Chapter 3

1Grass.

IVFROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN

“Roslin’s towers and braes are bonnie—Craigs and water! woods and glen!Roslin’s banks! unpeered by ony,Save the Muse’s Hawthornden.”

“Roslin’s towers and braes are bonnie—

Craigs and water! woods and glen!

Roslin’s banks! unpeered by ony,

Save the Muse’s Hawthornden.”

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

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

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

“Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!By Esk’s fair streams that run,O’er airy steep through copsewood deep,Impervious to the sun.*******Who knows not Melville’s beechy groveAnd Roslin’s rocky glen,Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,And classic Hawthornden?”

“Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!

By Esk’s fair streams that run,

O’er airy steep through copsewood deep,

Impervious to the sun.

*******

Who knows not Melville’s beechy grove

And Roslin’s rocky glen,

Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,

And classic Hawthornden?”

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

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

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

“Vaunt not, fair Heavens, of your two glorious lights,Which, though most bright, yet see not when they shine,And shining cannot show their beams divineBoth in one place, but part by days and nights;Earth, vaunt not of those treasures ye enshrine,Held only dear because hid from our sights,Your pure and burnished gold your diamonds fine,Snow-passing ivory that the eye delights;Nor, Seas, of those dear wares are in you found;Vaunt not rich pearl, red coral, which do stirA fond desire in fools to plunge your ground.Those all more fair are to be had in her:Pearl, ivory, coral, diamond, suns, gold,Teeth, neck, lips, heart, eyes, hair, are to behold.”

“Vaunt not, fair Heavens, of your two glorious lights,

Which, though most bright, yet see not when they shine,

And shining cannot show their beams divine

Both in one place, but part by days and nights;

Earth, vaunt not of those treasures ye enshrine,

Held only dear because hid from our sights,

Your pure and burnished gold your diamonds fine,

Snow-passing ivory that the eye delights;

Nor, Seas, of those dear wares are in you found;

Vaunt not rich pearl, red coral, which do stir

A fond desire in fools to plunge your ground.

Those all more fair are to be had in her:

Pearl, ivory, coral, diamond, suns, gold,

Teeth, neck, lips, heart, eyes, hair, are to behold.”

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

“Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a crystal plain;Cut your white locks, and on your foaming faceLet not a wrinkle be, when you embraceThe boat that earth’s perfections doth contain.”

“Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a crystal plain;

Cut your white locks, and on your foaming face

Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace

The boat that earth’s perfections doth contain.”

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

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

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

“Trees, happier far than I,That have the grace to heave your heads so high,And overlook those plains;Grow till your branches kiss that lofty skyWhich her sweet self contains.Then make her know my endless love and painsAnd how those tears, which from mine eyes do fallHelpt you to rise so tall.Tell her, as once I for her sake loved breathSo, for her sake, I now court lingering death.”

“Trees, happier far than I,

That have the grace to heave your heads so high,

And overlook those plains;

Grow till your branches kiss that lofty sky

Which her sweet self contains.

Then make her know my endless love and pains

And how those tears, which from mine eyes do fall

Helpt you to rise so tall.

Tell her, as once I for her sake loved breath

So, for her sake, I now court lingering death.”

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

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

“Welcome, welcome, royal Ben!”

To which Jonson quickly replied replied—

“Thankee, thankee, Hawthornden!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here, too, are labyrinthine pathsTo caverns dark and low,Wherein they say King Robert BruceFound refuge from his foe.”

“Here, too, are labyrinthine paths

To caverns dark and low,

Wherein they say King Robert Bruce

Found refuge from his foe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The castle was accidentally set on fire in 1447 and badly damaged, and was leveled to the ground by English forces under the Earl of Hertford, in1544, who was sent to Scotland by Henry VIII to seek to enforce the marriage of his son Edward to the infant Mary of Scotland, the daughter of James V. In 1650 it was again destroyed, during Cromwell’s campaign in Scotland, by General Monk, and rising again, suffered severely at the hands of a mob from Edinburgh in 1688.

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

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

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

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

“O’er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;’Twas broader than the watch-fire light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.“It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,It ruddied all the copsewood glen;’Twas seen from Dreyden’s groves of oak,And seen from caverned Hawthornden.“Seemed all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin’s chiefs uncoffined lie,Each baron, for a sable shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.“Seemed all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmered all the dead men’s mail.“Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze when fate is nighThe lordly line of high St. Clair.“There are twenty of Roslin’s barons boldLie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold—But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.”

“O’er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;

’Twas broader than the watch-fire light,

And redder than the bright moonbeam.

“It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,

It ruddied all the copsewood glen;

’Twas seen from Dreyden’s groves of oak,

And seen from caverned Hawthornden.

“Seemed all on fire that chapel proud

Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffined lie,

Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply.

“Seemed all on fire within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;

Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmered all the dead men’s mail.

“Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—

So still they blaze when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high St. Clair.

“There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle;

Each one the holy vault doth hold—

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.”

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

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

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

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

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

2Maitland’sHistory of Scotland.3From an old manuscript, in the Advocates’ Library, collection of Richard Augustine Hay.4Britton’sArchitectural Antiquities.

2Maitland’sHistory of Scotland.

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

4Britton’sArchitectural Antiquities.

VTHE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

IMRS. WARD AND HER WORK

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

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

When Spring descends upon the shores of the Lago di Como, she brings with her all the graces, all the beauties, all the fine, delicate, and temperate delights of which earth and sky are capable, and she pours them forth upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around the shores of other lakes—Maggiore, Lugano, Garda—blue mountains rise and the vineyards spread their green and dazzling terraces to the sun. Only Como can show in unmatched union a main composition, incomparably grand and harmonious, combined with every jeweled or glowing or exquisite detail. Nowhere do the mountains lean towards each other in such an ordered splendor as that which bends around the northern shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed masses rise behind each other, to right and left of a blue waterway, in lines statelier or more noble than those kept by the mountains of Lecco Lake as they marshal themselves on either hand, along the approaches to Lombardy and Venetia.MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD... And within this divine framework, between the glistening snows which still, in April, crown and glorify the heights, and those reflections of them which lie encalmed in the deep bosom of the lake, there’s not a foot of pasture, not a shelf of vineyard, not a slope of forest, where the spring is not at work, dyeing the turf with gentians, starring it with narcissuses, or drawing across it the first golden network of the chestnut leaves; where the mere emerald of the grass is not in itself a thing to refresh the very springs of being; where the peach-blossom and thewild cherry and the olive are not perpetually weaving patterns on the blue which ravish the very heart out of your breast. And already the roses are beginning to pour over the wall; the wistaria is climbing up the cypresses; a pomp of camellias and azaleas is in all the gardens; while in the glassy bays that run up into the hills the primrose banks still keep their sweet austerity, and the triumph of spring over the just banished winter is still sharp and new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The entire purpose of such play centers is to rescue the children of the poor from the demoralization that results from being turned out to play after school hours in the streets and alleyways, where they are subjected to every kind of vile association and influence. The effects already noted by those in charge of the centers are improvement in manners, in thoughtfulness for the little ones, and in unselfishness; increase in regard for truth and honesty; the development of the instinct in all children to “make something”; the teaching that it is more enjoyable to play together in harmony than when obedience to a leader is refused. The success of this first experiment was so marked that gradually other centerswere started in different parts of London. Liberal sums of money were placed in the hands of Mrs. Ward, who enlisted the support of the County Council to the extent of securing facilities in the public school buildings. The work has so far progressed that the total attendance last year5reached an aggregate of six hundred thousand. It is difficult to estimate from these figures how many children were affected, but, taking—at a guess—fifty times as the average attendance of each, this would mean that the lives of at least twelve thousand poor children were directly lifted up by this practical charity, and that as many more hard-working and anxious parents were indirectly benefited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole spirit of the Settlement is expressed in these words, displayed in a framed notice at the entrance to the social hall:—

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