Three Years in Europe Part 6

I felt inclined to join in this sentiment before I left the church. A fine statue of "Surly Sam" Johnson was one of the first things that caught our eyes on looking around. A statue of Sir Edward Packenham, who fell at the Battle of New Orleans, was on the opposite side of the great hall. As we had walked over the ground where this General fell, we viewed his statue with more than ordinary interest. We were taken from one scene of interest to another, until we found ourselves in the "Whispering Gallery." From the dome we had a splendid view of the Metropolis of the world. A scaffold was erected up here to enable an artist to take sketches from which a panorama of London was painted. The artist was three years at work. The painting is now exhibited at the Colosseum; but the brain of the artist was turned, and he died insane!

Indeed, one can scarcely conceive how it could be otherwise. You in America have no idea of the immensity of this building. Pile together half-a-dozen of the largest churches in New York or Boston, and you will have but a faint representation of St. Paul's Cathedral.

I have just returned from a stroll of two hours through Westminster Abbey. We entered the building at a door near Poets' Corner, and, naturally enough, looked around for the monuments of the men whose imaginative powers have contributed so much to instruct and amuse mankind. I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw. In almost any church-yard you may see monuments and tombs far superior to anything in the Poets' Corner. A few only have monuments. Shakspere, who wrote of man to man, and for man to the end of time, is honoured with one.

Addison's monument is also there; but the greater number have nothing more erected to their memories than busts or medallions. Poets' Corner is not splendid in appearance, yet I observed visiters lingering about it, as if they were tied to the spot by love and veneration for some departed friend. All seemed to regard it as cla.s.sic ground. No sound louder than a whisper was heard during the whole time, except the verger treading over the marble floor with a light step. There is great pleasure in sauntering about the tombs of those with whom we are familiar through their writings; and we tear ourselves from their ashes, as we would from those of a bosom friend. The genius of these men spreads itself over the whole panorama of Nature, giving us one vast and varied picture, the colour of which will endure to the end of time. None can portray like the poet the pa.s.sions of the human soul. The statue of Addison, clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of Shakspere.

He looks as if he had just left the study, after finis.h.i.+ng some chosen paper for the _Spectator_. This memento of a great man, was the work of the British public. Such a mark of national respect was but justice to one who has contributed more to purify and raise the standard of English literature, than any man of his day. We next visited the other end of the same transept, near the northern door. Here lie Mansfield, Chatham, Fox, the second William Pitt, Grattan, Wilberforce, and a few other statesmen. But, above all, is the stately monument to the Earl of Chatham. In no other place so small, do so many great men lie together.

To these men, whose graves strangers from all parts of the world wish to view, the British public are in a great measure indebted for England's fame. The high pre-eminence which England has so long enjoyed and maintained in the scale of empire, has constantly been the boast and pride of the English people. The warm panegyrics that have been lavished on her const.i.tution and laws--the songs chaunted to celebrate her glory--the l.u.s.tre of her arms, as the glowing theme of her warriors--the thunder of her artillery in proclaiming her moral prowess, her flag being unfurled to every breeze and ocean, rolling to her sh.o.r.es the tribute of a thousand realms--show England to be the greatest nation in the world, and speak volumes for the great departed, as well as for those of the living present. One requires no company, no amus.e.m.e.nts, no books in such a place as this. Time and death have placed within those walls sufficient to occupy the mind, if one should stay here a week.

On my return, I spent an hour very pleasantly in the National Academy, in the same building as the National Gallery. Many of the paintings here are of a fine order. Oliver Cromwell looking upon the headless corpse of King Charles I., appeared to draw the greatest number of spectators. A scene from "As You Like it," was one of the best executed pieces we saw.

This was "Rosalind, Celia, and Orlando." The artist did himself and the subject great credit. Kemble, in Hamlet, with that ever memorable skull in his hand, was one of the pieces which we viewed with no little interest. It is strange that Hamlet is always represented as a thin, lean man, when the Hamlet of Shakspere was a fat, John Bull-kind of a man. But the best piece in the Gallery was "Dante meditating the episode of Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta, S'Inferno, Canto V." Our first interest for the great Italian poet was created by reading Lord Byron's poem, "The Lament of Dante." From that hour we felt like examining everything connected with the great Italian poet. The history of poets, as well as painters, is written in their works. The best written life of Goldsmith is to be found in his poem of "The Traveller,"

and his novel of "The Vicar of Wakefield." Boswell could not have written a better life of himself than he has done in giving the Biography of Dr. Johnson. It seems clear that no one can be a great poet without having been sometime during life a lover, and having lost the object of his affection in some mysterious way. Burns had his Highland Mary, Byron his Mary, and Dante was not without his Beatrice. Whether there ever lived such a person as Beatrice seems to be a question upon which neither of his biographers have thrown much light. However, a Beatrice existed in the poet's mind, if not on earth. His attachment to Beatrice Portinari, and the linking of her name with the immortality of his great poem, left an indelible impression upon his future character.

The marriage of the object of his affections to another, and her subsequent death, and the poet's exile from his beloved Florence, together with his death amongst strangers--all give an interest to the poet's writings, which could not be heightened by romance itself. When exiled and in poverty, Dante found a friend in the father of Francesca.

And here, under the roof of his protector, he wrote his great poem. The time the painter has chosen is evening. Day and night meet in mid-air: one star is alone visible. Sailing in vacancy are the shadows of the lovers. The countenance of Francesca is expressive of hopeless agony.

The delineations are sublime, the conception is of the highest order, and the execution admirable. Dante is seated in a marble vestibule, in a meditating att.i.tude, the face partly concealed by the right hand upon which it is resting. On the whole, it is an excellently painted piece, and causes one to go back with a fresh relish to the Italian's celebrated poem. In coming out, we stopped a short while in the upper room of the Gallery, and spent a few minutes over a painting representing Mrs. Siddons in one of Shakspere's characters. This is by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and is only one of the many pieces that we have seen of this great artist. His genius was vast, and powerful in its grasp. His fancy fertile, and his inventive faculty inexhaustible in its resources. He displayed the very highest powers of genius by the thorough originality of his conceptions, and by the entirely new path that he struck out in art. Well may Englishmen be proud of his name. And as time shall step between his day and those that follow after him, the more will his works be appreciated. We have since visited his grave, and stood over his monument in St. Paul's.

LETTER XI.

_York Minster--The Great Organ--Newcastle-on-Tyne--The Labouring Cla.s.ses--The American Slave--Sheffield--James Montgomery._

_January, 1850_.

Some days since, I left the Metropolis to fulfil a few engagements to visit provincial towns; and after a ride of nearly eight hours, we were in sight of the ancient city of York. It was night, the moon was in her zenith, and there seemed nothing between her and the earth but glittering gold. The moon, the stars, and the innumerable gas-lights, gave the city a panoramic appearance. Like a mountain starting out of a plain, there stood the Cathedral in all its glory, looking down upon the surrounding buildings, with all the appearance of a Gulliver standing over the Lilliputians. Night gave us no opportunity to view the Minster. However, we were up the next morning before the sun, and walking round the Cathedral with a degree of curiosity seldom excited within us. It is thought that a building of the same dimensions would take fifty years to complete it at the present time, even with all the improvements of the nineteenth century, and would cost no less than the enormous sum of two millions of pounds sterling. From what I had heard of this famous Cathedral, my expectations were raised to the highest point; but it surpa.s.sed all the idea that I had formed of it. On entering the building, we lost all thought of the external appearance by the matchless beauty of the interior. The echo produced by the tread of our feet upon the floor as we entered, resounding through the aisles, seemed to say "Put off your shoes, for the place whereon you tread is holy ground." We stood with hat in hand, and gazed with wonder and astonishment down the incomparable vista of more than five hundred feet.

The organ, which stands near the centre of the building, is said to be one of the finest in the world. A wall, in front of which is a screen of the most gorgeous and florid architecture and executed in solid stone, separates the nave from the service choir. The beautiful workmans.h.i.+p of this makes it appear so perfect, as almost to produce the belief that it is tracery work of wood. We ascended the rough stone steps through a winding stair to the turrets, where we had such a view of the surrounding country, as can be obtained from no other place. On the top of the centre and highest turret, is a grotesque figure of a fiddler; rather a strange looking object, we thought, to occupy the most elevated pinnacle on the house of G.o.d. All dwellings in the neighbourhood appear like so many dwarfs couching at the feet of the Minster; while its own vastness and beauty impress the observer with feelings of awe and sublimity. As we stood upon the top of this stupendous mountain of ecclesiastical architecture, and surveyed the picturesque hills and valleys around, imagination recalled the tumult of the sanguinary battles fought in sight of the edifice. The rebellion of Octavius near three thousand years ago, his defeat and flight to the Scots, his return and triumph over the Romans, and being crowned king of all Britain; the a.s.sa.s.sination of Oswald king of the Northumbrians; the flaying alive of Osbert; the crowning of Richard III; the siege by William the Conqueror; the siege by Cromwell, and the pomp and splendour with which the different monarchs had been received in York, all appeared to be vividly before me. While we were thus calling to our aid our knowledge of history, a sweet peal from the lungs of the ponderous organ below cut short our stay among the turrets, and we descended to have our organ of tune gratified, as well as to finish the inspection of the interior.

I have heard the sublime melodies of Handel, Hayden, and Mozart, performed by the most skilful musicians; I have listened with delight and awe to the soul-moving compositions of those masters, as they have been chaunted in the most magnificent churches; but never did I hear such music, and played upon such an instrument, as that sent forth by the great organ in the Cathedral of York. The verger took much delight in showing us the Horn that was once mounted with gold, but is now garnished with bra.s.s. We viewed the monuments and tombs of the departed, and then spent an hour before the great north window. The designs on the painted gla.s.s, which tradition states was given to the church by five virgin sisters, is the finest thing of the kind in Great Britain. I felt a relief on once more coming into the open air and again beholding Nature's own sun-light. The splendid ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, with its eight beautiful light gothic windows, next attracted our attention. A visit to the Castle finished our stay in York; and as we were leaving the old city we almost imagined that we heard the chiming of the bells for the celebration of the first Christian Sabbath, with Prince Arthur as the presiding genius.

England stands pre-eminently the first government in the world for freedom of speech and of the press. Not even in our own beloved America, can the man who feels himself oppressed speak as he can in Great Britain. In some parts of England, however, the freedom of thought is tolerated to a greater extent than in others; and of the places favourable to reforms of all kinds, calculated to elevate and benefit mankind, Newcastle-on-Tyne doubtless takes the lead. Surrounded by innumerable coal mines, it furnishes employment for a large labouring population, many of whom take a deep interest in the pa.s.sing events of the day, and, consequently, are a reading cla.s.s. The public debater or speaker, no matter what may be his subject, who fails to get an audience in other towns, is sure of a gathering in the Music Hall, or Lecture Room in Newcastle. Here I first had an opportunity of coming in contact with a portion of the labouring people of Britain. I have addressed large and influential meetings in Newcastle and the neighbouring towns, and the more I see and learn of the condition of the working-cla.s.ses of England the more I am satisfied of the utter fallacy of the statements often made that their condition approximates to that of the slaves of America. Whatever may be the disadvantages that the British peasant labours under, he is free; and if he is not satisfied with his employer he can make choice of another. He also has the right to educate his children; and he is the equal of the most wealthy person before an English Court of Justice. But how is it with the American Slave? He has no right to himself, no right to protect his wife, his child, or his own person. He is nothing more than a living tool. Beyond his field or workshop he knows nothing. There is no amount of ignorance he is not capable of. He has not the least idea of the face of this earth, nor of the history or const.i.tution of the country in which he dwells. To him the literature, science, and art--the progressive history, and the acc.u.mulated discoveries of bygone ages, are as if they had never been.

The past is to him as yesterday, and the future scarcely more than to-morrow. Ancestral monuments, he has none; written doc.u.ments fraught with cogitations of other times, he has none; and any instrumentality calculated to awaken and expound the intellectual activity and comprehension of a present or approaching generation, he has none. His condition is that of the leopard of his own native Africa. It lives, it propagates its kind; but never does it indicate a movement towards that all but angelic intelligence of man. The slave eats, drinks, and sleeps--all for the benefit of the man who claims his body as his property. Before the tribunals of his country he has no voice. He has no higher appeal than the mere will of his owner. He knows nothing of the inspired Apostles through their writings. He has no Sabbath, no Church, no Bible, no means of grace,--and yet we are told that he is as well off as the labouring cla.s.ses of England. It is not enough that the people of my country should point to their Declaration of Independence which declares that "all men are created equal." It is not enough that they should laud to the skies a const.i.tution containing boasting declarations in favour of freedom. It is not enough that they should extol the genius of Was.h.i.+ngton, the patriotism of Henry, or the enthusiasm of Otis. The time has come when nations are judged by the acts of the present instead of the past. And so it must be with America. In no place in the United Kingdom has the American Slave warmer friends than in Newcastle.

I am now in Sheffield, and have just returned from a visit to James Montgomery, the poet. In company with James Wall, Esq., I proceeded to The Mount, the residence of Mr. Montgomery; and our names being sent in, we were soon in the presence of the "Christian Poet." He held in his left hand the _Eclectic Review_ for the month, and with the right gave me a hearty shake, and bade me "Welcome to old England." He was anything but like the portraits I had seen of him, and the man I had in my mind's eye. I had just been reading his "Pelican Island," and I eyed the poet with no little interest. He is under the middle size, his forehead high and well formed, the top of which was a little bald; his hair of a yellowish colour, his eyes rather small and deep set, the nose long and slightly aquiline, his mouth rather small, and not at all pretty. He was dressed in black, and a large white cravat entirely hid his neck and chin: his having been afflicted from childhood with salt-rhum, was doubtless the cause of his chin being so completely buried in the neckcloth. Upon the whole, he looked more like one of our American Methodist parsons, than any one I have seen in this country. He entered freely into conversation with us. He said he should be glad to attend my lecture that evening, but that he had long since quit going out at night. He mentioned having heard William Lloyd Garrison some years before, and with whom he was well pleased. He said it had long been a puzzle to him, how Americans could hold slaves and still retain their members.h.i.+p in the churches. When we rose to leave, the old man took my hand between his two, and with tears in his eyes said, "Go on your Christian mission, and may the Lord protect and prosper you. Your enslaved countrymen have my sympathy, and shall have my prayers." Thus ended our visit to the Bard of Sheffield. Long after I had quitted the presence of the poet, the following lines of his were ringing in my ears:--

"Wanderer, whither dost thou roam?

Weary wanderer, old and grey, Wherefore has thou left thine home, In the sunset of thy day.

Welcome wanderer as thou art, All my blessings to partake; Yet thrice welcome to my heart, For thine injured people's sake.

Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?

To what region far away?

Bend thy steps to find a home, In the twilight of thy day.

Where a tyrant never trod, Where a slave was never known-- But where Nature wors.h.i.+ps G.o.d In the wilderness alone."

Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted, is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost amounting to superst.i.tion, for the poet who deals with nature. And who is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle weaknesses of Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of Freedom, than our own Whittier?

LETTER XII.

_Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern Abbey--Redcliffe Church._

_January 29_.

In pa.s.sing through Yorks.h.i.+re, we could not resist the temptation it offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale, about three miles from Leeds. A pleasant drive over a smooth road, brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and pensive beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral luxuriance, and amidst the touching a.s.sociations of seven centuries, is almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it.

After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls frowning with age. At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur. We could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:--

"Beautiful fabric! even in decay And desolation, beauty still is thine; As the rich sunset of an autumn day, When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine To render homage to its slow decline, Is more majestic in its parting hour: Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine Possesses now a more subduing power, Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower."

The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is supposed, and not without foundation, to be connected with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the name of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher. The anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it.

It, however, is briefly this:--

"One stormy night, as two travellers sat at the inn, each having exhausted his news, the conversation was directed to the Abbey, the boisterous night, and Mary's heroism; when a bet was at last made by one of them, that she would not go and bring back from the nave a slip of the alder-tree growing there. Mary, however, did go; but having nearly reached the tree, she heard a low, indistinct dialogue; at the same time, something black fell and rolled towards her, which afterwards proved to be a hat. Directing her attention to the place whence the conversation proceeded, she saw, from behind a pillar, two men carrying a murdered body: they pa.s.sed near the place where she stood, a heavy cloud was swept from off the face of the moon, and Mary fell senseless--one of the murderers was her intended husband! She was awakened from her swoon, but--her reason had fled for ever." Mr. Southey wrote a beautiful poem founded on this story, which will be found in his published works. We spent nearly three hours in wandering through these splendid ruins. It is both curious and interesting to trace the early history of these old piles, which become the resort of thousands, nine-tenths of whom are unaware either of the cla.s.sic ground on which they tread, or of the peculiar interest thrown around the spot by the deeds of remote ages.

During our stay in Leeds, we had the good fortune to become acquainted with Wilson Armistead, Esq. This gentleman is well known as an able writer against Slavery. His most elaborate work is "A Tribute for the Negro." This is a volume of 560 pages, and is replete with facts refuting the charges of inferiority brought against the Negro race. Few English gentlemen have done more to hasten the day of the American slave's liberation, than Wilson Armistead.

We have just paid a visit to Newstead Abbey, the far-famed residence of Lord Byron. I posted from Hucknall over to Newstead one pleasant morning, and, being provided with a letter of introduction to Colonel Wildman, I lost no time in presenting myself at the door of the Abbey.

But, unfortunately for me, the Colonel was at Mansfield, in attendance at the a.s.sizes--he being one of the County Magistrates. I did not however lose the object of my visit, as every attention was paid in showing me about the premises. I felt as every one must, who gazes for the first time upon these walls, and remembers that it was here, even amid the comparative ruins of a building once dedicated to the sacred cause of Religion and her twin sister, Charity, that the genius of Byron was first developed. Here that he paced with youthful melancholy the halls of his ill.u.s.trious ancestors, and trode the walks of the long-banished monks. The housekeeper--a remarkably good looking and polite woman--showed us through the different apartments, and explained in the most minute manner every object of interest connected with the interior of the building. We first visited the Monks' Parlour, which seemed to contain nothing of note, except a very fine stained window--one of the figures representing St. Paul, surmounted by a cross.

We pa.s.sed through Lord Byron's Bedroom, the Haunted Chamber, the Library, and the Eastern Corridor, and halted in the Tapestry Bedroom, which is truly a magnificent apartment, formed by the Byrons for the use of King Charles II. The ceiling is richly decorated with the Byron arms.

We next visited the grand Drawing-room, probably the finest in the building. This saloon contains a large number of splendid portraits, among which is the celebrated portrait of Lord Byron, by Phillips. In this room we took into our hand the Skull-cup, of which so much has been written, and that has on it a short inscription, commencing with--"Start not--nor deem my spirit fled." Leaving this n.o.ble room, we descended by a few polished oak steps into the West Corridor, from which we entered the grand Dining Hall, and through several other rooms, until we reached the Chapel. Here we were shown a stone coffin which had been found near the high altar, when the workmen were excavating the vault, intended by Lord Byron for himself and his dog. The coffin contained the skeleton of an Abbot, and also the identical skull from which the cup, of which I have made mention, was made. We then left the building, and took a stroll through the grounds. After pa.s.sing a pond of cold crystal water, we came to a dark wood in which are two leaden statues of Pan, and a female satyr--very fine specimens as works of art. We here inspected the tree whereon Byron carved his own name and that of his sister, with the date, all of which are still legible. However, the tree is now dead, and we were informed that Colonel Wildman intended to have it cut down so as to preserve the part containing the inscription. After crossing an interesting and picturesque part of the gardens, we arrived within the precincts of the ancient Chapel, near which we observed a neat marble monument, and which we supposed to have been erected to the memory of some of the Byrons; but, on drawing near to it, we read the following inscription:--

"Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man without his vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery, if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of BOATSWAIN, a dog, Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, and died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808."

By a will which his Lords.h.i.+p executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.

This feeling of affection to his dumb and faithful follower, commendable in itself, seems here to have been carried beyond the bounds of reason and propriety.

In another part of the grounds we saw the oak tree planted by the poet himself. It has now attained a goodly size, considering the growth of the oak, and bids fair to become a lasting memento to the n.o.ble Bard, and to be a shrine to which thousands of pilgrims will resort in future ages, to do homage to his mighty genius. This tree promises to share in after times the celebrity of Shakspere's mulberry, and Pope's willow.

Near by, and in the tall trees, the rooks were keeping up a tremendous noise. After seeing everything of interest connected with the great poet, we entered our chaise, and left the premises. As we were leaving, I turned to take a farewell look at the Abbey, standing in solemn grandeur, the long ivy clinging fondly to the rich tracery of a former age. Proceeding to the little town of Hucknall, we entered the old grey Parish Church, which has for ages been the last resting-place of the Byrons, and where repose the ashes of the Poet, marked only by a neat marble slab, bearing the date of the poet's birth, death, and the fact that the tablet was placed there by his sister. This closed my visit to the interesting scenes a.s.sociated with Byron's strange eventful history--scenes that ever acquire a growing charm as the lapse of years softens the errors of the man, and confirms the genius of the poet.

_May 10_.

It was on a lovely morning that I found myself on board the little steamer _Wye_, pa.s.sing out of Bristol harbour. In going down the river, we saw on our right, the stupendous rocks of St. Vincent towering some four or five hundred feet above our heads. By the swiftness of our fairy steamer, we were soon abreast of Cook's Folly, a singular tower, built by a man from whom it takes its name, and of which the following romantic story is told:--"Some years since a gentleman, of the name of Cook, erected this tower, which has since gone by the name of 'Cook's Folly.' A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining, by means of astrology, if he would live to enjoy his property. Being himself a firm believer, like the poet Dryden, that certain information might be obtained from the above science, he caused the child's horoscope to be drawn, and found, to his dismay, that in his third, sixteenth, or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of meeting with some fearful calamity or sudden death, to avert which he caused the turret to be constructed, and the child placed therein. Secure, as he vainly thought, there he lived, attended by a faithful servant, their food and fuel being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, until he was old enough to wait upon himself. On the eve of his twenty-first year, his parent's hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings prepared to welcome the young heir to his home. But, alas! no human skill could avert the dark fate which clung to him. The last night he had to pa.s.s alone in the turret, a bundle of f.a.ggots was conveyed to him as usual, in which lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand. The bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne in triumph, the dead body of his only son was the sad spectacle which met the sight of his father."