NOTES
IN
ENGLAND AND ITALY.

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I THINK it necessary to say that these "Notes," written twelve years ago, were never meant for publication; but solely for my own reference, and for a means of recalling to my friends what had especially interested me abroad. Many of these friends have repeatedly urged me to print them, from a too partial estimate of their value; and I have steadily resisted the suggestion, until now, when I reluctantly yield. If, however, they will aid any one in the least to enjoy, as I have enjoyed, the illustrious works of the Great Masters in Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting, I shall be well repaid for the pain it has cost me to appear before the public,

S. H.

DRESDEN, August, 1869.

CONTENTS.

7

NOTES IN ENGLAND.

I.
SKIPTON CASTLE.--BOLTON PRIORY.

SKIPTON, YORKSHIRE, April 10th.

* * * * As we approached Yorkshire, we found stone walls for the first time in England, instead of green hedges. But they were nice and pretty stone walls, and not such rude structures as ours in America. The stones were as smooth and even as those of a house, and battlemented along the top. After the low sandhills of Southport, it was truly refreshing to see the Yorkshire Wolds. (Wolds is the Yorkshire name for hills.)

We saw some very ugly, small, manufacturing towns in Lancashire, in which I do not understand how any one can consent to live. In one was at monument that seemed to be erected to the honor of the Smoke-Demon,--a lofty, symmetrical stone column, resting on a square base, not near any manufactory; and close against the sky a long; plume of black smoke continually floated from its summit, like the incense of a bad heart. Dear me! at what a cost come forth, so clean and splendid, all our pretty prints, and silks, and velvets! How is it that the grimness of the workmen and of the atmosphere never sullies them? They look as if the tidiest

8 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

of fairies fashioned them in ivory palaces, where there is never a stain in the air.

We crossed the river Darwen twice, and arrived at Skipton soon after five. It proves a larger town than I thought, and is beautifully situated in a hollow between thrice three hills. We found a tolerably pretentious station, and a nice man, who politely attended us to what he called "a 'Bus," which he said belonged to the first hotel in town, called "The Devonshire Arms." So hither we drove. It was what J---- considered "a jolly little 'Bus," being only as large as a cab, yet the seats arranged like those of omnibuses. The landlady, glorious in cherry ribbons, received us at the door, and ushered us up into a front sitting-room, comfortable with a lounge, and a large fireplace, in which the maid soon kindled a blazing fire.

We were all so restored by our refection, that we concluded to take a walk. I asked the maid whether there were any pleasant places, and she said, "Skipton Woods is very pleasant, and not far off." So we went toward Skipton Woods; but met a fine old castle on the way. A stout John Bull, with a rubicund visage, who was piously pushing his child about in a perambulator, on his leisure Good Friday, I took the liberty to accost. I asked him whether we could see the castle; and he was very smiling and kind, and replied, "Yes; as it was Good Friday, he thought we could: that the family was not there, but the housekeeper was."

SKIPTON CASTLE. 9

So we entered the grand, towered gateway, with "DÉSORMAIS" sculptured in open stone-work on the top, flanked by a donjon-keep on each side, and found ourselves in a fine park, within the walls--a small park, perhaps a garden rather. A group of girls, keeping holiday, emerged from an arch, and I asked them where we could find the housekeeper. One said that I "must go into a door by the bushy trees." These "bushy trees" were mammoth box-trees, more than six feet high, and of great circumference, cut in the shape of globes. Lawn and flower-clumps, with gravel walks, filled the enclosure, and the perpetual ivy climbed the inner surface of the high walls. It looked very inhabitable, and not vast, like the environments of many castles we have seen, and, though stately, not a kingdom, as is Knowesly.* We found a low-arched door, leading through the thickness of the castle, and out upon a staircase on the other side, high above a moat. Looking over, we saw a waterfall and a stream and clustering trees, far down beneath. But, alas! this was not one of Nature's waterfalls, but what the housekeeper called "a wash" only, which now turns a mill. The sound of rushing water, however, was just the same, and very refreshing. We ascended the staircase, and at my knock, a neat, florid, thin woman opened the door, and civilly acceded to my request to be shown the castle. The first room was

* The Earl of Derby's domain.

10 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

the housekeeper's kitchen, as clean and bright as possible. Whatever speck of dust might have had the rashness to think of settling on any part of that immaculate kitchen, must at once have hidden its diminished head, after peeping in. It was scrubbed and whitewashed into snow. We followed the dame first into the dining-room. I ought to tell you, however, that this castle was built in 1100, and for five hundred years was possessed by the Cliffords. It was erected, boon after the Norman Conquest, by Robert de Romeli, and was the birthplace of the celebrated Anne Clifford, Countess of Dorset, of Pembroke, and of Montgomery, the lady having married three earls successively with these titles. Cromwell battered it with his guns, when it was garrisoned for Charles I., and we saw the hill where he established these guns. The Countess's last descendant was the Earl of Thanet; and the present possessor is Sir Richard Tufton, who represents the last earl. One portion only is made habitable. The dining-room was lighted at one end by a bow-window, set with small panes. It was hung with crimson and white, and had tables and sideboards of oak, and the ceiling was frescoed in arabesque patterns. From the dining-room we went up a broad staircase into the drawing-room. This was the size of the whole round tower. It was hung with gobelin tapestry, worked by the ladies of the Clifford family. Over the fireplace was a portrait of Oliver Cromwell, in early manhood, a much fairer

SKIPTON CASTLE. 11

and handsomer face of him than I had seen before.

Two portraits of the renowned Countess, one in perfect womanhood and one in old age, also adorned the walls. Opposite the fireplace was a large family picture of the Duke of Cumberland and his Duchess and two sons. These were the father and mother and brothers of the famous Countess. The Duke was in armor, and just taking leave for a battle; and his wife stands pointing to her children, as much as to say, "What will they do without their father?" From the very broad windows of this drawing-room are beautiful views of the hills and country. From the drawing-room we ascended to the state bedchamber. This was quite in disarray. There were some tall folding-doors, leaning against the walls, which once adorned the dining-room, and upon them the. Countess was again painted in full length; and round her, in small size, hung her three husbands. Here also was a little child's portrait, in what looked to have been once a gorgeous dress, holding an apple in his hand. The housekeeper said that his lordship had choked himself to death with that apple; and then she remarked, "He was not very wise!" and soon she added, "He was an idiot." These walls also were hung with gobelin tapestry, representing the various tortures of the Inquisition! What a subject for art! Crowds of monks and nuns were present, the monks and familiars administering the various tortures, and the

12 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

nuns looking on! These tapestries were wrought by nuns. In this room stood a chair of state, a sort of throne once belonging to Mary, Queen of Scots, and so we sat down on it. It was superb once with richly gilded leather and crimson cloth. Two bedsteads, without furniture, stood on one side, and the housekeeper said they were memorable for some-, thing, but she did not know what. No doubt some royal personages had occupied them aforetime. On the floor, against the wall, stood the portrait of a young girl, a sister of Cromwell. We do not know why Cromwell seems to prevail in the castle. Sir Richard Tufton resides mostly in Paris, and is seldom here except for a few days at a time. We then passed through another bedchamber, furnished as if it could be slept in, and with no legend to it; and after a short sojourn again in the dining-room, we proceeded to the more ancient, or rather unmodernized, parts of the castle;--to the guard-room, kitchens, apartments with no distinctive name, and to the vast judgment-hall, where now, once a year, the tenants dine. The fireplace is enormous, and along the entire length was a row of chandeliers to light the revellers. We crept up a narrow, dark stairway to the roof of one tower, and had a splendid view of the whole country. Skipton is in quite a hollow--in an amphitheatre of high hills. From the battlements J---- stooped, and plucked a branch of a tall, old yew-tree (a bit of which I enclose). It is eight hundred years old.

SKIPTON CASTLE. 13

P. S.--It is noon of Saturday the 11th. We have just returned from Bolton Abbey, and are on the wing for York. We passed through an inner court of Skipton Castle, in the centre of which the great ancient yew-tree stands. By the side of it is a very old stone font. Over the pointed arched doors are the escutcheons of the Cliffords and of the Earl of Thanet, carved in stone. Green, damp moss covers the stones of the pavement and the old, old walls. One grander arched doorway opens from what was once the chief entrance, now closed up. We peeped! down the dungeons, but did not descend into them. The castle is lower than any other I have seen, only three stories high!

So we returned to our hotel, and found a glorious fire, and an extraordinary bookcase of books; for these books are choice. There is Pickering's beautiful edition of Spenser, a grand volume of all Scott's poems, including our long-sought Bridal of Triermain; many old standard English works, Sterne,, etc.; American novels too, "The Wide, Wide World," and "Queechy," ah me! and every variety--science, poetry, romance, essays. Good-bye.

14 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

LEEDS, April 11th.

MY DEAR ----:

We arrived at this unlovely town at three, and we have lunched and walked out a few moments, and we have seen a statue of Sir Robert Peel. Everything is grimy in Leeds, and poor Sir Robert looks like a collier. We did not know which way to turn, nothing looking inviting, and so I thought I would write to you, sitting at a very big table, in a very big ladies' saloon. It was a pleasant country from Skipton to Leeds, through the valley of the Aire, a narrow river, which serpentines about so much that we crossed it five or six times. All around are high hills, one of them a picturesque crag, which I thought to be a castle, but found it was only a group of rocks called the Druids' Altar. No more time.

YORK.--The Black-Swan Hotel--8 o'clock, evening. Here we are, then, safe and comfortable in this oldest of cities--rather, this exceeding old city--this walled Roman town, with its glorious Minster, and on the eve of Easter Sunday. We have had "the Queen's weather"* all the time, and the sun shone cheerfully as we drove beneath the great arch under the walls. But now I must go back to Bolton Abbey. We stepped into our barouche at ten. J-----

* As Her Majesty usually has fine weather when she travels or appears on any great day, a fair day is called "the Queen's weather."

THE PRIORY. 15

begged to mount the box with the coachman, so I wrapped him in papa's great gray shawl, and the white horses started on our winding way. We drove by Skipton Castle's strong walls, and I observed the lower part of a tower, with its buttresses at one angle; but the upper portion has fallen. The Yorkshire wolds looked bare and hard after the lovely, soft forms of the southern countries; but they are mostly cultivated, and present delicious, green tints of that golden, sunny shade which we so often see in English lawns.

The orderly stone-walls help to give a hard expression to the country. I hoped there were no such things in England. They look unsympathizing and surly, and as if they bruised nature's fair face. The roads were so up-and-down-wise, that the coachman was perpetually putting on and taking off the drag.

At last we approached the Priory. First we saw an old inn, apparently very old, and called "Devonshire Arms;" but we did not stop there. It was but six miles that we had come, and the horses could perfectly well take us to the Abbey before resting. Therefore we went on, and drew up at the "Hole-in-the-wall." Through this Hole--a rough gateway--we entered the enchanting valley of the Wharfe. It is said to be the loveliest situation, as regards natural beauty, without help from art, which is to be seen in England. It is indeed of wonderful beauty Soft, velvet, rolling lawns, round three parts of

16 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

which flows the Wharfe, quite a broad, clear river. Its banks are high, and on the side opposite the lawns rise into lofty hills, and down one of these a silver waterfall made delicious music. As in all these monastic retreats, we seemed, after entering the gates, in a safe paradise, with the world shut out, and the peace of heaven around us. No sound but of silver waterfalls and songs of birds. How well the old abbots and priors knew where to crystallize their magnificent ideas of state, repose, and worship into stone! Thomas à Kempis might here have written his divine sentences, each one so like a translucent drop of that singing, shining fall--including also the infinite serenity of the lawns, and the slumbering sunshine's dim gold. These lawns went waving far away, till they were lost in a broad gleam of the river, toward the west; and again beyond the river rose the hills, so as to shut all in securely from earthly confusion. The ruins are at the eastern extremity of the site. Of the Abbey, in which the priors and monks lived, not an atom, not a crumb remains standing, except one mighty chimney, with its fireplace. All alone and apart it stands, the hearth-stone even gone.

April 12th.--I did not bring my sketch-book; and, to be sure, if I had, there would not have been time to accomplish anything with the pencil, but yet it seemed impossible to leave the spot without some record. I should like to have drawn each transept, and the beautiful chancel, with its superb, arched

BOLTON PRIORY. 17

window, yet not to be compared to that of Furness Abbey. One or two lovely pinnacles were left in this part, from which the ivy hung in wreaths, with a marvellous grace.

We went to the edge of the banks of the Wharfe to look at the whole effect of the church, and we found the banks delightfully steep, and the river of really good width--a fresh, clear, enchanting river. It is a favorite place for anglers, for of course the monks wished for nice fish for Fridays and Lent, and selected their dwelling-place accordingly. We saw some of the world's young men enter by the "Hole-in-the-wall," with basket and line, and disappear among the rich undulations of the lawn toward the west, while we stood by the church. After examining the ruined chancel and transepts, we found a man to open for us the porch and nave. The nave is still used for services. I saw the most ancient of men, with another more modern-looking person, digging in a small enclosure, and I asked for a showman. The ancient, who was a bundle of wrinkles, held together by a velvet jacket and small-clothes, rested on his spade, and gazed at me out of his queer little eyes, but spoke never a word. He resembled one of the gothic gurgoyles which are carved on the cloisters and at the springing of the arches of cathedrals. A very cheerful, jolly verger came, with his key, from a house quite near the ruin, and a great blemish to the scene. We entered the nave, which is entirely

18 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

peculiar in my experience; for it has columns only on one side, heavy, vast columns,--and but three, supporting almost round arches, so that to me it looked like half a nave, or a church cut down the middle and half gone. Five or six tall windows, filled with brilliantly painted glass, were opposite the columns. The roof was of unceiled, dark oak, with carved, heraldic devices at the crossings of the vaulted arches. Over the altar was an oil-painting of Christ bearing the cross, very poor; and upon the altar hung a heavy, crimson velvet cloth, just like a pall. On one side of the altar was a small chapel, under which bodies were found buried upright. Wordsworth probably referred to this when he sung,

"Look down and see a grisly sight--
A vault, where the corpses are buried upright;
There, face by face, and hand to hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand.
And there, in his place, betwixt son and sire,
Stands John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
A valiant man and a man of dread,
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch."

No other chapel is left entire. There is a part of a piscina remaining in that one. After we had seen everything else, the verger went mysteriously into a private nook, and with tender care brought out two pieces of ancient, painted glass. On one was a lamb, and on the other a dragon. The colors were

BOLTON PRIORY. 19

of wonderful richness, especially the greens, like the soul of an emerald. There was one stain of ruby-red, also very gorgeous, and a yellow, like sunshine. I wish I could have taken at least the lamb; but, dear me! I might as well have laid my head on the block at once. It seems papa was in fear that I would drop this lamb on the stone pavement, at which catastrophe he looked to have the great nave explode, and blow us all into fragments. But both bits were safely restored to their hiding-places, and then we were invited into a tiny vestry, and requested to record our names. The man, with great pride, exhibited to me, in a former volume of names, that of the late queen Adelaide. I asked where Victoria's was, but he said Her Majesty had never been there. In the porch lay several finely sculptured bits of stone, and one of them was beautified with moss in a marvellous manner.

Certainly beauty seems to haunt these old abbeys, and to place her magic finger, in especial love, where decay encroaches. My earnest hope always is that all may remain as now. This church and property, for six miles, belongs to the Duke of Devonshire, and it is a perpetual curacy. He skilfully restores a little at times to keep it extant, and if he would only raze the house I mentioned as being a blemish, and would kindly demolish the modern part of his own hunting-lodge, I could ask no more of him. The centre of this hunting-lodge is the very grand old gateway of the Priory, which

20 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

would look altogether magnificent if it stood alone, as it ought. But the duke has built two wings of apartments, of no particular order of architecture, and of a most impertinent, brave newness. How his grace could be so wanting in taste and sense of fitness, I cannot imagine. If I had been a fairy, with a wand, not one moment longer would those intrusive, yellow wings have spread themselves out on either side the stately gateway, as if to fly away with it. It should again become the entrance to the grounds; and after that were accomplished, my wand should annihilate every trace of the dwelling-house. It was the greatest pity in the world, that we had not time to go to the Strid, a narrow passage rent by the river Wharfe through a bed of solid rock. It was there that the boy Egremont was drowned, of whom Wordsworth speaks in the poem called "The White Doe of Eylstone." Also he has written a poem, "The Force of Prayer; or, the Founding of Bolton Priory," in which is the story of this disaster.

"Young Romilly through Borden Woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash
To let slip upon buck or doe.
 
"The pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
The lordly Wharfe is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
 
"The Striding-place is called THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore:

BOLTON PRIORY. 21

A thousand years has it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
 
"And hither is young Romilly come;
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth tune,
Shall bound across THE STRID?
 
"He sprang in glee, for what cared he
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?
--But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
 
"The boy is in the arms of Wharfe,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse."

And so his mother founded this Priory in memory of her sorrow. The Strid was but a mile from the Abbey, but our hour was spent, and we were obliged to lose it, as well as a ruined fortress of the Cliffords, near by.

Thus we left this paradise through the "Hole-in-the-wall;" and as our barouche had not come, we walked on, and sent J---- to order it to be in readiness at the inn upon our arrival there.

There was a thousand-year-old yew-tree in the. road, with enormous gnarled trunk; and on one side the head of a great lion has grown out--a very perfect head, viewed from one side. The mouth is open, and some wag has put between its gaping jaws a large, flat, oval paving-stone, to represent a tongue. It would be better away, for doubtless the old lion is roaring, and there is no occasion for a

22 NOTES IN ENGLAND

tongue lopping out, like that of a thirsty dog. It looks as if it were cut by art, it is so expressive, and a sort of yellow moss represents the mane.

The carriage met us before we arrived at the inn, and just before a few diamond drops fell through the sunshine. Our carriage was filled up from Skipton to Castlefort. At Castlefort several persons alighted, and at another station we took in a man who told us a great deal. He pointed out to us the beautiful ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, this side of Leeds, very near the railway track. If it ever had seclusion, it is open to the tumult, noise, and grimness of the world now, just on the wayside. What an object was Leeds! Thousands of monumental chimneys belching the blackest, foulest smoke--the atmosphere laden with abominations--multitudes of churches, endeavoring to shoot up their spires and tower above defilement--endless rows of ugly houses for the work-people--not a handsome house for anybody--piles of manufactories, heaps of coal and brick and rubbish of all kinds--and a hopeless look of there being no end to it, and that nothing could ever be clean any more. This was Leeds, as we saw it, till we rushed into an enormous station, and could see nothing else for the present.

Five minutes after four, we came on to York. The country grew very much flatter as we approached the city. Vast plains stretched out on every side, so unvarying, that I began to read the "Illustrated Times." Before this, however, I observed that the

YORK--THE CATHEDRAL. 23

birch-trees had put forth their pale, lovely, green leaves, which rejoiced my heart. I read till I was summoned to see the walls of York, and immediately the train was swallowed up in a station three times as large as that at Leeds. We entered through the Tudor arch. A cabman, with a face exactly like dough just beginning to become bread, still quite white, took us to the "Black Swan," which he affirmed was one of the best York hotels. The Black Swan arches its dusky neck over the door, and the landlady, in trailing black-silk robes, enacted the Black Swan in the hall, and consigned us to a maid, who was to show us our rooms. We had a nice large parlor, with a bow-window; and two chambers contiguous, and a good little dressing-room with a fireplace.

April 13th.--We ordered a sort of dinner-tea, and then walked out on Saturday evening to look at the Cathedral--outside, at least. It is quite near the Black Swan. I was at first disappointed that it was not in the midst of a vast close, like Salisbury Cathedral, because it was nearly impossible to get a complete view of it all at once. It is mighty in size, and needs a respectful distance from which to view it; and I had an idea that its spires pierced the stars, and found that they seemed low in proportion to the extent of the building. Here my growling ends. It is sufficiently magnificent to satisfy any reasonable mortal. York should not have crowded round it so intrusively. On one side only is there

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any space, and therein stand the houses of the Dean and of the resident Canon, one of them quite palatial. I think it was the Dean who cleared away this breathing-place, thanks be to his memory. It is wonderful how much these stupendous works owe to individuals. The exterior is all incrusted with sculptures, gurgoyles, and statues. Yet there are innumerable niches and stalls with no statues. Some may have fallen, but some were never filled. I hope a future Archbishop or Dean may fill them all, because it would make it so gorgeously rich. Fretted pinnacles rise from every part, and borders of foliage and arabesque mouldings, and very singular projecting figures--animals and human half-forms, rushing out horizontally like waterspouts. An old man accosted us before the south entrance, and asked us if we had ever seen their fiddler. Thinking he must mean some poor ancient, still alive, we told him we had not time to see him now, it was so late in the evening. "Oh, but you must look at him," he urged, hobbling along before us; and when we were at the right spot, he turned and pointed to the highest pinnacle over the marigold window. There, to be sure, in remote solitude, stood the fiddler, with his fiddle snug under his left ear, and the bow in his right hand. I do not know how many feet he really measures, but he looks about eighteen inches high. "Many a person comes to York," said the old man, "who never sees the fiddler."

So, then, we came home to dinner, and were served

YORK MINSTER. 25

by a grave butler, instead of by a maid as at Skipton; having been received at the door, also, by a youthful waiter with immaculate neck-tie, shining hair, and spotless black body-coat.

The Black Swan haunts the hall and staircases, and whenever I meet her she says some polite thing; but she is not lovely, and I think she makes even the grave butler hop and run sometimes; for she is evidently a fierce swan, beneath her folding shawl and and long train.

We were requested, of course, to write our names in a book; and behold, we found the names of two or three hundred Americans in it;--the Nortons of Cambridge, the Quincys and Wares and Waterstons, Mr. Frank Peabody of Salem, and multitudes of New York people, and others. Finally, we found that it was a book for American names only, and no English ones at all were admitted.

On Easter Sunday, then, we went to York Minster at half-past ten. I had time hardly to cast a hurried glance before a verger took possession of us, and asked if we wished to attend the services. As this was what we came all the way to York to do, we said "Yes," and he took us into the choir, beneath the superb stone screen, over which is the grand organ.

But now we are off for Manchester, where I will write you the rest of our experiences.

2

26 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

MANCHESTER, April 13th. PALATINE HOTEL.

WE arrived in this great emporium of soot and mire at a quarter to eight. It is after nine now, and we have taken tea, and J---- has retired, "twice homesick," as he said. I suppose he meant, once after his anemones, and once after you and baby. This is a giant hotel, so far as I could see in the dusk, and there was a perfect bouquet of waiters, in white cravats, blooming in the lobby and hall as we entered. But I must return to the choir of York Minster, where I left you this morning.

The old verger said I must go one way and papa another, and he proceeded to put- me into a nice, cushioned seat, close by the choristers. But I told him I had a very noisy cough, and preferred not to sit where I might disturb the dignitaries and worshippers; so he allowed me to go my own way, which was far along toward the high altar, where I sat down in full view of the whole assembly, and in a much better position to hear the music. I did not see what was done with papa for a great while. It was fifteen minutes before the sermon began, and so I had time to gaze about me. The choir is very beautiful--the tabernacle-work and stalls of richly-carved oak, but modern, because the ancient choir was burnt in 1829. It is not to be compared now to the tabernacle-work of the choir of Chester Cathedral. That came out of the love and souls of the carvers, who made it an act of devotion. Still, ex-

YORK MINSTER. 27

ceedingly beautiful, however, looking like climbing flames, as it always does. The organ, exactly opposite me, was one large cluster of aspiring pinnacles, of the same rich oak as the stalls, and of the same design. There is no appearance of an organist, or of human agency about that instrument. I did see a man hover for a moment in a gallery on one side of it, but he was instantly swallowed up in the blazing spires. It is much better so, than to see any one laboring away to produce the sound of soft recorders, or of jubilee or thunder, as the case may be. Every finely-sculptured point of the thousand ascending upward, seemed to quiver with praise and thanksgiving. The cathedral itself burst forth in anthems.

Not quite half-way between us and the organ were, on one side, the pulpit where the Canon preaches, and on the other, the archbishop's throne. It is St. Peter's church, and on the crimson velvet drapery of the pulpit the keys were embroidered in gold. The pulpit and throne were of carved oak, of the same tabernacle-work, as light and airy as fire. A screen, of the same delicately-sculptured oak, shut in the whole central aisle of the choir from the side aisles, the pointed, narrow arches being filled with the finest plate-glass, so that when the heavy crimson-cloth curtain fell, like a portcullis, from the upper groove of the entrance, a really comprehensible space was enclosed, provided one did not look upward; for then the lofty vaulting,

28 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

higher even than that of the nave, suggested ideas of the incomprehensible infinite, dissipating the sense of snugness forever. Directly behind the altar, a stone screen completed the enclosure, and also obstructed the view of the east window. But with that I had nothing to do then.

At last the intoning of the usual service began, and the young choristers mingled their clear, airy voices. I do not know as I can give you any idea of the effect of the echoes in those spaces. Every tone was, as it were, the root or stem of a mighty tree of multitudinous branches of sound, which, as it issued from the lips, was taken up by the vast arches and lofty vaultings, as the tree expands into the heavens, and the echoes of the echoes were like a thousand birds singing on the branches. In the branches, musical winds mingled with the bird-songs, making soft thunder of the leaves, rising, falling, spreading, intervolving, receding, and again returning in full, broad diapason. I had no book with which to follow the clergyman and people, and perhaps it was better so. The majestic minster was "instant in prayer," and jubilant with praise. Man did a little, but the cathedral effected far more. The chanting of young boys is unlike any other sound in the world. It is not at all like women's voices, though sweet and delicate like their sweetest and most delicate tones. It is that and something more. I always wonder if it is not like angels' voices. The anthems of joy for the resurrection

YORK MINSTER. 29

were most glorious. All at once one of the vergers came from the choir, with a silver mace on his shoulder, preceding a personage whom I supposed to be the Archbishop, for, as it was Easter Sunday, he must be there. This priest had a Roman profile,--was tall, and dressed in white, with the black mantle, or, I should say, in a dalmatica and stole. Two others followed him in the same costume. They came toward the altar, and passed me as they went to the communion-table.

The verger saw I had no book, and gave me one; and a portion of the Holy Communion service was read by the tall and reverend person, whom I took for the Secundate of all England (the Archbishop of Canterbury being the Primate). His voice was not good; but the echoes took the words, as always, and glorified the intonations. Another, perhaps the Dean, now repeated a prayer, and his accents were nobler, and produced a grander reverberation. When he had finished, another anthem burst forth, and this was the most wonderful of all. It was a wailing of plaintive sorrow, as if expressing the Passion of Christ; and when he "gave up the ghost," the cathedral was filled with thunder,--rolling from the organ as from a cloud, and then caught up and repeated, folding and unfolding afar off--scarcely dying away before another peal from the organ again rolled forth. So with soft, pathetic plainings, and deep, thunderous moans, his passion, crucifixion, and death were sung; but when he rose! the

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whole power of joy and triumph was expressed by voice and instrument. The magnificent, painted windows blazed anew with their rainbow colors, and it was all light, splendor, hope, and joy. This should have closed the services, for there was nothing more appropriately to be done. But now the verger attended the Archbishop to the pulpit, and he began to preach! And since he presumed to speak, one would think that on such a day, in such a cathedral, exalted by such music, he might have spoken inspired words. But, alas! it was the emptiest, flattest, stupidest sermon that ever was pronounced, though the theme, of course, was the Resurrection. This heavy exordium lasted about twenty minutes. Any one of the glorious windows, full of saints and prophets in crimson and gold and emerald, preached a more edifying sermon, and I endeavored to get what good I. could from those I could see; but the discourse came to an end, and we came forth into the nave, and met papa, who had been put into one of the prebend's stalls.

We could not be shown the cathedral on Sunday, and therefore we came home. I ought to say that the Archbishop of York, I find, was not there, and that it was a Canon who addressed the people, and had the Roman profile.

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 31

May 22d.

HERE we are, safely arrived in this old cathedral city, after about seven hours' rush from your presence at the Southport station. Fancy how beautiful it was the moment we left the frowsy sand-hills of our seaside, and found ourselves in the verdant country, in this first bloom of its spring. The wonderful variety of the tints of green is always most apparent when the leaves first unfold. To say that the fields and trees were green, gives no idea of the endless shades of color, from the yellowish, callow tint, which seems to imprison the sunbeams, deepening through emerald, up to the solemn cypress hue of the spruces and pines, with all the possible cadences from first to last. The late rains have freshened the fields and meadows and hillsides into utmost perfection. The dry, old sand vanished away entirely; and I was just thinking that there was no color so grateful and lovely as green, when a flush of purple suddenly spread over the face of the land from tens of thousands of wild hyacinths, on both sides the railway-track, ringing out perfume with all their bells.

What delicious fragrance must have filled the air around them! but we poor prisoners of steam and

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cinders, could have no benefit of hyacinthine odors. Very soon the golden gorse began to glow over the banks, and a red flower, whose name I do not know, while daisies faithfully starred the earth on every side, with our dear old dandelion and wild pink, to remind me of the Wayside and America. Presently we coursed along by a canal, the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, pretty and picturesque now, because winding between trees and flowers, and once in a while passing beneath a perfect little stone bridge, of one symmetrical arch, so forever beautiful, that every time I see one of the hundreds that span the narrow rivers and canals of England, I am in a new delight.

We were delayed in a very tiresome way just before entering Manchester, and feared we should lose the train for Lincoln. The railroad directors announced that they would never promise to arrive at appointed times, nor to be responsible for any accident or loss.

We at last dawdled along to the station, and when the carriages fairly stopped, we rushed into a fly and dashed off to the London depot.

LINCOLN--May 23d.--In all the great cities of England, Saturday evening is a kind of festival, and so it is here. The shops are brilliantly lighted, and the street is thronged with the poorer classes, going to buy their next week's groceries and provisions, and all talking together. Each one has a basket,

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 33

and not only the sidewalks, but the middle of the street, are crowded with human beings. There is a particular Saturday evening market in Lincoln, besides that the shops keep open late. Out of the line of my vision, but within hearing, as I sat, a violin and fife struck up a prelude, and then a fine, manly voice sang several songs very well.

Just now a band of music came up, and we ran to the window, thinking we might see a military company; but it was only the brass-instrument-players, and they stopped just opposite us, and performed two pieces of music, one of them an andante of Beethoven. The crowd grew dense around them instantly, and I think it was for the entertainment of the crowd that they were playing. It was most refreshing and delicious to me, always so starved for music, and to hear a strain of Beethoven was a boon I did not look for.

Soon after the band went away, a street-preacher or a madman began to hold forth, and then the musicians returned with a triumphal march, and passed off toward the cathedral. It is of the cathedral I must now tell you. It rained this morning, and there was a dreary east wind, and so we ordered a fly to take us up the steep hill, to visit the interior of the magnificent fane.

The coachman drove us up a winding way instead of the perpendicular road. Unlike all the other cathedrals we have visited, every gate was locked, so that we could not even go into the nave without

2*

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an attendant. A girl came at last and unfastened a door, and we followed her into the southern aisle of the west front.

The width of the west front is 174 feet, covered with arched and pointed doorways, arcades, canopies, niches, mullioned windows, architrave mouldings, and foliage. On each side of the two smaller entrance doors, in niches, are sculptures of Saxon times. One represents the Angel expelling Adam and Eve from Paradise--another, the spirits of the just going up to heaven, and the unjust led by Cerberus to the Styx, with friars and nuns and monsters. Something like Noah's Ark is in one; and in another, Daniel in the lions' den.

We entered the right-hand smaller door. Alas! what can poor mortals say or do, when they enter one of these sublime cathedrals? To be silent seems the only appropriate part, yet I must try to give you an idea, as you are not here to see and be silent with me. Twelve clustered columns bear up the roof of stone, six on each side--no--sixteen; eight on each side--for I should count the two which support the middle Hood-tower. They are unfortunately covered with a kind of plaster and yellow wash, but are really made of Purbeck marble, like those columns and pediments of the beautiful church of the Temple in London. It is composed of shells, and the tint is mixed; but the effect is a purplish, pinkish, rich brown, capable of the highest polish. We did not think of the detail, however, at first, or how

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 35

gorgeous it once was in color. Those vast spaces satisfy, with the gothic forms--the trefoil-headed arches on the walls of the side-aisles, arches beyond and above arches, some pointed like a flame, others rounded for variety--just as in nature no two leaves or flowers are precisely alike. Gothic sculpture and architecture, I think, represent and reproduce Nature, and Grecian architecture seems to be Art. One is Love, Passion, and Aspiration, and the other Intellect, Thought, and also Beauty--for by both forms we arrive at Beauty. The Gothic is affectional and struggling, and the Grecian is philosophic and reposeful. But I must hasten after my verger. He did not allow us to dream in the nave. He first discoursed about the tabernacle-work in the choir. He said each stall was different from all the others in its canopy, and there are sixty-two! They are of dark oak, and every imaginable leaf and flower are interwoven in the tracery. The seats of the vicara are more superb still, having kings carved on them, and angels, with dulcimers, harps, and viols. The bishop's throne is a very simple matter, less stately than any ecclesiastical throne I have seen. The chancel is beautiful, with an extraordinary double-arched gallery, involved in a bewildering harmony, like different tones in music mingled together. I wish I could have had time to sketch it, as it is considered the greatest beauty of the cathedral. In the spandrels of the arches are thirty statues, many of them with musical instruments--the harp, rebeck.

36 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

cithern, tabor, pipe, and trumpet; and the verger said they were called the choir of angels. On one side of the altar is the tomb of the monk Remegius, who founded the minster. He was a Norman, and a man remarkable for piety, charity, and intellect. It was consecrated "to the Virgin of Virgins," in the twelfth century, time of William Rufus, who, you know, succeeded William the Conqueror. A Druidical temple stood on the site in the early British era, and afterward a Roman temple, when the Romans occupied the hill as a military station. It was called the Roman Lindum. Near Remegius is also the cenotaph of Bloet, who stands blowing a trumpet on one of the pinnacles of the west front, and there are three or four fine figures of soldiers guarding the sepulchre. The verger said that Flaxman very much liked these watching figures. Opposite are the tombs of Katharine de Swinford, wife of John of Gaunt, and sister of the poet Chaucer, and at her feet is the sarcophagus of her daughter Joan, Countess of Westmoreland. In the aisle, on the southern side, is an illuminated window, containing the names of all the Chancellors from 1092 to 1728; and beneath is a little chapel, called St. Katharine's, founded by Bishop Longland, and containing his buried heart.

The cathedral is rich in little chapels, which give great variety to the exterior of the edifice. Henry of Huntingdon, the historian, is interred near Katharine de Swinford. Before Bishop Heming's

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 37

chapel, opposite the presbytery, is a sculptured figure of Death, lying in a shroud, which the Bishop put there to remind him of mortality, when he went to his private devotions. It is said also to commemorate his fast; for he tried to fast forty days and nights, and died in the effort. Inside is his tomb, and his figure, sculptured in his pontifical robes. He was the founder of Lincoln College, Oxford. The great East window is of modern-painted glass, with altogether too much blue in_it, I think. It represents the prophesied advent, and the life of Christ. The Lady-chapel is beneath it, and here we saw a rich stone, elaborately-carved shrine, upon which once stood "the Virgin of Virgins," holding the infant Saviour; and just before it, a deep place is worn in the stone pavement, by the motion of the foot in making obeisance for ages. The statue is gone, the worship of "Our Lady" has almost passed away from the land; but the deep print of homage is left indelible.

In this sacred place was great spoil for Henry the Eighth. Tens of thousands of ounces of gold and silver were taken from this spot, and diamonds and other precious stones, which had been brought as offerings to the Virgin. And first Henry, and then Cromwell, struck off the heads of the statues, after quite demolishing Mary; and one poor knight is cut exactly in halves, besides being decapitated. Bitterly did the verger speak of the Lord Protector. He believed the soldiers were paid for every statue

38 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

they destroyed, until this was found too costly a bargain, and so ruin ceased to get a premium. Cromwell had a particular fancy for stabling his horses in the naves of cathedrals; and here they stamped on the splendid brass tablets which paved the whole broad floor; and then he took possession of all the brasses. So that the present pavement is of plain stone, and modern. I cannot forgive Cromwell for such stupid destruction. But he thought he was obeying the command, "Thou shalt have no graven images," and in this spirit, it was perhaps proper to demolish the Virgin; not, however, the lords, and knights, and gentlemen, who slept quietly in stone on their monuments, and whom no one dreamed of worshipping.

In Our Lady's Chapel are buried, singularly enough, the viscera of Queen Eleanor, the beloved wife of Edward I., and Edward built the chapel. On the tomb of one Bishop Burghersh are carved very graceful, but now headless, male and female figures, in alto-relievo. The attitudes and drapery are studies, and I wish I could have copied even one. Its date is 1340. There were sometimes shrines of pure gold for canonized saints, and St. Hugh's was one of these. It went into King Henry's coffers, and only his stone shrine remains, which is that upon which once stood the Virgin. In passing along the aisles, the verger called our attention to the lovely carvings in unexpected places,--carvings in the solid stone walls. Sometimes it would be of

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 39

the hawthorn, with a blossom in the centre of four leaves; sometimes it was the oak and acorn. Some monk of a sculptor, while walking along in meditative mood, would seem to have pulled out his chisel, and commenced and finished cutting an interwoven wreath of plant and bloom, in such entire relief, that the whole group merely touches in pin-points the wall of which it was just now a solid portion, without life or grace. And these are formed into arches, and often a cluster of perfect forms suddenly blossoms at the springing of an arch, where you are looking for 'no such delight; for there really seems only individual will in each of the productions. I can imagine these often idle and cultivated and fanciful priests, dreaming with the chisel wherever in the vast spaces they chose to use it, just to fill the time and keep out of mischief. What lovely and immortal play!

In Mary Magdalene's Chapel is the very ancient font, so large that the infant could have been immersed in it. Outside are griffins and birds--and the outer basin is square; but a round scoop is made inside, and it stands on four columns. It was in the original church of St. Remegius, and once stood in the south aisle of the nave.

We now left the chancel, and went into the cloisters. They are in good preservation; and whose tomb do you think we saw on the pavement? It was that of Elizabeth Penrose--your good friend, Mrs. Markham. J---- was astonished, not only to

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stand on her grave, but to find that Mrs. Markham's real name was Elizabeth Penrose.

The symmetry of the quadrangle is spoiled by two things. One is an innovation of Sir Christopher Wren, who built the cathedral library on one side, and encroached on the lawn. How he could have done it, or how he could have been allowed to do it, I cannot conjecture. So perfect and grand is the general harmony that a dissonance positively tortures one. But underneath this library is one of the finest views of the exterior of the whole structure. From that point it is not possible to see any end or beginning to the enormous fabric, and it does indeed look like a city, with its pinnacles and towers, and chapels and buttresses, rising on every side. The other blemish is the ugliest possible little shanty of brick and stone in one corner of the lawn. The verger unlocked it, and we entered. There, to be sure, was the famous Roman pavement, supposed to be the floor of a bath. It is exceedingly curious and interesting, but not beautiful. It is made of innumerable little cylinders of variously colored clay, laid in patterns; and from the gallery over which we leaned to look at it, it had the appearance of the painting upon oil-cloth carpets. There was a dressing-room as well as a bathing-room. The Romans were established on the hill, which commands a fine view of the city and Lincolnshire. So, then, without any manner of doubt,

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 41

we examined an old Roman construction of at least two thousand years ago.

I could have stood all day, and many days, gazing from that sheltered quadrangle upon the glorious cathedral. It is so delightfully lawless and unreckonable in its forms. It is something like a sudden upleaping of numberless fountains, each reaching a different height, full of flowers, saints, and all kind of cunning devices, crystallized in mid-air by the wand of a magician, dripping solid splendor on every side. And I was only looking at the northern part, which by no means resembled the others.

From the cloisters we went into the chapter-house. Like the restored chapter-house of Salisbury, it is supported by one column of clustered shafts, throwing out the roof like so many branches of a tree; but unlike that gorgeous restoration, there are no rainbow colors now. This cathedral was all jewelled with color in its first era, but either Henry or Cromwell daubed everything over with white or yellow wash. Where the wash is rubbed, it is easy to discover faint blue and red tints still. Once these temples must have seemed cleared "forests primeval," gemmed and laced with flowers. The verger said visitors sometimes expressed that they were glad the colors were gone. Those persons must be very cool philosophers, risen into the calm of thought. But while love exists I pray to have ruby red, heaven's blue, and golden yellow, with every intermediate

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hue. I am a devoted lover of pure form, but these cathedrals have developed in me another taste, also legitimate; for flowers and rainbows are also parts of creation, and it is designed that we should enjoy them before we are angels. Yet the angels--does not St. John say that the walls of the new Jerusalem which "descended out of the heaven of God" were garnished with all manner of precious stones--jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth, and amethyst, while the gates were of pearl. The angels, then, are not above color, though the gray-souled visitors to churches are.

The roof of the chapter-house is of stone, and every window was once filled with illuminated glass, but that is gone and plain is substituted. Lately this decagonal building has been strengthened, because the excessive weight of the roof was pushing out the sides. It is all in good repair.

I have forgotten to say that we saw a veritable Roman altar, with an inscription, inside the cathedral, as well as the shrine of little St. Hugh, a child said to have been crucified by the Jews in derision of the infant Christ, and afterward buried here as a martyr. A stone coffin, with a child's bones, was really found, as a verification of the legend.

But I must close this long story now, and commence again for another mail. We shall go to the original old Boston to-morrow.

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May 24th.--I have not yet left the cathedral. I told you last of the Chapter-house. After seeing that, the verger brought us into the great transept. "This always points north and south, and the nave, choir, chancel (or presbytery), and Lady-chapel face east and west. Above the centre of the great transept rises the Rood tower (rood means cross), containing the famous Tom of Lincoln, the mighty bell. This tower is three hundred feet high, the highest without a spire in the kingdom, and its enormous weight is supported by four beautiful and very lofty arches. They have a slender elegance, which seems quite inadequate to so much effective effort. Yet there rises and rests the noble tower safe and serene.

Beneath the arch that opens upon the choir, (exactly opposite the west-entrance door,) is the organ, over the usual stone screen. This screen is unspeakably rich in sculpture, in high and low relief. I am sure these carvings must have been acts of devotion, but yet this workmanship is supposed to be that of professed artists, hired for the purpose. High up in the curve of the southern end of the transept is a rose-window. It is exceedingly large, and instead of haying sashes in a regular form, such as star-shaped, or tangents, or right-angles, or any other angles, some lover of what Ruskin calls "the immortal curve" designed the sashes in an arabesque or acanthus pattern, which I would have given the verger or my left hand to have had a

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chance to sketch. Upon all the glass inserted in this wilderness of enchanting, waving, curling lines, contained within a perfect circle, are colors as fresh and gorgeous as if just born of prisms; and at first glance I thought they were flowers--of paradise, certainly--but flowers. Then they seemed to be saints--and saints may be called the flowers of holiness, perhaps; but the window was too high for me to decide, and the verger did not know. Each tint was a gem of purest ray, ruby, emerald, and all the royal fraternity. When dazzled with the splendor, one can follow the "immortal curves" of the sashes, and when weary of imagining whither, in infinity, the curves lead, there remains the circle enclosing all, the satisfying emblem of Eternity.

There is a tradition about this wonderful, celestial bouquet of either flowers or saints. It is that the master-artist undertook to produce the northern rose-window, while the apprentice was appointed to execute the southern one. Curtains hung before each, till both were finished. And when the southern rose was unveiled to the eyes of the master, in despair at its eminent superiority to his own, he threw himself upon the pavement beneath and died. A stain of blood is shown upon the stones. This is the same kind of story as that of the peerless column in Roslyn Chapel. But the master's window is also beautiful. It represents the Church on earth and the Church in heaven, and is said to be the most perfect work of the thirteenth century.

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 45

Almost all the old stained-glass of the cathedral was ignorantly destroyed at the Reformation, and during the civil wars, probably because of the saints pictured on them. But the verger said that it was now a decree of the Chapter, that no tributary monument should be henceforth erected to the dead, excepting emblematic, painted-glass windows. Is not this good? Four new ones are already put in, and slowly, I suppose, all will be accomplished. These four are in the southern aisle of the nave.

While we were in the Lady-chapel, Great Tom tolled twelve o'clock, with a grand, majestic, thunderous sound, solemn and slow too, and most tuneful as well. It is in the key A, and is a fit voice for the magnificent minster, and seems to thrill through every atom of its frame. Old Tom was considered finer in tone and more powerful even than this, and was dearly loved by Lincoln. But one morning the city was startled by a strange dissonance in its beloved bell. Upon examination, it was found to have a fissure on its rim. No patching would serve, so it was broken up, and six lady-bells were added to it, and new Tom was made of all, melted together.

The south end of the great transept has two aisles, and opening from the western aisle, which would be parallel to the west façade, is what is called a Galilee, a superb porch of very large size. It is not used now for its original purpose; but it was the place where penitents on trial stood, before being allowed to commune again with the church-

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members--a kind of sinners' ante-room, which it was humiliating to pass through. Women were allowed there only to see the monks who were their relatives; and in some cathedrals females were not permitted to attend divine service except in the Galilee. This has been repaired lately, and is as rich as possible in pinnacles, arches, and flowers, outside. At the north end of the central transept, beneath the master's rose-window, is an arched door, which is the private entrance of the Dean. Two narrow, tall lights are over it, filled with old, stained glass. The Lord Bishop's entrance is through the southeast porch, on one side of the chancel. It is gorgeous in decoration. Over the door, Christ sits as judge, with his angels. Lovely garlands of flowers and leaves, and little statues, some still intact, others headless, cover the vaulted roof. The Virgin and Infant once stood on the middle pier, but that group is of course destroyed, and four bishops stand beheaded, without trial, at the entrance.

You perceive we have said farewell to the verger, and are looking at the exterior again now. The whole eastern side is of exquisite beauty, with its gables and double buttresses, filled with slender pillars and pointed arches and brackets, upon which statues stand and stood, with finely-wrought canopies overhead--the stone changed into airy lace. On the tips of the buttresses are pinnacles, octagons with spires, so you can imagine how it must flame. The stone is heavy nowhere. It is made light as

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fire and air with cunning handiwork. I am afraid I have said "light as fire" once before, in describing York Minster, but I can think of no other simile that suits either case so well.

When we left this wonder of art, we walked about the high plain upon which it is erected, to see the castle and Roman arch and wall. The gateway of the castle, the keep, and part of the walls, are all that remain. The Conqueror built it. It was one of the four great castles he built when he first took possession. It must have been grand. The lower part of the huge keep stands crowned with ivy, with beautiful shrubbery and trees springing up round the base, and up the steep mound upon which it rests.

The castle entrance has a ruined look, for it was too well battered in Cromwell's wars, by the Earl of Manchester. John of Gaunt, "time-honored Lancaster," made it his winter residence; and the walls enclose nearly seven acres.

When William the Conqueror commenced this fortress, he also began the cathedral, and the cathedral alone seems to have been enclosed in walls; for several massive stone gates still stand, and one of them is exactly opposite the west front.

The Roman arch of which I just now spoke is considered the best relic of Roman work in England. It has already survived two thousand years or more, and looks as if it might last indefinitely. It is peculiar in having no key-stone.

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There was once a great parallelogram of wall, of which this was one of the gates, but all the other gates are demolished, and the only bit of original wall left standing is in the middle of a garden, carefully palisaded round for safekeeping. This remnant is in a line with the foregoing archway that I have slightly sketched. Violence, and not time, has destroyed these stern and earnest fabrics. Roman streets, hard now as iron, have been discovered by digging down into the soil about Lincoln. I really believe that it is what there is Roman, stereotyped into the English, which makes them also build so strongly. We walked all round the castle, after faithfully examining the famous archway, and then J---- was hungry, and went into the funniest little old shop that ever was seen, kept by an ancient man, and bought some gingerbread, an acre of it, I should think, "and munched and munched," as Macbeth's witches say. I have no doubt that old shop was built of the wrecks of the Roman walls, and I am not sure that the old man was not himself an eternal old Roman.

The town of Lincoln lies in a great plain at the foot of the hill; but it was so misty that day that we could not see it well, and the wind was bitterly cold, so that I was obliged to come home.

We descended Steep-street into Guildhall, and came through Stone Bow, another solid arch at the head of High-street, and close by our hotel, the Saracen's Head. This was, probably, a work of the

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Conqueror, and it may be Roman, for the Romans extended their city down into the plain.

This morning there was a pouring rain, but it cleared at noon, and at five we took our drive of two hours. We first mounted the storied hill, and slowly went round the cathedral, and round Colonel Sibthorpe's Bede-houses--charitable institutions for women--and along a road, from which we had a fine view of the city, and the country, to a far distance. Then we returned, and drove to the cemetery, and over the common, from which the hill made a stately picture, crowned with cathedral and castle. We also passed by John of Gaunt's stables, a very interesting ruin, with fine carved work.

Near this is the site of his summer palace. Then we drove to the race-course. The wind was west, and the green enchanting, and we enjoyed ourselves very much. Coming home, we passed a choice gem called now St. Mary's Conduit. It was once a shrine, and it is covered with delicate sculpture and canopies. It was so wonderfully beautiful that I wish I could have carefully drawn it. It was erected in the time of Edward I. by Ranulphus de Kyme. I will just give you an idea of its form, and end off Lincoln.

3

50

III
OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S.

BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, May 26th, 1857.

DOES not it look delightfully to see the name of that beloved city for my date? But this original old town is not in the least like our "Athens." It is perfectly flat, and boasts of but one single thing, but this is very handsome. It is the ancient church of St. Botolph. Botolph's town was the name now contracted into Boston. By pronouncing it very quickly, you can see how it might be, especially if you will recall the style in which the English guards announce names to us railroad travellers. Their idea seems to be to utter the word at high-pressure speed, in imitation of steam-rate of progress. But I must not arrive in Boston as if I were a pigeon. I must tell you how we came. One of the waiters at the Saracen's Head told us on Monday morning that there was a steamboat which went to Boston from Lincoln at ten o'clock, along the river Witham, and that it was a nice boat, and the scenery was very beautiful on the banks of the river. It was a fine morning, and we thought it would be a great relief from rail carriages to glide down a lovely river in the sunshine, even though it should take five hours, instead of one hour by rail. Before ten, we drove to the river-banks, and there were multitudes of boats moored, each one, as we passed, looking

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 51

too bad to enter. But at last the carriage stopped at a rather miserable craft, though with a better quarter-deck than the others possessed. It was a small steamer, and not nearly so large nor so good as the Mersey boats, in which we crossed to Liverpool from Rock Ferry. The sunshine, however, and the prospect of the enchanting scenes through which we were to pass, kept up our spirits and hopes. The waiter who tempted us to this excursion looked like Mr. F----, and so I gave him credit for taste and appreciation, and confided in him blindly and madly. We were about a year (spiritually) in getting off. There was but one other passenger besides ourselves on the first-class deck. It was a woman, but not a lady--a round, solid old body, of the middle order. Papa explored for a cabin in case it should rain, and reported that there was one, but he could not paint it in glowing colors, though he wished to be encouraging. Finally we commenced our voyage; but were immediately brought up by a lock, and locks kept recurring all along, the river being turned into a canal, for the sake of toll, I presume, or to try the patience of passengers. Each lock it took centuries to unlock, and the slowness of the descent of the water can be compared only to the motion of the fixed stars, at which we gaze, and perceive no motion. Meanwhile, no "plains of Shinar," no "gardens of the Lord," no Arcadys, nor lordly parks, nor cloud-capped Mount Idas with sad, wandering OEnones and gay deceiving Parises, met our waiting

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eyes. The fens, the fens of Lincolnshire,--the flats, the flats, the flats, spread drearily, east, west, north, and south. The wind also blew a strong gale ahead, and finally, very soon after starting indeed, it began to rain. I immediately was obliged to go down into the Plutonic regions. I found there a woman, whose house seemed the boat, sewing busily, in the narrowest of cabins. If we had taken the rail, we should have arrived in Boston by that time, so I had plenty of food for long-suffering and patience. I had a chance to be good under difficulties. I talked to the woman, and asked her for a book, but she had none. I sat still awhile, and then tried to see our way from a wee window in the stern, netted over with iron. Still one dreary flat, on both sides, and before, stretched without end.

I ought to tell you that though around and before us was nothing but fens, yet behind us, for four hours, rose up Lincoln Cathedral, taking every form as we wound along, sometimes looking like a mighty castle, narrow and lofty. When an hour distant, it was exceedingly grand and beautiful as a cathedral, much the finest view we had had of it. Very well did the Cæsars of Rome know where to take a stand, and the Conqueror wisely followed their steps.

We passed the towns of Washingborough and Bardney. And we had one advantage by being in a quiet boat instead of in a noisy carriage, for we could hear the skylarks! These delicious little raptures condescended to rise from the fens, as well as

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 53

from lovelier fields and meadows, and they were indeed a solace.

We were excessively delayed by taking up passengers from the banks, for it was no small trouble to stop the steamer, and get near enough to the land. Once the captain was very wroth, Because a young clown was waiting on the margin, with a huge pile of broom to be taken in. I could not well understand why he gave himself the trouble, when it seemed so against his will. It was much against mine, for we were delayed half an hour by it; and our feelings were constantly aggravated by perceiving that the railroad, for the whole distance, ran close alongside the river, so that we could have seen the country as well in the carriages as on the water, and in one-seventh of the time, which would have been long enough, since there was nothing to see. The little birds alighted on the telegraph wires, which stretched all the way, and I wondered what effect their tiny feet might have on the messages that were shooting by. At last I saw a pretty tower of a church, and a very tall structure by it, and I asked the captain what town it was. It was Tattershall church, castle, and town. The castle was built by Sir Richard Cromwell. Tattershall Castle and a pretty bridge with three arches, called also Tattershall Bridge, were the only picturesque objects we saw. The castle was buried in trees, so that we could not see the base of it.

Whenever we went under a bridge, the captain

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lowered his funnel,--not in the way of bowing civilly to the bridge, but jerking it backward, in an intractable, defying manner.

After six hours and a half, we beheld a wonderful tower in the distance, and simultaneously the captain came to take the fare. We were much diverted that he asked only four shillings for us three. The lofty tower proved to be that of St. Botolph's Church in Boston. Afar, it looks strangely out of proportion to the building, but the nearer we approached, the better it justified itself.

When we arrived in port, the captain sent for a fly, and a very nice one took us to the best hotel in town, called the Peacock, Market Square. The most solemn of all England's solemn butlers, or head-waiters, received us at the door. Papa called him a Puritan; and perhaps he is; but such an iron, utterly unmalleable grimness of soberness I never beheld on any face. All footmen and waiters are bound to solemnity; but generally one can discern the possibility of a smile, or even of a good laugh in the servants' hall or behind a napkin. But some terrific discipline has banished all tendency or desire for mirth from this man's soul. His mouth is drawn down with an everlasting resolution that he will not be glad, and it also declares that he cannot be jolly. I marvel at his inward history--what it can be. But perhaps he only sincerely believes that all men are condemned to eternal misery, except a few of the elect; and if a person can really

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S 55

think this, I do not wonder that he will never smile again. I am afraid he is very sorry for something.

He ushered us into a little parlor, like a closet, and I cried out against it emphatically, and told him we must have a larger room. He looked a look of ice and stone at me, and replied that there was no other disengaged. Not a ray of sympathy or concern lighted a line of his face. Finding me unmanageable, he said he would call the landlady.

Enter a jolly dame, all smiles, courtesies, and shining black eyes. She expressed regret, and thought we could have more spacious apartments after dinner. I found, however, I could see St. Botolph's Church from the window, and so we accepted our destiny with patience. After tea, we walked out all around it, and found it exceedingly beautiful, and were surprised by a kind of cathedral stateliness it has, yet it is not quite half as long as Lincoln or York Minsters. Lincoln is five hundred and twenty-four feet in length. The tower is three hundred feet high, and those slender pinnacles on the summit of the lantern are each as large as the parlor in which I sit. They are repairing a chapel, in which is to be placed the memorial to Mr. John Cotton, former Vicar of St. Botolph, who went to Boston, Massachusetts, because he dissented from his church, and died there, much beloved. Gentlemen of American Boston have contributed, with. English gentlemen, four hundred and fifty pounds toward the memorial, which is to be an illuminated

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window. The exterior is in excellent preservation; and they are facing the buttresses anew with beautiful canopies and brackets, and perhaps the statues will stand in them again by and by.

Papa happened accidentally into a funny little bookstore, and found an antiquarian, an elderly man, to whom he gave his card, and who cordially invited him to fetch Mrs. ---- the next day, to see some rare treasures he possessed; and he could show all that was interesting in Boston. I should not be surprised if this Mr. P---- were one of the persons to whom Mr. B---- addressed one of his letters; and if he be, it is as good as a play that papa should alight upon him in one of his wild-bird passages. So yesterday morning we all went to see him. He is a perfect Englishman in appearance, comely, handsomely stout, tall enough, and with very deep wine-stains on each cheek, genial and cordial, and particularly glad to see us. His shop is about as big as one division of a walnut. We had scarcely time to look about us, before he requested us all to go up-stairs into another division of his nutshell. This was covered, all over the walls, tables, cabinets, and buffets, with every imaginable knick-knack and pictures. From this we entered a smaller nook, also filled with wonders. Here we sat down, careful not to push anything over in the minute space, and Mr. P---- went away to get something. And what do you fancy he brought to show us in that humble little house in old Boston? Why, noth-

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 57

ing less than a most royal treasure--a quilt, embroidered all over in white silk, with birds and arabesque patterns upon linen so fine as to be silky, and trimmed round with two rows of a very rare and curious knotted fringe. It seemed the work of a lifetime, and it was wrought by Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, while she was imprisoned in Fotheringay Castle. The arabesque was worked in a kind of back-stitch, as fine as Aunt Louisa's fairiest efforts. The birds and flowers were done in chain-stitch. Once in a while, the Queen embroidered her cipher, not M. R., but M. S. This was also in chain-stitch. The knotted fringe was the work of her maidens, and it must have been the labor of years, as each small knot is fashioned with the fingers. The quilt was lined with pink, and quite heavy with the sewing-silk. I imagined the sad and weary thoughts she must have had as she sat over it. It is stained, and I wondered whether it were not with tears. I took off my glove, and touched it, for her beautiful hands had very long rested on it--most ill-fated of queens!

The next treasure Mr. P---- brought was a waistcoat of Lord Burleigh. "There," said he to J----, "there, young gentleman, you have to put on this vest," and so on it went. It was of pale green silk; trimmed round the pockets and edges with a delicate gold and silver pattern, not half an inch broad, but as brilliant and untarnished as if finished yesterday; yet, it is about three hundred and fifty years

3*

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old. J---- had on his talma; but Lord Burleigh must have been slender, for J---- could not button it round his waist. Perhaps some of this illustrious counsellor's wisdom, in the form of Od, entered into J---- while wrapped in it.

Then came a wonderful bag, made of the Victoria Regia, by the Queen of Otaheite, and given to Captain Cook! It was sewed with smallest feathers, and the texture of the material was exquisite, like goldbeater's skin, and semi-transparent. It was once adorned at the opening edges with feather-fringe, but most of that was worn off.

Mr. P---- showed us also some shoes of past ages, of a queer shape with a singular heel. One was of white satin, with a flower embroidered upon it, and the other was black satin. He contrasted with them some slippers made by American Indians.

Some crystal goblets were beautiful, with St. Botolph's Church engraved on them, as well as other fine buildings, and cyphers also. He brought forth, too, an old rose noble (a gold coin) and a double sovereign and double guinea, both out of circulation, and an angel, now obsolete. Each dwelt in a wee chamois bag of its own, and was as bright as if just from the mint. After seeing these things, Mr. P---- allowed us to go into the other apartment. Very valuable old prints were framed on the walls, and a colored crayon head of Sterne, an invaluable picture, drawn from life, which has never been engraved. I dare say the British Museum, or

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 59

National Gallery, would give thousands of pounds for it. Also there was Sterne's wife--drawn in the same style--a proud, unamiable, high head-tossing lady, from whom, I do not wonder, Sterne wished to separate. A copy in water-colors of Murillo's flower-girl was of exquisite beauty; and at last the good gentleman, all crisp and sparkling with ecstasy at our enjoyment of his pets, opened the drawer of a cabinet, and took out--what? Fancy! No, you never can; for, actually, the enviable old antiquary exhibited original pen and pencil studies of Raphael, Rembrandt, Giordano, Benvenuto Cellini, Jordaens, Maratti, and many others. Yes, the very studies, with the growing idea traceable through the involved lines. As at Oxford, all those of Raphael were unmistakable, from the delicate grace and fastidiousness of the efforts, so very fine, and drawn with a sharply-pointed pencil, while many of the others were dashed off with pen and ink. One was a head, in brown ink, by Rembrandt, a hat over one eye, and a saucy expression, in shadow. Where could Mr. P---- have gained such inestimable jewels? When he is tired of hoarding them, he can make a fortune any day by selling them, I should suppose. And he ventures to keep them in a wooden cabinet, in that small old house,which might burn down any day! He ought to have an iron safe for the purpose, after the manner of Oxford, where all the pen and pencil sketches of the great masters are in a fire-proof apartment. Over the drawings I exhausted my

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capacity for wonder and delight, and after this rich feast, we were taken down into a tiny sitting-room, and introduced to Mr. P----'s wife, a thin, pleasant person, whom, I trust, Mr. P---- considers his most precious treasure. A cabinet was opened in this room, and illuminated missals given us to see, and Roman medals, antique Latin bibles, printed in Antwerp--a secret book, or "Book of Secrets" of Queen Elizabeth, which I opened and read, among other receipts, "How to kill a fellow quickly." This struck me as very strange, and not very creditable to the Queen. But. behold! upon looking more carefully at the stained old type, I found that it was "fellon," not "fellow." The present way of spelling this word is with one l--felon--and so I easily mistook it. We laughed heartily at the mistake, it was such an off-hand, unfeeling way of putting such a serious matter--the word "fellow" giving such a scornful, indifferent tone. So there were all her majesty's favorite receipts and notions, very curious and entertaining. J---- was captivated by the glory of color in one of the missals--birds, flowers, and saints dazzled our eyes with splendor. We made Mr. P---- breathless by telling him of that missal we saw last summer at the Countess of Waldegrave's, illuminated by Raphael's own hand. The Countess was very uneasy while I looked at it, for it was really too invaluable to be left out of her own keeping. It was about three inches square, bound in velvet and solid gold. Her great blue eyes blazed

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 61

like a falcon's upon, me, till I returned it to her. I am afraid the antiquary broke the Tenth Commandment as he listened to us about it. I asked Mrs. P---- whether she were as much interested as her husband in these things, and she said she was not, but preferred to read. And then she remarked, pointing to a brilliant red-bird in a missal that I was turning over: "That bird is almost as red as the Scarlet Letter!" She said this in a private, confidential little way, and made no other allusion to the authorship. Finally, we proposed to come away, not having seen the hundredth part, though all the choicest morceaux; and the kind gentleman put on his hat, and went to show us a curious, old gabled house in a narrow alley, built in the French style. In the peak of the gable was a heraldic fleur-de-lis and the cypher E. R. The gable was trimmed with costly, stone Maltese lace, and carved and ornamented in various ways, and Mr. P---- evinced a pious horror at the insertion of a modern window-frame in another part of the house. He showed us also the site of Mr. John Cotton's house, and mourned over its demolition. He wished the spot to be enclosed, and a memorial built up in the centre, and said that Dr. Bigelow, of Boston, Massachusetts, told him, when here, that he believed the inhabitants of his own city would gladly contribute to its erection, if the land could be purchased and secured. Finally, we came to St. Botolph's, and the present Vicar, remote successor to Mr. Cotton, was standing in the

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Close, talking with some one, and Mr. P---- brought him to us and introduced him, after having whispered who papa was. This vicar was not venerable, like the vicar of Wakefield, but a young man, of the most comfortable aspect you can conceive--soft, round, with a rather pale and comely, but full face, snowy, large, handsome teeth--spotless white cravat, fine black coat, and hands that looked like bishops--so plump, smooth, and fair. Really, the chief shepherds of this English fold are as well to do as the fleecy sheep and lambs I see grazing by hundreds in the meadows. They testify to sumptuous fare, and wear fine linen every day. With a refined and cultivated expression, they yet remind one of the jolly world and clay -- wine, oil, and easy-chairs. This Rev. G. P. S. Q. L. B---- (though I forget exactly how many names he has) politely received us, and invited us into his beautiful church, and Mr. P---- bade us farewell.----

Mr. B---- was so courteous that he showed us the church himself, instead of putting us under the guidance of a verger; and when he had gone quite round, and told us everything, he most considerately departed, and left us to enjoy ourselves as long as we pleased.

* * * * *

Just as we were entering the southern porch, the organ was sighing like an Eolian, with a wonderful effect of spirit-voices. The organist was practising. The impression which the whole interior made upon

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 63

me at once was of perfect and comprehensible beauty. It could all be included in a glance, though it measures two hundred and fifty feet from the west front to the chancel east window. The organ is most happily placed at the side, so that there is a clear sweep of view from one extremity to the other. What a pity that it is not so with the vast cathedrals! If I were Queen of England, I would have every organ moved from the arches of the choirs. At the western front, One enters the bell-tower--the grand tower, three hundred feet high, and seen at sea forty miles away. There is a stone roof, sculptured just beneath the lantern, in which hangs the bell. Standing beneath this lofty roof, we looked upon a space which may be called a lesser transept, before the columns of the nave begin, with a door right and left, south and north; and exactly in the centre of this space, stands a font of stone, richly sculptured, raised on a very broad pedestal of three wide, spreading steps. Over it hangs a coronal of gold and blue, a light, airy chandelier of fine tracery, in two or three concentric circles, climbing into a spiral form.

There are, I think, seven columns on each side of the nave, and above them fourteen windows in the clerestory, whose pointed arches are trefoil-headed. The roof of the aisles then slopes downward from the nave, and there are seven much larger and loftier windows, which pierce the sides north and south. The choir has some oak tabernacle-work, stalls, and

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ancient carved seats, made very uncomfortable for monks, so that if they grew a little sleepy, and were not very watchful, they would be sure to tumble down with a crash. These seats are elaborately sculptured beneath, with droll devices. One is a group of naughty school-boys, driven by a master, with a whip. One is a bouquet of cats and monkeys playing together. Under some grins Apollyon. The backs of them and the terminals are carved with every variety of head, and flower, and animal,--no two alike. They often end in lovely quirls, or in angels or cherubim, mixing up heaven and hell in the strangest way. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die," the monks seemed to say with their chisels. Sometimes the back of a stall endeavors to run off in this manner.

While I was sitting in the choir, papa and J---- mounted to the top of the grand tower, and a verger hovered round, who had previously been paid a shilling to let me alone. Presently the chief organist came in, and I told the verger I wished he would play; and he replied that he had come to give a lesson to the lady organist. But I saw him whisper to him, and while I was trying to sketch the eastern window, after the lesson was over, my musician kindly burst forth in a magnificent symphony, which made all the saints and apostles radiate brighter light, and live and breathe. The verger declared he was the best organist in the country, and I was not inclined to dispute it.

OLD BOSTON AND 8T. BOTOLPH'S. 65

The chancel is uncommonly beautiful. The east window is filled with painted glass, well designed, and of superb hues. The middle light represents first Jesse, in crimson and blue, sitting at the lowest point, as the root of David. Above him stands Mary, holding the infant Jesus, with Joseph at her side. Above is Christ upon the cross; and highest is Christ in glory, crowned and sceptred, as Judge and King. All the lights on each side are filled with apostles and saints, and also David. The pointed, trefoiled and quatrefoiled headed arch over all looks studded with jewels; but upon examination these are found to be the heavenly host, in the centre of whom stands the archangel Michael, trampling upon the Dragon. I do not know why the effect of the tints of this great window is golden, yet the choir glows with a sort of permanent sunshine, which is peculiar to St. Botolph's. Now I think of it, it may be that the windows on each side are filled with yellow stained-glass, and it is a lovely idea thus to make perpetual sunny radiance over the altar, whatever the weather may be.

The perpendicular lights contain Christ, Mary, and saints. The altar beneath the window is sumptuous with crimson velvet and gold, and a heavily carved oaken chair stands on each side of it. And before the chancel is a low screen of blue and gold, a kind of brass work, extremely light. Within are two candelabras of the same material and fairy workmanship, and others like them are placed all

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about the church, and, with the coronal over the font, look wonderfully beautiful, when lighted. This delicate blue and gold also goes up the pulpit stairs and balusters, looking like a rich fringe with tassels; but upon approaching it, I found it was rigid metal.

There are two alabaster monuments, one supporting a knight spurred, with his helm under his head as a pillow, and the other his wife. The noses of these figures have been restored, and also their fingers, and the vicar has a great ambition to adorn his church, and intends to have all the windows refilled with painted glass. He is very young, and may live to see much accomplished. There is at the door a strong box, for the reception of a restoring fund, and I trust it will be a perpetual bank.

The nave is full of carved oaken seats, unlike cathedrals, and the pulpits are in the midst of them, instead of being in the choir. Botolph's town was so called from a monastery erected to that saint in 634, which the Danes destroyed in 870. On its site this church was built in 1309. Fox, who wrote the "Book of Martyrs," was born in Boston. We have the book, but it is too dreadful for you to read. We walked round the small chapel in which Cotton's memorial window is to be placed, but there is only one grave-stone in it, and that is upon the floor. It is in fine proportion, and has a noble western window. Papa and J---- were tired of waiting for me, and when I was ready to go out I found the gate of

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 67

the door locked fast! I was in a gorgeous cage, but felt very uncomfortable not to have my freedom, and stood shaking the bars till the clang roused the Verger who was outside, and he laughed merrily at having fastened me in. As he had been paid to let me alone, I suppose he did not dare tell me he must go away.

The organ was still murmuring melodiously as I left the southern porch, as if St. Botolph were singing Vespers.

On my walk home, I saw a lovely ruined Abbey at a printseller's, and bought it for you to copy some time. It is Crow] and Abbey, which I hope to visit, as it is near Peterboro, where we go next.

In the afternoon of Tuesday (26th) we walked out; but I felt tired, and after looking at the old Guildhall, an exceedingly interesting building, with a fine mullioned window, and three gurgoyles rushing tumultuously from each side and the point of the arch, I concluded to go back to the Peacock, and take an open barouche, to drive about with Julian. Papa, you know, hates to drive, and prefers to wander without purpose. We therefore returned, and I ordered a light phaeton, which proved delightfully easy, and I told the coachman to go round every part of Boston, and then into the suburbs. We had a charming excursion, and old Boston reminded one of the oldest parts of New Boston--those parts which are antique and tumble-down, at the North End. There is scarcely a handsome house in the

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town, but many quaint ones, with overhanging brows; and in the suburbs we saw an enchanting House of Seven, Gables, which, being all covered with perennial ivy, looked as the one described in the book would look, if ascended into the heavenly Paradise. It was sumptuously rich and beautiful, and I wish I could have sketched it.

We passed the new cemetery, in which stood two strangely-shaped edifices, I suppose for the reading of the burial-service; but I can compare them to nothing but camelopards--giraffes.

* * * * *

"The Peacock" is such an aged bird, and really there is no end to its tail, though it is not quite so long as the neck of the Saracen's Head in Lincoln, which, you know, I told you was miles in length.

The solemn waiter has not smiled yet, because he never will nor can; but, despite his ungraciousness, I think we have felt particularly at home in Boston. We have had the Queen's weather, and all the ladies are in muslins.

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IV.
PETERBORO CATHEDRAL.

PETERBORO, May 28th

WE left Boston at half-past twelve, and our route was through still a flat country, covered with lambs, buttercups, and white heifers. There is a great preponderance of white cows in this region, perfectly white, and the young heifers are beautiful. We passed through Kirton, and thereabouts was a storm of apple-blossoms, and the hawthorn trees and bushes, in great profusion, were in the fullest bloom. I never saw so much hawthorn bloom before in England. We saw very many of the prettiest little colts in the world, trotting gently beside their mothers, with a singularly modest air, as if they felt rather delicate about being seen on their new legs. There is always something very refined in the manner of a colt.

We stopped a moment at Sutterton and Surfleet, and crossed the river Glen, one of England's narrow ribbons of rivers, and then came to Pinchbeck, where I presume that the metal called pinchbeck-

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gold was invented. We saw the outside of a fine old church, which I wish we could have entered. Indeed, I should dearly love to go into every one of these old village churches, for I have no doubt they are extremely interesting, and with strange histories and monuments. We passed one quite closely, and there were some funny gurgoyles upon it in the shape of imps, with elbows pressed on the buttresses (in default of sides), as if they said, "Now for it! off we go," in the act of springing; but yet forever held fast in stone. It is an extraordinary idea of these gothic architects to give this rushing-away, active expression to the centuries-enduring, fixed stone. I wonder if it is an image or emblem of the hopeless longing of the monks to escape from their thraldom. I have a singular desire to break the bonds of these headlong gurgoyles, and let them go. They have such an impetus in their motion, that it seems as they would shoot out of all human vision in a second, if they were freed. Did you ever observe those on the roof of Henry the Seventh's chapel in Westminster Abbey?

We now came to Deeping Fen, which perhaps means, the fenniest of fens. It was, however, adorned with a great deal of beautiful rose-hawthorn in perfect bloom. * * * England is just now in fullest blossom--fruit-trees, May-flowers, purple and white Persian lilacs, like plumes, so soft and delicate, and everywhere the graceful, yellow laburnum, dropping gold; also, of course, the greenest of

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grass, as if it had been that moment washed in a shower--so that though the land was flat, there was much about it most grateful to the eyes. I observed that a great many lambs had been taken for a purpose I will not name, so that the darns had but one child apiece, instead of their rightful two. J---- undertook to wonder how each lamb could know its own mother!

When we arrived at Peakirk and Croyland, we regretted our. tickets were not for Croyland, for, in that case, we might have stayed there all night, and seen, the abbey. As it was, we kept on to Peterboro. The Railway Hotel being directly upon the station, we walked into it. I immediately looked out of the windows to find a glimpse of the cathedral, and I saw a portion of the western façade and pinnacles, and the top of a mighty arch.

After dinner we took a walk. Peterboro is a very small town gathered in front of its glorious minster. It is the cathedral, and nothing else. We soon came to the market-place, on one side of which is the Guildhall, now used for a butter-shop, beneath the lower pillars. Opposite to it is a stone gateway, which is the entrance to the Close. As we entered the Close, the world seemed shut out, as it always does inside these monastic retreats. Eternal peace is within their gates, and upon me the effect of the three vast arches of the western façade was more sublime and magnificent than that of any architecture I have yet seen in England. I was

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wholly unprepared for the vastness and splendor of this church. No one had ever spoken of it to me, and I had never read about it. I believe there is no other façade like this in the country--the arches being much higher than that we so wondered at in Furness Abbey--three arches, perfectly uninjured. I did not know before what a grand power lay in a lofty curve, and words can never convey an idea of it. The first impression was that those arches had more to do with heaven than earth. Though the line returns again to the same level from which it rises, yet it seems to have been transfigured as it soared and sang in its circuit. They are the emblem of a saint's soul, whose visible form still exists. He stands on the earth, but his spirit has ascended into another world, and remains there, in truth, though he is yet with us in mortal guise. They are an image of endless aspiration in constant rest.

Between the gateway and the cathedral is a pointed entrance into the cloisters which were, for Cromwell's soldiers utterly demolished the cloisters, except the inner walls. On these inner walls are the remains of broken arches and shafts. The lawn is of the loveliest pale green velvet. On its south side are some beautiful high arches, dripping with wreaths of ivy. If you can recall the banqueting-hall of Conway Castle, with its lofty vaultings and mullioned windows hung thickly with enormous vines of ivy, you will be able to fancy how these appear. Entering from a corner, opening through

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 73

one of these garlanded arches from the cloisters, we were in the former refectory of the old Abbey, now roofed by the sky and floored with daisies and grass. Traces of the Abbey are all about this part--clustered pillars, broken arches,--and from these we went into the cathedral, by one of the southern doors. The service was not quite over, so we walked quietly up the stately aisle, with its fine, Norman, groined roof, nearly eighty feet high. We sat down upon a seat in front of the screen of the choir to wait for the end of the function, and had hardly time to glance at the glories around and above us, before a verger came from the dropped curtain beneath the organ, and invited us to go in. The prebends and choristers were chanting, and one lady and two gentlemen formed the audience! I was struck into amaze by the choir, its effect was so gorgeously rich, so loaded with ornament, and the chancel so singularly shaped in semicircles, with a solid wall nearly to the roof, and then broken into superb arches opening upon other arches beyond and behind, in the Lady-chapel, of which the ceiling was intricately sumptuous; while there were glimpses afar of rainbow-glass--mysteries, and fold within fold of beauty, revealing remoter beauty through the never-ending arcades. Ah me! what can poor mortals do with but two eyes to see out of, and so confined a space for the heart to expand in? I was glad when, after the chanting, the precentor said "Let us pray," and I closed my dazed orbs

4

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upon all visible things. The "Amen" to the prayers was peculiarly beautiful--a fountain of sweet, young voices and organ music, rising with a full and expanding tone through the wilderness of spaces, and returning with a soft, closing cadence into silence again.

The chancel of this choir is called an apse, which means the rounded end of a church, opposite the nave. There is but one other of Norman date in England. Directly over the altar, on the roof, is a painting of Christ sitting, with all the apostles around him, involved in curling lines; and it is written on a scroll which encircles the whole, "I am the Vine, and ye are the branches;" and, "I am the Bright and Morning Star." The bishop's throne is here very superb,--a little cathedral in itself, of cunningly carved oak, flaming into pinnacles. All the arches of the apse are profusely decorated above the clustered shafts; and with the pierced, flying buttresses and tracery over the windows, and the arcades above and beyond one another, I received an impression of magnificence which no other choir has given me; though, on account of being smaller, it has not the grandeur of that of York Minster.

After the service was over, there was a great ceremony of waiting for a venerable old Canon to descend from his stall beneath the organ. All the choristers, prebends, minor canons, and the precentor arranged themselves in a reverent manner, while behind stood an ancient verger with a rod in his

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hand. The venerable Canon was lame, which made his descent very slow; but when he came upon the level with his subordinates, he bowed graciously to them, and took the precedence in vanishing beneath the curtain. It was pleasant and grateful to see such deference to infirm age.

We left the choir on the south side to go and look at the altar, and we stepped from the door directly upon the stone beneath which Mary Queen of Scots was buried, after her execution at Fotheringay Castle, near Peterboro. Her son James afterward removed her body to Westminster Abbey, and you know we saw her sarcophagus there, and her lovely effigy upon it. In the aisle we met a young verger, who offered to show us the cathedral. First he told us about Queen Mary's grave, and then we followed him into the Lady-chapel. The ceiling of this chapel is a specimen of the fan-vaulting, of which I caught glimpses through the open arches" of the choir. What is called the perpendicular style is particularly famous for this fan-vaulting, which is "very splendid. Between the windows these superb fans curve over and meet in the centre of the roof, almost touching with their scolloped edges. It is all of stone. Beneath the thirteen windows is a great height before the pavement comes, and this space is filled on the east, north, and south sides with an arcade. There are seats in these arcades all round. The central window is filled with painted glass; but it is modern and not tasteful. There

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are six windows over the altar, filled with what was saved of the superb, old colored glass from the destructive hands and guns of Cromwell's soldiers, who were in a particular rage, with this cathedral, because it had been considered the holiest ground in England, and kings and cardinals put off their shoes when entering its gates. There are but very few monuments left. One is very curious, and it is the oldest Christian monument now to be seen in the land. It is of the ninth century, and in memory of Abbot Hedda and his monks, who were killed by the Danes. It is very rude and worn, and the monks are the funniest old frights that were ever seen.

At the northern door of the choir, every one who goes in or comes out steps upon the slab Over the body of Catharine of Aragon, first wife of Henry Eighth. She died at Kimbolton Castle, in Huntingdonshire, and was buried here. When Henry was told that he should build some fair monument to her memory, he replied, "Yes, I will leave her one of the goodliest in the kingdom," and so he spared this superb cathedral; and no queen has such a mausoleum as she, and I hope her proud and injured spirit was somewhat appeased by it. It was late amends for the king to make, but it was right royal. There is a shrine near this, thought to be that of Saint Ibba, and from the Lady-chapel, all along the aisles to the west front, on the walls beneath the windows, are the intersected arches, which

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first suggested the pointed arch. I took great pains to draw you some of them, to show you the transition steps from Norman to the early English or pointed style. The Norman arch is a perfect semi-circle, heavy and massive. Doors, windows, and arches were all rounded, and the pillars were very thick, and the sculptured ornaments bold and rude. By degrees the style was enriched with zigzag adornments and the chevron; and then came the intersected arch.

The verger then took us into an old chapel, where morning prayer was offered; and there is some tapestry on the eastern wall, worked by two sister nuns before the Reformation. There are two pictures; one of Peter and John curing the lame man at the gate of the Temple, and it seems to be from Raphael, though altered a little. The other is Peter's release from prison; and the angels who set him free have the most hideous faces imaginable. Instead of angels, I should call them devils. A Roman soldier sleeps, headless, on one side. This chapel is a very old place, with curiously-carved screens and doors of almost black oak, it is so time-worn. It was a grand coup d'oeil to look from the east end of the Lady-chapel to the western transept, all along the vaulted aisle, four hundred and twenty-two feet! more than twice as far as Bunker Hill monument is high. This image will help you to estimate the distance. The beautiful groined roof of the aisles makes an enchanting and noble perspec-

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tive; only some foolish bishop or dean, whose heart must have been a whited sepulchre, and who is recorded as not liking rich colors, washed over the tinted barnack-stone, of which the cathedral is built, with a yellowish daub, throughout the inside. If Dante should award him his punishment, I think he would dip him in his lake of pitch of which he sings in the "Purgatorio." The verger said there were hopes that it would presently be all scraped off, and the primal hue restored.

So now we walked down the mighty nave, with its strange and unique roof of painted oak. It is marked in lozenge-shaped mosaic, and the interstices are filled with richly-colored figures and devices, kings and queens, bishops and abbots, and emblematical designs, in extraordinary preservation, considering its antiquity. The great transept, north and south, is very superb. Its roof is of the same character as that of the nave, but not so gorgeous in color and device. It is very lofty, and there are four stages. First is an arcade on slender piers, then a decorated string-course, then an arch, through which is seen a window; then again arches and windows to the top. One capital only of all the piers is an impish head, spitting out, as it were, the shaft from its mouth. Now just fancy this workman, busy with the rest, who were all producing plain capitals, and finally showing this funny head, not to be altered now. These stone jests are certainly very singular. How the sculptor must have

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grinned to himself! The arches supporting the tower, which lead into the northern and southern parts of the great transept, are glorious in beauty and in size, and excel all others in England in these characteristics. They have the effect of those of the western front, and must have been designed by the same person. The screen is lovely, and I made a sketch which I will draw out for you. * * * The pavement of the whole cathedral is wonderfully joined, so as to look like one piece of stone. The columns that support the nave are thirty feet in circumference, clustered, with Norman arches.

* * * * * *

Coming out, we wandered round the Close. Two sculptured stone gates led to gardens on the northern side. We entered one, and it opened upon the burial-ground, which extended quite round to the cloisters again, north and east. Fine old trees and shrubberies adorned this cemetery, and opposite the gate by which we went in was another beautiful arch, giving a glimpse into some wonderful Arcadia, with a lawn of sunshine-green, a tree of rarest loveliness, branching out from the very velvet sward, so that the delicately-tinted leaves lay on the grass lightly, like the folds of a lady's airy dress; and it rose in perfect proportion, somewhat trained by art, into pyramidal tendency, but more flowing in outline than the geometrical figure. Papa was particularly transported with this tree, which I think was a beech. Behind it was a grand, dark cedar of Leb-

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anon, as if set there for contrast and background to the beech.

The house of the secretary of the Bishop stood beyond the cedar--a picturesque building of fawn-colored stone, with blooming plants around it, and reaches of soft lawn leading to inviting shades farther on. An avenue of noble trees, each side of the smoothest gravel walk, at that moment made smoother by a huge stone-roller in the hands of two gardeners, led from another arch to the principal porch of the house. These trees met in fraternal communion overhead, arch within arch, and unbroken peace brooded over all. Peace, such as the world can never give, seemed established in this consecrated retreat. Behind the cemetery there was a rookery--for all abbeys have rookeries--and the rooks cawed incessantly; but they only made the peace and silence perceptible or sensible,--just as the cricket reveals how still the night is--just as the shadow makes salient the light.

This was originally a monastic church, founded in 665, and built of such heavy stones that sixteen oxen could hardly draw one. Penda was the Mercian king who commenced it. You know that the Mercian kingdom was the largest of the heptarchy, and this village, originally called Medesharnstead, from a deep gulf called Medes Well, famed for its very cold water, is in Northamptonshire. The monastery of Medeshamstead was afterward finished by King Wolfen, and dedicated to St. Peter, and then

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the village began to be called Peter Burgh. When its abbot was Hedda (in 883), the Danes injured the church very much, and it was restored again by the Bishop of Winchester, assisted by King Edgar, 974. Successive abbots, before and after the Conquest, enlarged it; for these great Minsters grow from age to age, like flowers which it takes centuries to unfold. The name of the sublime architect who designed the west front arches is lost, unless some one succeeds in deciphering that vast hieroglyph of stone.

After gazing into the paradise of the Close awhile, we again looked at the few remains of the cloisters, once illustrious with painted glass in their mullioned windows, and walked through the refectory, with its majestic arches, festooned with ivy, once, no doubt, also radiant with saints and angels in rainbow colors, and passed through gothic doors into narrow lanes, with many ruins, on the way, of the former abbey--walls, tithing barns--until we came into paths leading by fishponds and streams, perfectly dark with overhanging trees, where the monks found their Friday dinners and Lenten feasts--until we wound our course out into the town, and came home.

May 28th.--This morning we went again to the cathedral. The service was over, and we walked into the open door beneath one of the western arches. There was no one in all the great temple.

4*

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We found the door of the Lady-chapel unlocked, and every door open, in the most hospitable way--so unlike Lincoln. We wandered about at our own will and leisure, and there was no sound but of our echoing footsteps and the distant cawing of rooks.

I stood again upon Queen Catharine's grave. It is bare now, but once a superb canopy hung over it, a hearse and velvet pall--as well as over Queen Mary's; but the regiment of horse under Colonel Cromwell demolished them, though a part of the hearse is preserved somewhere. The painted glass was particularly rich at Peterboro, so that the soldiers were dazzled with its splendor, and they cried out the more furiously that it must be smashed, because the idols the monks worshipped were flaring on them in their gold and purple. So they stupidly shot at the saints and kings, until enough only was left to piece out a few windows in the choir, out of all the multitudes of windows full! The fan-vaulting was more beautiful to me to-day than before, and now I recognize of what it reminds me. Take one of the divisions by itself and it looks like a rocket falling in stars or flowers, the motion in rest everywhere suggested. In comparing Gothic with the Greek architecture, one is the clear, logical understanding, coming at truth mathematically by the way of reason; and all this range of truth stands beautiful and sure, on lovely, even pillars, surmounted with

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square pediments, symmetrical and perfect to the eye. I think, too, of those lovely faces like A---- G----'s, with her brows in a straight line. And she is a person, of clear understanding. But the Gothic "is of Imagination all compact," "in a fine frenzy rolling," glancing from earth to heaven and heaven to earth--a crystallized poet, as it were, of endless variety, of scintillating fancy--soaring in "immortal curves," baffling geometric conclusions, setting known, established rules at defiance, wild beyond reach of recognized art, flaming like fire, glowing like flowers and rainbows, soaring like birds, struggling for freedom, and like the soul, never satisfied. A cathedral is really an image of the whole soul of man; and a Greek temple, of his understanding only--of just decisions, serene, finished postulates, settled axioms. We need both.

Most regretfully we left the mighty Minster, and took a last look at the Close. Near the gate leading into the secretary's Eden is another, opening upon another domain of a Canon or Dean. It had the same, but never-wearying sunny lawns, rich shrubbery and flowers, and birds in rapture, all embosomed in the pervading peace.

In one corner of the Close is Thomas a Becket's chapel and shrine, now the chapel-school; and boys with the square-topped Oxford cap, and an immaculate toilet, were standing near--some with books, studying. I wondered if they were conscious of the

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place where they were standing, and of what was before them.

We went into a shop, and bought some engravings of the interior; but not a drawing that I saw gave at all the impression of the grandeur and size of the front arches, or of the nave.

* * * * * * *
Farewell.

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V.
NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

NOTTINGHAM, May 29th.

WE left Peterboro yesterday, but I must not omit to tell you that J----- was made perfectly happy there by seeing some knights in