From the Oak to the Olive: A Plain record of a Pleasant Journey. Julia Ward HoweЧитать онлайн книгу.
aged mother, who was in imminent danger of burning, on account of her supposed occult intelligences with the powers of darkness.
After a long and chilly wandering, we dismiss our voluble guide with a guerdon which certainly sends him home to keep a silver wedding with his ancient wife. The next day, the veteran's illness detained us within the ancient city, and we contemplated at some leisure its quaint old houses, which in Boston would not stand five days. They have been much propped and cherished, and the new architecture of the town does its best to continue the traditions of the old. The Guide to Chester, in which we regretfully invest a shilling, presents a list of objects of interest which a week would not more than exhaust. One of these—the Roodeye—is an extensive meadow with a silly legend, and is now utilized as a race-course. We see the winning post, the graduated seats, the track. For the rest—
| "The Spanish fleet thou canst not see, because |
| It is not yet in sight." |
We visit the outside of a tiny church of ancient renown—St. Olave's—but, dreading the eternal sexton with the eternal story, we do not attempt to effect an entrance. The much-famed Roman bath we find in connection with a shop at which newspapers are sold. We descend a narrow staircase, and view much rubbish in a small space. For description, see Chester Guide. One of our party gets into the bath, and comes out none the cleaner. Spleen apart, however, the ruin is probably authentic, with its deep spring and worn arches. Near the Grosvenor Hotel is a curious arcade, built in a part of the old wall—for Chester was a fortified place. A portion of the old castle still stands, but we fail to visit its interior. The third morning sees us depart, having been quite comfortably entertained at the Grosvenor, even to the indulgence of sweetmeats with our tea, which American extravagance we propose speedily to abjure. Our national sins, however, still cling to us.
Although the servants are "put in the bill," the cringing civility with which they follow us to the coach leads me to suspect that the nimble sixpence might find its way to their acceptance without too severe a gymnastic. En route, now, in a comfortable compartment, with hot water to our feet, according to the European custom. Our way to Lichfield lies through an agricultural region, and the fine English mutton appear to be forward. Small lambs cuddle near magnificent fat mothers. The wide domains lie open to the view. Everything attests the concentration of landed property in the hands of the few. We stop at Lichfield, attracted by the famous cathedral. The Swan Inn receives, but cannot make us comfortable, a violent wind sweeping through walls and windows. Having eaten and drunk, we implore our way to the cathedral, St. Chadde, which we find beautiful without, and magnificently restored within. Many monuments, ancient and modern, adorn it, with epitaphs of Latin in every stage of plagiarism. A costly monument to some hero of the Sutlej war challenges attention, with its tame and polished modern sphinxes. Tombs of ancient abbots we also find, and one recumbent carving of a starved and shrunken figure, whose leanness attests some ascetic period not famous in sculpture. The pulpit is adorned with shining brass and stones, principally cornelians and agates. The organ discoursed a sonata of Beethoven for the practice of the organist, but secondarily for our delectation. A box with an inscription invites us to contribute our mite to the restoration of the cathedral, which may easily cost as much as the original structure. Carving, gilding, inlaid work, stained glass—no one circumstance of ecclesiastical gewgawry is spared or omitted; and trusting that some to us unknown centre of sanctification exists, to make the result of the whole something other than idol worship, we comply with the gratifying suggestion of our wealth and generosity. After satisfying ourselves with the cathedral, we look round wonderingly for the recipient of some further fee. He appears in the shape of a one-eyed man who invites us to ascend the tower. Guided by a small boy, Neophyte No. 1 executes this ascent, and of course reports a wonderful prospect, which we are content to take on hearsay. Leaving the cathedral, we seek the house in which Dr. Johnson is said to have been born. It is, strange to say, much like other houses, the lower story having been turned into a furnishing shop, where we buy a pincushion tidy for remembrance. In an open space, in front of the house, sits a statue of the renowned and redoubted doctor, supported by a pedestal with biographical bas-reliefs. Below one of these is inscribed, "He hears Sacheverell." The design represents a small child in a father's arms, presented before a wiggy divine, who can, of course, be none other than the one in question. While these simple undertakings are planned and executed, the veteran and elder neophyte engage a one-horse vehicle, and madly fly to visit an insane asylum. We shiver till dinner in the chilly parlor of the inn, and inter ourselves at an early hour in the recesses of a huge feather-bed, where the precious jewel, sleep, is easily found. And the next morning sees us en route for London.
At one of the stations between Lichfield and London, we encounter a group whose chief figure is that of a pretty little lady, blithe as a golden butterfly, apparelled for the chase. Her dress consists of a narrow-skirted habit, of moderate length, beneath which we perceive a pair of stout boots, of a description not strictly feminine. A black plush paletot corresponds with her black skirt. A shining stove-pipe crowns her yellow tresses. As she emerges from the railway carriage, a young man of elegant aspect approaches her. He wears white hunting trousers, high black boots, a black plush coat, and carries a hunting whip. The similarity of color in the costumes leads us to suppose that the wearers belong to some hunting association. He is at least Sir Charles, she, Lady Arabella. He accosts her with evident pleasure, and is allowed a shake of the hand. An elderly relative in the background, a servant in top boots, who touches his hat as if it could cure the plague—these complete the picture.
At the same station we descry another huntsman in white breeches, scarlet cap, and overcoat. We learn that there are two meets to-day in this region, but our interests are with the black and white party. Farewell, Sir Charles and Lady Arabella. Joyous be your gallop, light your leap over five-barred gates. The sly fox Cupid may be chasing you, while you chase poor Renard. Prosit.
LONDON.
"Charing Cross Hotel? 'Ere you are, sir;" and a small four-wheeled cab, with a diminutive horse and beer-tinted driver, has us up at the door of the same. In front, within the precincts of the hotel court, stands the ancient cross, or that which replaces it, and around radiate cook-shops and book-shops, jewellers and victuallers and milliners. The human river of the Strand fluxes and refluxes before this central spot, and Trafalgar Square, and Waterloo Place, and Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament are near. Cabs spring up like daisies and primroses beneath the footsteps of spring. At the hotel they make a gratifying fuss about us. They seize upon all of us but our persons; the lift, (Americane—elevator) does that, and noiselessly lodges us on the second floor, where we occupy a decent sitting-room, with bedrooms en suite. A fire of soft coal soon glows in the grate. A smart chambermaid takes our orders. We get out our address-book, rub up our recollections, enclose and send our cards, then run out and take a dip in the Strand, and expand to the full consciousness that we are in the mighty city which cannot fall because there is no hollow deep enough to hold it.
We have a quiet day and a half at the hotel before we receive the echo of our cards. This interval we improve by visits to the houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, where we pay our full price, and visit the royal chapels with their many tombs. At the recumbent figures of Mary Stuart and Elizabeth we pause to think of the dramatic ghosts which will not allow them to rest in their graves. Poetry is resurrection, and for us who have seen Rachel and Ristori, Mary and Elizabeth are still living and speaking lessons of human passion and misfortune. These marbles hold their crumbling bones, but we have seen them in far America, doing a night's royalty before a democratic audience, and demanding to be largely paid for the same.
The frescoes and statues in the long corridors of the Houses of Parliament deserve a more minute study than we are able to give them. The former show considerable progress in the pictorial art during the seventeen years which divide our present from our past observations. They represent noted events in English history, the last sleep of Argyle, the execution of Montrose, and so on. Among them we see the departure of the May Flower, but not the battle of Bunker Hill.