in quaint, lowly cottages with little, narrow, peaked windows peeping out from the dust of ages, and enthroned as well in castle hall and tower, moat and drawbridge.

After a little airing at Rugby with its memory of "Tom Brown's School-days," we passed on and spent the night at Guernsey Hotel, a temperance house in Leamington. In every feature this establishment was the perfection of neatness, which can be applied to the whole city, the streets and door-yards being as clean and solid as a polished floor. The city has a population of twenty-two thousand, and is celebrated for its mineral waters. It is indeed a great attraction as a watering place. The "Royal Spa" received its name when Queen Victoria ascended the throne, and since

LEAMINGTON. 1 5

then it has become the delightful health resort it is to-day. I do not mean that the place is loud and gaudy and vulgar, but, on the contrary, very genteel and quiet and exquisite in taste. Many of the private houses are inside a high stone wail, with the name of the family on the gate. There is an air of exclusiveness and modesty grateful to those who enjoy an unobtrusive life removed from the glare of the multitude.

Very many modern mansions in America rival and even greatly surpass these homes in grandeur and display, but it will take long years to give them the lustre of generations, a lustre that brightens with years. To remind us that we were near Kenilworth, there were such names on the close-fitting gates as "Robsart Place" and "Leicester House." These houses were planted back from the street and, where a view could be obtained, embowered in rare plants and clinging vines. The old church of St. Paul is an interesting relic with its well-kept, ancient graveyard attached, enclosed with most beautiful lime trees, their branches interwoven so as to make a continuous enclosure. The " Royal Spa" sends out a gush of health-giving waters, and there are a number of other perennial fountains, some saline and others sulphuretted saline. They are near the river Learn, upon which the city is situated, and upon whose sloping banks there is a handsome park.

The ancient town of Warwick, the first Parliamentary Borough in the kingdom, is two miles away, and thither we went, making the journey on the top of a tram-car, which is just a long coach moving on a tramway and

Elizabeth's ambitious favorite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. The crypt contains the ashes of the Earls of Warwick since the founding of their house, and the stone floor of the church is a paving of gravestones, the inscriptions almost entirely erased with the march of centuries. It is a beautiful building, and one loves to linger and study it; but these fine buildings are not essential to Christianity; they are rather a mark of a corrupt Christianity and were reared in corrupt times. The early Christians had none. They worshiped on the hillsides, in the forests, in the caves, in the catacombs, and conserved a pure gospel. The Scottish Reformers had none; and where can we go for a more sublime conception of the love of God in Christ than to those pure times?

It was not the handsome mediaeval church nor the ancient gateway that drew us to the town of Warwick. There was another vision of beauty and interest in reserve that hastened our steps and brought the realization of many a day-dream. The stately towers, the lofty turrets, the frowning battlements and the spacious halls of Warwick Castle, the best preserved building of its kind in the Brittish Isles, had been the object of many desires awakened long ago. Now the vision was fruition as we stepped inside the ponderous gateway which, with the high, solid stone wall, shuts out all obtrusiveness.

The classic Avon and a deep moat, now dry, surround the entire grounds inside this heavy stone wall. The approach to the castle from the outer gate is by a broad, winding road cut out of the solid rock, overarched by the branches of a wilderness of trees. The

A GRAND RELIC. 19

rocky sides of this roadway are draped and festooned with ivy and creeping plants. There are sudden bends and sharp angles made by the architect in constructing the road. Some of them would conceal a handful of stalwart warriors in helmet, steel and claymore, who, having the advantage of position, could hew down a hundred assailants and keep the rest at bay. The idea of defense to the death, no doubt, was in the mind of the architect. This rock-bound road continues about four hundred feet, when it turns to meet two massive, fortified towers and an embattled wall, in the centre of which is the gate into the inner court. This gate is highly ornamented and flanked by towers connected by an arch, while creeping everywhere over it are the tendrils and glossy leaves of the English ivy.

The gate is still guarded by the portcullis, a relic of feudal days, and it holds in possession many memories of storm and siege, of prison house, of death and despair. Within the inner court the scene that met our gaze was bewildering. The massive stone structure, "majestic in the moss of time," stands upon a rocky knoll forty feet high, the base of which is swept by the Avon. Masses of foliage from rare old trees give kindly welcome, although they shut out much of the light of day, while beautiful plants and graceful shrubs cluster in artistic knots and borders, and the modest daisy stars every foot-fall, making glad the landscape to prince and peasant. History tells us that Ethelfleda, daughter of Alfred the Great, built on this spot a keep, in modern parlance a prison or dungeon, in 915, and hints that a fortress was erected here at the Roman invasion. It became an important fortress about that time, and although frequently damaged by assault, it has always risen again stronger than ever.

Early in the fifteenth century, the eldest son of the Earl of Salisbury married Anne, the only child of Richard de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. By this marriage he obtained the broad lands of the Warwick family, took their name and became a prominent figure in history during the dark days of the civil war of the Roses and was in many a sanguinary conflict. From that period the Earls of Warwick have been conspicuous, and their influence in later times has fostered literature and the fine arts. Some pieces of art inside and shown to visitors are not dnly costly, but of exquisite workmanship. The present Earl of Warwick is said to be a gentleman in the true sense of the word, benevolent, cultured and unambitious. He permits the state apartments of this castle, where he resides part of the year, to be opened to visitors during six days of the week. The Sabbath is excepted. This permission was quite an event to us, and the day was an ideal one viewed from all points of the compass.

From the outer court we entered the great hall, sixty feet long by forty-two wide and twenty-six feet high. The floor is bare, but highly polished, and the walls are thickly hung with the armorial trappings of the heroes of war and of the chase. The floor has a number of mounted figures in sheeted armor that must have puzzled the wearer when called to mount or dismount or to perform any of the operations that require a free hand. The punch-bowl of the olden times stands on a pedestal in this room and would hold a hogshead of the vile stuff. When this lordly hall gave

A SCENE OF BEAUTY. 21

princely entertainment in days of yore, most probably this bowl was brimming full, and so, doubtless, were the courtly visitors.

We stood at the wide window and looked out upon a scene of enchanting loveliness. The Avon was trilling and murmuring forty feet below, clasping the remains of an old mill jutting from the castle rock, while bush and shrub and long branches of ivy clung to the rocks and were mirrored in the clear water. A giant tree, a cedar of Lebanon dating from the Crusades, lifted its great glistening arms adorned with the richest dark green foliage we had ever seen, and rested them lovingly against the heavy walls of the castle, as if they had been sworn friends for hundreds of years. My heart went out to this tree, and I wanted to just touch it with my fingers; but I would have been suspected for attempting what was forbidden ; so I lingered in silent admiration as a fragrant odor from the land of milk and honey came up from its thick boughs. Palestine, the birth-place of our Christianity, and England, its cradle, had here joined hands in loving embrace.

We followed on through the Red Drawing-room, the Cedar Drawing-room, the Gilt Drawing-room, and a host of other rooms and corridors, all adorned in handsome style with costly furnishing in old and rare paintings, in antique and curiously carved furniture, much of it inlaid with pearl. There were also rare pieces of art of priceless value to the owner. The State Bed-room is hung with beautiful tapestry, and the bed hangings are of rich crimson velvet. Queen Victoria, while making a tour of the country in 1858, visited this castle and occupied this bed-chamber.

Outside once more there confronts the visitor the great keep, with battlemented walls. The more modern and inhabited parts of the castle are ranged in a semi-circle and include the servants' rooms, the stables and all the paraphernalia of an old and noble house. This curving line of great buildings looks out upon a smooth, velvety lawn, starred with daisies and bordered with beautiful trees. Peacocks and game fowls scampered over the dainty bit of pasture and eyed us with a saucy air, as if saying, We are not plebian. In the outer court there was an extensive park. There were flower plots and winding walks, there were rustic bridges and bowers of fairy beauty and long, magnificent drives, sweeping through a densely wooded park, many of the trees being cedars of Lebanon, their dark green tufted tops making a most beautiful setting amid the paler green of elm and beech, sugar, oak and sycamore. We came suddenly upon a large flower plot, the central piece being, the Warwick Vase. This fine specimen was discovered in a lake at Tivoli, purchased by the the present Earl's grandfather and placed here. It is of white marble and would hold one hundred and sixty-one gallons of water. The idea of vastness and strength prevails all around, although the garniture is very beautiful and lends enchantment to the scene. Solomon, the wisest of men, has painted a more gorgeous scene and written beneath, ''Behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit."

Visitors to the heart of "Merrie England" must not forget to visit Guy's Cliffe, two miles distant from Warwick Castle and said to be connected with it by a

GUY'S CLIFFE. 23

subterranean passage. It is a place of great antiquarian celebrity, much older than Warwick Castle, beiug founded by Guy, first Earl of Warwick, and at the close of his life converted into a religious house. The redoubtable Guy\ Earl of W T arwick, was a veritable son of Anak, as we judge from his monstrous sword, shield, helmet and breastplate exhibited in the Porter's Lodge at the Castle gate. The walk to Guy's Cliffe from the town of Warwick is a charming one. It was a fair sample of a rural scene in England. The haymakers were afield, the hay sending out a delicious odor, the hedge rows were tidy and sweet, the pasture fields soft and wavy and an immense private park on one side of the way, thickly set with noble trees, gave us the songs of birds and the busy hum of insect life and industry. Wild roses in full flower clambered here and there, burgamot scented the air, and the soft crimped leaves of the stinging nettle beguiled us into a touch for which we paid the penalty.

The pretentious rural life of all England, and indeed of all Britain, is hidden inside high, heavy stone walls, clasped with a latticed gate, through which such eager visitors as we may view the lovely scenes afar off. The venerable mansion at Guy's Cliffe is reached by an avenue of overaching elms in perfect order as to neatness and trim, and so dense as to conceal all of this great house, except part of the front. The present incumbent of this princely seat is a lady of some sixty years. She has not dared to enter the marriage relation because, forsooth, her title and estate would be forfeited should she choose her lord out of her family line, and in that line there has not been found a mate for her; so this fair scion of a noble house grasps her titles, her lands, her keys and, perchance, her happiness and remains mistress of the situation.

As a rule, tourists are not admitted to the houses and grounds of the nobility when the occupants are at home. This being the case, disappointment settled upon our faces, until we were directed into a by-way, where the stately mansion stood out in all its glory. We sat down by the side of a pool of the Avon where swans were sporting and in the shadow of an old Saxon mill of fabulous age, very picturesque and interesting; and we picked up bits of current history from an English farmer and his wife who were rusticating here for a day after the harvest toil. The courtyard of this noble house is hollowed out of the solid rock. The house itself rises out of part of the same rock high above the river Avon, and the walls of some of the apartments are nothing less than parts of this great perpendicular rock. Under the edifice and at the sides of it are several caverns and cells hollowed out in mediaeval times for hiding places, mayhap, but most probably dungeon walls for victims of the Roman Catholic Church. All these caverns are connected with the chapel by subterranean passages, which of itself is very suggestive of thumbscrews and the rack. The invincible Guy himself is said to have spent the last years of his misspent life as a hermit in one of these cells on penance duty, and in it the giant sleeps his last sleep along with his countess.

Strong and deep within every fibre of our nature is the principle that we are offenders, that we deserve only wrath and displeasure, and that the wrath is

THE GREAT QUESTION. 2$

something fearful, something more than humanity can bear. Hence in all ages there has existed a disposition to supplicate, to endeavor to please the Being offended. This is the underlying principle in every form of idolatry. The Jews made broad their phylacteries when Christ was on earth. The Roman Catholics multiply their penances and Protestants heap up a treasure of good works, too, which at the great day will prove but "wood, hay and stubble," because the Lord is not in any of them. " How shall man be just with God?" is the question. Nothing can be of greater moment, nor of more solemn import. Unassisted by revelation and the light it sheds, we are undone. Reason, philosophy, science give no hope; they only lead to darkness forever; but the true light shines in the Word, and justification through the merits of Christ is the only way to eternal life. In the justified and adopted child of God, good works flow from union to Christ, and are a well-pleasing sacrifice. They are not in any sense meritorious, nor in any sense a purchase of favor, but are the grateful outflow of a heart touched with fire from off God's holy altar. Pitiful and sordid indeed are all penance performances wherever found.

We sat and thought, and we walked and thought, as we strayed back to our hotel in Leamington. We could almost feel the tremor of those mighty throes that ushered in the Reformation from Popery. How inspiriting the convulsion that loosened the prison doors for the poor captives in bondage to Rome and said, "Look unto me and be ye saved!" And will we fit up those prison walls anew and get out the bolts and bars? There is reason to fear we will. "Oh, foolish and slow of heart to believe!" We repeat our errors continually.

Our way led us into glimpses of farm-life. Cattle, fat and well-tended, grazed in the fields, or stood contentedly in the shadow of some great oak tree. A tree is valued in Britain. The landscape is everywhere brightened with perhaps a profusion of trees; at least an American farmer would think so, grudging, no doubt, the room it subtracted from bread-winning. But Englishmen have their way, and it seems as though it is to be their way.

The farm-houses were not fine, but comfortable, with a savor of old-fashioned hospitality in the wide porches, with their air of quiet and rest, and in the dreaminess under the English walnut trees that flourished on the lawns. Leamington has burst its boundaries and has very handsome suburban residences, some of them of great beauty and taste. Everywhere there was a profusion of flowers kept with great care. The rose, the emblem of England, was indeed a royal beauty.

Our visit would have been incomplete without a ramble to Kenilworth, the once proud home of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. The story of his young wife, Amy Robsart, is so pathetic and so interwoven with the existence of Kenilworth that the name of the one calls up the other. The stately ruins of this castle are on an elevated rocky site commanding a wide view of the country around. It was erected in the reign of Henry I., and when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, was presented to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. The whole estate is now the property of the Earl of Clarendon, who carefully preserves this relic so

KENILWORTH. 2/

replete with interest. The outer wall of the gigantic structure once enclosed seven acres, a part of which was a pleasure garden, with avenues and grottoes. In the centre of this plot stands the lordly castle, a most picturesque ruin. Vast portions of the ancient pile still stand, but deserted, dismantled, sinking slowly but surely into dust. It is departed grandeur, a sad reminder of the transitory nature of human greatness. It is but a wind that passeth and shall no more be known.

The Leicester Gate-house is in excellent preservation, four stories high, with beautifully carved windows, and flanked on each side by octagonal towers. There are other towers, innumerable and spacious halls and chambers and drawing-rooms in one mass. The The Great Hall measures ninety feet by forty-five. This magnificent apartment still shows the tracery of exquisite workmanship. The great window that must have shed a flood of soft light upon this hall is a marvel in delicate and fancy shaping. One corner of this window is gone. The floor of the hall has disappeared in the mould beneath, and here and there the stones are crumbling and mingling with the gray and venerable tints of old age. In one compact whole, there are broken arches and tottering stairways and lofty towers and desolate chambers and long, tattered corridors still keeping their identity in the vastness of the princely fabric. The decay is prolonged by the massiveness and strength of the entire work. The old builders wrought well. They spared neither time nor pains. They first made an outer casing of good stone, filling in the space with rubble stones and pouring over it molten cement which when cold was a solid mass of resistless masonry.

The keep, the citadel of the castle called Caesar's tower, is among the most perfect parts of the ruin. Adjoining it are three kitchens. Their use can only be deciphered by certain marks; and beyond these is Mervyn's Tower, said to be the prison of Amy Robsart, Countess of Leicester. From the top of this a fine view of the country is obtained. The landscape is undulating, quiet and lovely. The purple haze of this perfect day enriched the horizon, and the warm sunlight photographed the woods and fields, the silvery brooks and the far-off homes and villages with indelible accuracy. Over the mouldering stone work there are creeping vines and ivy and tufts of flowering plants that relieve the desolation, and the daisies flourish and bloom in the courtyard and lift their modest heads in every nook, while here and there are fine old trees and among them beautiful holly trees.

The gateway constructed for Queen Elizabeth is still intact, and we passed under the arch made for the regal lady. The Earl of Leicester possessed this goodly castle of Elizabeth's queenly bounty, but the gift, along with other favors, aroused such vaulting ambition as wrecked an unscrupulous man. The Earl would be grateful to his Queen; hence he would have her visit Kenilvvorth and see the ordering of his abode. He spent £60,000 in enlarging the castle and improving the grounds, and prepared for entertaining the Queen in a style of splendor and magnificence unknown in modern times. The Queen loved attention and display and unwittingly smiled upon the adulation and homage

ROYAL FEASTING. 29

laid at her feet by the lordly owner of Kenilworth. It was innocent gratitude she thought, no doubt, for he had a wife, the gentle, confiding and high-born daughter of Sir Hugh Robsart, whom the Queen had never seen. By this visit she hoped to meet her in her own stately halls. The Earl of Leicester was consumed by other thoughts. Dark intrigues and wicked purposes were behind the scenes in his mind. He would push his countess out of the way by foul means and be the husband of Queen Elizabeth. The thought grew, nurtured by an ungodly ambition, and when the Queen rode with her cavalcade along the wide avenue constructed for her alone and over the deep moat that bounds the castle on two sides into the courtyard, the Earl seemed about to pluck the flower of English royalty.

For seventeen days the Queen, the ladies of her court, thirty-one barons with wives and daughters, and four hundred servants were feasted and entertained in the chase, in sports, in music and good cheer of the most costly kind. No one had ever seen such magnificence. Courtly ladies in handsome silks and laces, in glittering jewels and rich embroidery roamed with the freedom of the olden time and laughed and jested and sported like other specimens of humanity. The whole scene is suggested by the grandeur of the ruin. The sequel shows that Queen Elizabeth died a virgin queen, her royal consort the English nation, and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, sleeps beside his third countess, Lettuce, in the old church in Warwick. England's Queen was too sagacious, too wise and too stern in her moral integrity to look with the slightest favor upon the Earl's revolting scheme. During this feast she inquired for the wife of his youth, and the Earl evaded the question. She songht for her, and when the monstrous iniquity was revealed, she dethroned her favorite; but her misplaced confidence hung like a shadow over her princely head till she lay down for her last sleep.

Cromwell reduced this castle, dismounted the towers, drained the moat, destroyed its beautiful walks and grottoes and rooted out its pleasant places. He then divided the great estate among his followers. But when the Stuarts were restored, Charles II. gave it to an ancestor of the present Earl of Clarendon. We left the ruin with chastened feelings. Peering into the dark wilderness of solemn yew trees that flanked the approach to the castle gate, one could hear a murmuring among the soft fringes of verdure that swayed from the long branches, like a dirge over departed glory. Almost in silence we walked back to the village. The lesson was too deep, too overwhelming for words. We wanted it for instruction. We wanted it for a beacon to be a signal guard against all earthly ambitions, and to say to them, "These rocks mean certain death. They are a putrifying graveyard that sends forth nothing but an unsavory odor."

We would have been delighted to return to Kenilworth at night to visit it by moonlight, as many parties were doing, The stillness of night and the soft, silver light of the moon in desolate balls and towers call forth sounds strangely human. At such times the wierd mysteries and memories of days that are gone steal back into the heart, unlock its fountains and hold

AN OLD CITY. 3 1

up to view all we have ever been. Such reflections are not useless.

Before taking the train for London, we spent a few hours in the hoary city of Coventry, situated almost in the center of Warwickshire. It is thought to have been built by the ancient Britons, and if its narrow, crooked streets, almost like footpaths, and its quaint little houses reminding one of toys in the shop windows are any indication of such remote origin, Coventry certainly can claim the honor. If there is, or ever has been, comfort in these little cells of houses, it is not apparent now. There is shelter in them, possibly warm shelter; and we must not forget the age that produced them. It is recorded that in 1096, when the Danes invaded England, they destroyed a religious establishment here. The iniquity that afterward ran riot in the Roman Catholic Church was then in its formative state, and these little closets may have housed many that made them Bethels, trysting places for their Lord and Saviour. In those days wants were very simple, and the sentiment suited their state,

"Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long."

These houses are built on the street, the outline of the front twisting as the street does, and not a break in the line, neither alley nor side entrance to relieve the monotony. However, the monotony is broken by each abode differing in form and feature. A brick dwelling is sandwiched between two stone ones, and the next series may be a mixture of materials, being built from what was left of the other three, and so on throughout the long line. Dirty, bare-footed children played in the street, a host in themselves, especially of ugly ideas, and brazen-faced, bare-footed women stood in the doorways and peeped from the little windows. The stone sills and floors were worn to the socket by the feet of many generations. We seemed to disturb their lazy, animal quiet by hastily walking along the path or street about ten feet between the solid rows; for the women crowded the doorways and gazed, and villainous looking men shook themselves and followed us suspiciously. Our visit was a sort of raid to them and their attitude was defiance. But Coventry has a new and beautiful part over against this dolor and dirt, so clean and handsome, it seems like another hemisphere. The various manufactures of Coventry are celebrated, and the old part is in the rear.

IN LONDON. 33

III

In London! We hardly knew it, we were so occupied with the inconsiderable affair of finding our baggage that had preceded us some days. We got down from our dignity and fumed about the driver of our cab and said he was superlatively stupid because he could not at once find our quiet hotel in great London. He was patient, though, having been steadying himself with a glass or two. But it took some of the poetry out of London to be driven hither and thither with frequent halts to inquire for Tranter's Hotel, Bridgewater Square. Had our baggage been at our feet and the ride without incident, our ideas might have soared with great advantage to our literature.

Our hotel was situated within the walls and gates and bars of the old Roman city. We were just where we wanted to be, and when we entered the door, one of the first things that confronted us was our baggage. But catch us admitting for a moment that there was as good order in transmitting baggage in England as in America. No! we stuck to it that Brother Jonathan could beat the combined world in everything, even in the ingenious matter of boasting about it.