"Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,From yon blue heavens above us bentThe grand old gardener and his wifeSmile at the claims of long descent,"
"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 allover 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'tlongenough, unless a feller has Injun in him." That is what the lawyers call an estoppel, I take it.
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 andtheir 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 theBrayz, 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."
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 theirmusic 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."
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 Iam 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 notunworthy of a ladybut 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."
"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.
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 Cooplwas 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 timeWho wandering sang to a listening world,"
"largest son of time
Who wandering sang to a listening world,"
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 requiresus 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."
"For the Lord has done great things for us, whereof we are exceeding glad."
The wretch! One of the wives of our party declaredthat 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."
"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 shallperisheverlastingly." The question was remitted to the theologians of our party,with instructions to give it prayerful consideration and report.
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 befinallyfitted 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 heartThat what you speak is in your conscience washedAs pure as sin with baptism."
"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 riceShoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,And all the starry champak's white and goldLurks in those little, naked, gray spring-buds."
"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."'"
"Our ingress is naked and bare,Our progress is trouble and care,Our egress is—no one knows where.
"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."'"
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.
Shakespeare Stories.
It will be taken for granted that while the Charioteerswere 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 beensaying 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."
"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!"
We had one of the loveliest mornings imaginable for leaving Stratford. Many had assembled to see the start, and our horn sounded several parting blasts as we crossed the bridge and rode out of the town. Our destination was Coventry, twenty-two miles away, and the route lay through Charlecote Park and Hampton Lucy. This was one of the most perfect of all our days. The deer in hundreds gazed on us as we passed. There were some noble stags in the herd, the finest we had seen in England,and Charlecote House was the best specimen of an Elizabethan mansion. It was built about 1558 bySir Thomas Lucy.the very Sir Thomas Lucy whom Shakespeare satirized as Justice Shallow. The original family name was Charlecote or Cherlcote, but about the end of the twelfth century William, son of Walter de Cherlcote, assumed the name of Lucy and took for his arms three luces (pike fish); so Justice Shallow was warranted in affirming that his was an "old coat." The poet's verses will stick to him as long as the world lasts; but judging from other circumstances, Sir Thomas was a very good sort of a man and no doubt a fair specimen of the English Squire of the time. His effigy may still be seen on his tomb in Charlecote Church, beside that of his wife—a not unintelligent face, with moustache and peaked beard cut square at the end, surrounded by the ruff then in fashion. There is no epitaph of himself, but the marble bears a warm memorial of his wife, who died five years before him, concluding thus:
"Set down by him that best did knowWhat hath been written to be true."Thomas Lucy.
"Set down by him that best did know
What hath been written to be true."
Thomas Lucy.
It is commonly said that Shakespeare was arrested for poaching in this very park, but the antiquaries have decided that it was the old park of Fulbrook on the Warwick road, where Fulbrook Castle once stood. But it makes little difference where the precise place was. That is of interest only to the Dryasdusts. All we careto know is that Shakespeare wanted a taste of venison which was denied him, and took it without leave or license. The descendant of that squire, my gentle Shakespeare, would give you the entire herd for another speech to "the poor sequestered stag," which you could dash off—no, you never dashed off anything; create? no; evolved? that's nearer it;distilled—there we have it—distilled as the pearls of dew are distilled by nature's sweet influences unknown to man. He would exchange Charlecote estate, man, for another Hamlet or Macbeth, or Lear or Othello, and the world would buy it from him for double the cost of all his broad acres, and esteem itself indebted to him forever. The really precious things of this world are its books.
Todothings is not one-half the battle. Carlyle is all wrong about this. To be able to tell the world what you have done, that is the greater accomplishment! Cæsar is the greatest man of the sword because he was in his day the greatest man of the pen. Had he known how to fight only, tradition would have handed down his name for a few generations with a tolerably correct account of his achievements; but now every school-boy fights over again his battles and surmounts the difficulties he surmounted, and so his fame goes on increasing forever.
What a man says too often outlives what he does, even when he does great things. General Grant's fame is not to rest upon the fact that he was successful inkilling his fellow-citizens in a civil war, all traces of which America wishes to obliterate, but upon the words he said now and then. His "Push things!" will influence Americans when Vicksburg shall be forgotten. "I propose to fight it out on this line" will be part of the language when few will remember when it was spoken; and "Let us have peace" is Grant's most lasting monument. Truly, both the pen and the tongue are mightier than the sword!
Beautiful Trees.
The drive from Warwick to Leamington is famous, but not comparable to that between Leamington and Coventry. Nowhere else can be found such an avenue of stately trees; for many miles a strip about two hundred feet wide on both sides of the road is wooded. In passing through this plantation many a time did we bless the good, kind, thoughtful soul who generations ago laid posterity under so great an obligation. Dead and gone, his name known to the local antiquary and appreciated by a few of the district, but never heard of beyond it. "So shines a good deed in a naughty world." Receive the warm thanks and God bless you of pilgrims from a land now containing the majority of the English-speaking races, which was not even born when you planted these stately trees. Americans come to bless your memory; for what says Sujata:
"For holy books teach when a man shall plantTrees for the travellers' shade, and dig a wellFor the folks' comfort, and beget a son,It shall be good for such after their death."
"For holy books teach when a man shall plant
Trees for the travellers' shade, and dig a well
For the folks' comfort, and beget a son,
It shall be good for such after their death."
Who shall doubt that it is well with the dear, kind soul who planted the thousand trees which delighted us this day, nodding their graceful boughs in genial welcome to the strangers and forming a triumphal arch in their honor.
Coventry, June 24.
George Eliot.
Coventry in these days has a greater than Godiva. George Eliot stands alone among women; no second near that throne. We visited the little school-room where she learnt her first lessons; but more than that, the Mayor, who kindly conducted us through the city, introduced us to a man who had been her teacher. "I knew the strange little thing well," he said. A proud privilege indeed! I would have given much to know George Eliot, for many reasons. I heard with something akin to fellowship that she longed to be at every symphony, oratorio, or concert of classical music, and rarely was that strong, brooding face missed at such feasts. Indeed, it was through attending one of these that she caught the cold which terminated fatally. Music was a passion with her, as she found in it calm and peace for the troubled soul tossed and tried by the sad, sad things of life. I understand this. A friend told me that a lady friend of hers, who was staying at the hotel in Florence where George Eliot was, made her acquaintance casually without knowing her name. Something, she knew not what, attracted her to her, and after a few days she began sending flowers to thestrange woman. Completely fascinated, she went almost daily for hours to sit with her. This continued for many days, the lady using the utmost freedom, and not without feeling that the attention was pleasing to the queer, plain, and unpretending Englishwoman. One day she discovered by chance who her companion really was. Never before, as she said, had she felt such mortification. She went timidly to George Eliot's room and took her hand in hers, but shrank back unable to speak, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "What is wrong?" was asked, and then the explanation came. "I didn't know who you were. I never suspected it wasyou!" Then came George Eliot's turn to be embarrassed. "You did not know I was George Eliot, but you were drawn to plain me all for my own self, a woman? I am so happy!" She kissed the American lady tenderly, and the true friendship thus formed knew no end, but ripened to the close.
The finest thing not in her works that I know this genius to have said is this: Standing one day leaning upon the mantel she remarked: "I can imagine the coming of a day when the effort to relieve human beings in distress will be as involuntary upon the part of the beholder as to clasp this mantel would be this moment on my part were I about to fall." There's an ideal for you! Christ might have said that.
The state here imagined is akin to her friend Herbert Spencer's grand paragraph.
"Conscientiousness has in many outgrown that stage in which the sense of a compelling power is joined with rectitude of action. The truly honest man, here and there to be found, is not only without thought of legal, religious, or social compulsion, when he discharges an equitable claim on him; but he is without thought of self-compulsion. He does the right thing with a simple feeling of satisfaction in doing it, and is indeed impatient if anything prevents him from having the satisfaction of doing it." Who is going to cloud the horizon of the future of our race with traitor-doubts when already, in our own day, amid much which saddens us, the beams of a brighter sun, herald of a better day, already touch the mountain tops, for such are this woman and this man towering above their fellows. By and by these beams will reach the lesser heights—and anon, the very plains will be transformed by them, and
"Man to man the world o'er shall brothers be,And a' that."
"Man to man the world o'er shall brothers be,
And a' that."
I think that because we are so happy in this glorious life we are now leading, we are disposed to be so very kind to each other. The Charioteers, one and all, seem to me to have reached Mr. Spencer's ideal. If there's a thing that can be done to promote the happiness of others, they are only impatient till they have the satisfaction of doing it. Happiness is known to be a great beautifier—but is it not also a great doer of goodto others? It was resolved to debate the question whether the happy person is not also the one who really thinks most and does most for others—not for hope of reward or fear of punishment, but simply because he has reached the stage where he has a simple satisfaction in doing it.
George Eliot's Poetry.
Here is George Eliot's greatest thing in poetry, for her poems are much less known than they should be.
"O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence: liveIn pulses stirred to generosity,In deeds of daring rectitude, in scornFor miserable aims that end with self,In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,And with their mild persistence urge men's searchTo vaster issues.* * * * * * * * * * *"May I reachThat purest heaven, be to other soulsThe cup of strength in some great agony,Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,And in diffusion ever more intense.So shall I join the choir invisibleWhose music is the gladness of the world."
"O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence: liveIn pulses stirred to generosity,In deeds of daring rectitude, in scornFor miserable aims that end with self,In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,And with their mild persistence urge men's searchTo vaster issues.* * * * * * * * * * *"May I reachThat purest heaven, be to other soulsThe cup of strength in some great agony,Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,And in diffusion ever more intense.So shall I join the choir invisibleWhose music is the gladness of the world."
"O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence: live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's search
To vaster issues.
* * * * * * * * * * *
"May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world."
One thing more about our heroine, and a grand thing, said by Colonel Ingersoll. "In the court of her ownconscience she sat pure as light, stainless as a star." I believe that, my dear Colonel. Why can you not give the world such gems as you are capable of, and let us alone about future things, concerning which you know no more than a new-born babe or a D.D.?
There is a good guide-book for Coventry, and there's much to tell about that city. It was once the ecclesiastical centre of England. Parliaments have sat there and great things have been done in Coventry. Many curious and valuable papers are seen in the hall. There is the order of Queen Elizabeth to her truly and well-beloved Mayor of Coventry, directing him to assist Earls Huntingdon and Shrewsbury in good charge of Mary Queen of Scots. There is a mace given by Cromwell to the corporation. You see that ruler of men could bestow maces as well as order his troopers to "take away that bauble" when the commonwealth required nursing. These and many more rare treasures are kept in an old building which is not fire-proof—a clear tempting of Providence. If I ever become so great a man as a councillor of Coventry, my maiden speech shall be upon the enormity of this offence. A councillor who carried a vote for a fire-proof building should some day reach the mayorship. This is a hint to our friends there.
The land question still troubles England, but even in Elizabeth's time it was thought not unconstitutional to fix rents arbitrarily. Here lies an edict of HerMajesty good Queen Bess, fixing the rates for pasturage on the commons near Coventry: "For one cow per week, one penny; for one horse, two-pence." Our agriculturists should take this for a basis, a Queen Elizabeth valuation! I suppose some expert or other could figure the "fair rent" for anything, if given this basis to start upon.
Coventry Cathedral.
The churches are very fine, the stained-glass windows excelling in some respects any we have seen, the amount of glass is so much greater. The entire end of one of the cathedral churches is filled by three immense windows reaching from floor to roof, the effect of which is very grand. The choir of this church is not in line with the other portion of the building. In reply to my inquiry why this was so, the guide boldly assured us, with a look of surprise at our ignorance, that all cathedrals are so constructed, and that the crooked choir symbolizes the head of Christ, which is always represented leaning to one side of the cross. This idea made me shiver; I felt as if I should never be able to walk up the aisle of a cathedral again without an unpleasant sensation. Thanks to a clear-headed, thorough-going young lady, who, "just didn't believe it," we soon got at the truth about cathedrals, for she proved that they are everywhere built on straight lines. This guide fitly illustrates the danger of good men staying at home in their little island. His cathedral is crooked, and therefore all others are or should be so. Very English this.Very. There are many things still crooked in the dear old tight little isle which other lands have straightened out long ago, or rather never built crooked. Hurry up, you leader of nations in generations past! It's not your rôle in the world to lag behind; at least it has not been till lately, when others have "bettered your instruction." Come along, England, you are not done for; only stir yourself, and the lead is still yours. The guide was a theological student, and therefore could not be expected to have much general knowledge, but he surely should have known something about cathedrals.
It rained at Coventry during breakfast, and friend G. ventured to suggest that perhaps some of the ladies might prefer going by rail to Birmingham and join the coach there, at luncheon; but
"He did not know the stuffOf our gallant crew, so tough,On board the Charioteer O."
"He did not know the stuff
Of our gallant crew, so tough,
On board the Charioteer O."
He was "morally sat upon," as Lucy says. Not a lady but indignantly repelled the suggestion. Even Mrs. G., a bride, and naturally somewhat in awe of her husband yet, went so far as to say "Tom is a little queer this morning."
Waterproofs and umbrellas to the front, we sallied forth from the courtyard of the Queen's in a drenching down-pour.
"But what care we how wet we be,By the coach we'll live or die."
"But what care we how wet we be,
By the coach we'll live or die."
That was the sentiment which animated our breasts. For my part I was very favorably situated, and I held my umbrella very low to shield my fair charge the better. Of course I greatly enjoyed the first few miles under such conditions. My young lady broke into song, and I thought I caught the sense of the words, which I fondly imagined was something like this:
"For if you are under an umbrellaWith a very handsome fellow,It cannot matter much what the weather may be."
"For if you are under an umbrella
With a very handsome fellow,
It cannot matter much what the weather may be."
I asked if I had caught the words correctly, but she archly insinuated there was something in the second line that wasn't quite correct. I think, though, she was only in fun; the words were quite right, only her eyes seemed to wander in the direction of young B.
The Oxford Don.
None of the ladies would go inside, so Joe had the compartment all to himself, and no doubt smiled at the good joke as we bowled along. Joe was dry inside, and Perry, though outside, was just the same ere we found an inn. This recalled the story of the coachman and the Oxford Don, when the latter expressed his sympathy at the condition of the former; so sorry he was so wet. "Wouldn't mind being so wet, your honor, if I weren't sodry." But I think R. P.'s story almost as good as that. A Don tried to explain to the coachman the operation of the telegraph as they drove along. "They take a glass about the size of an ordinarytumbler, and this they fill with a liquid resembling—ah—like—ah—" "Anything like beer, your honor, for instance?" If Jehu didn't get his complimentary glass at the next halt, that Don was a muff.
The rain ceased, as usual, before we had gone far, and we had a clear dry run until luncheon. We see the Black Country now, rows of little dingy houses beyond, with tall smoky chimneys vomiting smoke, mills and factories at every turn, coal pits and rolling mills and blast furnaces, the very bottomless pit itself; and such dirty, careworn children, hard-driven men, and squalid women. To think of the green lanes, the larks, the Arcadia we have just left. How can people be got to live such terrible lives as they seem condemned to here? Why do they not all run away to the green fields just beyond? Pretty rural Coventry suburbs in the morning and Birmingham at noon; the lights and shadows of human existence can rarely be brought into sharper contrast. If
"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay"
"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay"
surely better a year in Leamington than life's span in the Black Country! But do not let us forget that it is just Pittsburgh over again; nay, not even quite so bad, for that city bears the palm for dirt against the world. The fact is, however, that life in such places seems attractive to those born to rural life, and large smoky cities drain the country; but surely this may be safelyattributed to necessity. With freedom to choose, one would think the rush would be the other way. The working classes in England do not work so hard or so unceasingly as do their fellows in America. They have ten holidays to the American's one. Neither does their climate entail such a strain upon men as ours does.
Overworked Americans.
I remember after Vandy and I had gone round the world and were walking Pittsburgh streets, we decided that the Americans were the saddest-looking race we had seen. Life is so terribly earnest here. Ambition spurs us all on, from him who handles the spade to him who employs thousands. We know no rest. It is different in the older lands—men rest oftener and enjoy more of what life has to give. The young Republic has some things to teach the parent land, but the elder has an important lesson to teach the younger in this respect. In this world we must learn not to lay up our treasures, but to enjoy them day by day as we travel the path we never return to. If we fail in this we shall find when we do come to the days of leisure that we have lost the taste for and the capacity to enjoy them. There are so many unfortunates cursed with plenty to retire upon, but with nothing to retire to! Sound wisdom that school-boy displayed who did not "believe in putting away for to-morrow the cake he could eat to-day." It might not be fresh on the morrow, or the cat might steal it. The cat steals many a choice bit from Americans intended for the morrow. Among the saddest of allspectacles to me is that of an elderly man occupying his last years grasping for more dollars. "The richest man in America sailing suddenly for Europe to escape business cares," said a wise Scotch gentleman to me, one morning, as he glanced over theTimesat breakfast. Make a note of that, my enterprising friends, and let it be recorded here that this was written before my friend Herbert Spencer preached to us the gospel of relaxation.
It has always been assumed that dirt and smoke are necessary evils in manufacturing towns, but the next generation will probably wonder how men could be induced to live under such disagreeable conditions. Many of us will live to see all the fuel which is now used in so thriftless a way converted into clean gas before it is fed to the furnaces, and thus consumed without poisoning the atmosphere with smoke, which involves at the same time so great a loss of carbon. Birmingham and Pittsburgh will some day rejoice in unsullied skies, and even London will be a clean city.
We spent the afternoon in Birmingham, and enjoyed a great treat in the Public Hall, in which there is one of the best organs of the world. It is played every Saturday by an eminent musician, admission free. This is one of the little—no, one of the great—things done for the masses in many cities in England, the afternoon of Saturday being kept as a holiday everywhere.
Here is the programme for Saturday, June 25:
Recital Program
Town Hall Organ Recital.BY MR. STIMPSONFrom 3 till 4 o'clock.Programme for June 25, 1881:1.Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream,Mendelssohn.(It will only be necessary to state this descriptive Overture was written in Berlin, August 6, 1826. Shakespeare and Mendelssohn must have been kindred spirits, for surely no more poetic inspiration ever came from the pen of any musical composer than the Overture of the great German master.)2.Romanza,Haydn.(This charming Movement is taken from the Symphony which Haydn wrote in 1786, for Paris, entitled "La Reine de France," and has been arranged for the organ by Mr. Best, of Liverpool.)3.Offertoire, in F major,Batiste.(All the works of the French masters, Wely, Batiste, Guilmant, and Saint-Saens, if not severely classical, have a certain grace and charm which make them acceptable to even the most prejudiced admirers of the ancient masters; and this Offertoire of Batiste is one of the most popular of his compositions.)4.Fugue in G minor,J. S. Bach.(It may interest connoisseurs to know this grand Fugue was selected by the Umpires for the trial of skill when the present Organist of the Town Hall was elected.)5.Jaglied (Hunting Song),Schumann.6.Selection from the Opera "Martha"Flotow.(The Opera from which this selection is taken was written in Vienna, in 1847, and, in conjunction with "Stradella," at once stamped the name of the author as one of the most popular of the dramatic composers of the present day.)7.Dead March in Saul,Handel.In Memoriam, Sir Josiah Mason.Price One Halfpenny.The next Free Organ Recital will be given on July 2d,AT THREE O'CLOCK.A HISTORY of the TOWN HALL ORGAN (a New Edition, Revised and Enlarged,) by Mr. STIMPSON,Is now ready, and may be had in the Town Hall, and the Midland Educational Co.'s Warehouse, New Street.NOTICE.—A box will be placed at each door to receive contributions, to defray the expenses of these recitals.
Town Hall Organ Recital.
BY MR. STIMPSON
From 3 till 4 o'clock.
Programme for June 25, 1881:
1.Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream,Mendelssohn.
(It will only be necessary to state this descriptive Overture was written in Berlin, August 6, 1826. Shakespeare and Mendelssohn must have been kindred spirits, for surely no more poetic inspiration ever came from the pen of any musical composer than the Overture of the great German master.)
2.Romanza,Haydn.
(This charming Movement is taken from the Symphony which Haydn wrote in 1786, for Paris, entitled "La Reine de France," and has been arranged for the organ by Mr. Best, of Liverpool.)
3.Offertoire, in F major,Batiste.
(All the works of the French masters, Wely, Batiste, Guilmant, and Saint-Saens, if not severely classical, have a certain grace and charm which make them acceptable to even the most prejudiced admirers of the ancient masters; and this Offertoire of Batiste is one of the most popular of his compositions.)
4.Fugue in G minor,J. S. Bach.
(It may interest connoisseurs to know this grand Fugue was selected by the Umpires for the trial of skill when the present Organist of the Town Hall was elected.)
5.Jaglied (Hunting Song),Schumann.
6.Selection from the Opera "Martha"Flotow.
(The Opera from which this selection is taken was written in Vienna, in 1847, and, in conjunction with "Stradella," at once stamped the name of the author as one of the most popular of the dramatic composers of the present day.)
7.Dead March in Saul,Handel.
In Memoriam, Sir Josiah Mason.
Price One Halfpenny.
The next Free Organ Recital will be given on July 2d,
AT THREE O'CLOCK.
A HISTORY of the TOWN HALL ORGAN (a New Edition, Revised and Enlarged,) by Mr. STIMPSON,
Is now ready, and may be had in the Town Hall, and the Midland Educational Co.'s Warehouse, New Street.
NOTICE.—A box will be placed at each door to receive contributions, to defray the expenses of these recitals.
The Prima Donna said she had never before heard an organ so grandly played, and she knows. The management of the left hand in the fugue she declared wonderful. It is best to give the best for the masses, even in music, the highest of our gifts. John Bright has made most of his speeches in this hall, but it is no longer large enough for the Liberal demonstrations, and a much larger structure has been erected.
We are behind in providing music for the people, but it says much for the progress of the Republic in these higher domains, from whence come sweetness and light, that the greatest tragic singer, Frau Materna, said to a friend that she would tell Herr Wagner upon her return that if he wished to hear his greatest music performed better than ever it had been before he must come to New York. Alas! even as I re-write these pages comes the sad news that we can reap no more from that genius. He has made his contribution to the world, and a noble one it is, rejoicing many hearts and lifting many above their surroundings to exquisite enjoyments beyond; and now he closes his eyes and vanishes; the long day's task is ended and he must sleep.
To-night the Symphony Society substitutes for another number of their programme his Funeral March. It will seem like a voice from the grave; not a dry eye, nor a cold heart will be in the house. A soul has taken flight to whom we are under obligation, which must increase and increase the longer we live, for it has givenexpression to much that is of our highest and best, and suggested a thousandfold more than ever could be expressed. Our benefactor is indeed gone, in a sense material, but his soul lives with us and his voice will still be heard calling us up higher. The man who reveals new beauties in music enriches human life in one of its highest phases, and is to be ranked with the true poet. He who composes great music is the equal of him who writes great words; Beethoven, Handel, and Wagner are worthy compeers of Shakespeare, Milton, and Burns.
Furnaces and Coalpits.
The eleven miles between Birmingham and Wolverhampton are nothing but one vast iron-working, coal-mining establishment. There is scarcely a blade of grass of any kind to be seen, and not one real clean pure blade did we observe during the journey. It was Saturday afternoon and the mills were all idle, and the operatives thronged the villages through which we drove. O mills and furnaces and coal-pits and all the rest of you, you may be necessary, but you are no bonnie! Pittsburghers though many of us were, inured to smoke and dirt, we felt the change very deeply from the hedgerows, the green pastures, the wild flowers and pretty clean cottages, and voted the district "horrid." Wolverhampton's steeples soon came into sight, and we who had been there and could conjure up dear, honest, kindly faces waiting to welcome us with warm hearts, were quite restored to our usual spirits, notwithstanding dirt and squalor. The sun of a warm welcome from friends givesmany clouds a silver lining, and it did make the black country brighter. The coach and horses, and Joe and Perry, not to mention our generalissimo, belong to Wolverhampton, as you know, and our arrival had been looked for by many. The crowd was quite dense in the principal street as we drove through. One delegation after another was left at friends' houses, the Charioteers having been billeted upon the connection; and here for the first time we were to enjoy a respite.
Wolverhampton, June 25-30.
We were honored by an entertainment at his Honor the Mayor's. As usual on fine days in England, the attractions of the mansion (and they are not small in this case) gave place to open-air enjoyments on the lawn—the game, the race, the stroll, and all the rest of the sports which charm one in this climate. The race across the lawn was far better fun than the Derby, but our gentlemen must go into strict training before they challenge those English girls again. It is some consolation that Iroquois has since vindicated the glory of the Republic.
We coached one day about fourteen miles to Apley House, and had a joyous picnic day with our friends Mr. and Mrs. S——, of Newton. The party numbered seventy odd, great and small. That day the Charioteers agreed should be marked as a red-letter day in their annals, for surely never was a day's excursion productiveof more enjoyment to all of us. There are few, if any, prettier views in England than that from the terrace at Apley House. The Vale of Severn deserves its reputation. We had a trip on the river for several miles from Bridgenorth to the grounds as part of the day's pleasure.
Small Rivers.
How very small England's great rivers are! I remember how deeply hurt Mr. F—— was when his Yankee nephew (H. P. Jr., Our Pard) visited him for the first time, and was shown the river by his uncle, who loved it. "Call this a river?" exclaimed he, "why, it's only a creek! I could almost jump across it there." But H. P. was young then, and would not have hesitated to "speak disrespectfully of the equator" upon occasion. I won the good man's heart at once by saying that small though it was in size (and what has either he or I to boast of in that line, I wonder?) little Severn filled a larger space in the world's destiny and the world's thoughts than twenty mighty streams. Listen: