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Transcriber's note:

The following typographical errors have been corrected:

    Page 75: "It was to this charming valley that Walter Scott came,
      with his young wife, in the first year of their wedded life." 'to'
      amended from 'to to'.

    Page 108: "We believe that many changes in the conditions of life
      and labour are needed, and are coming to pass ..." 'needed' amended
      from 'neeeded'.

    Page 114: "At sight of this group of buildings one almost expects
      to catch a glimpse of the well-meaning but not over-wise Mrs.
      Thornburgh ..." 'buildings' amended from 'buidings'.

    Page 249: "... everything that makes us see across our poor lives a
      splendid goal and a boundless future, comes to us from people of
      simplicity, those who have made another object of their desires
      than the passing satisfaction and vanity ..." 'splendid' amended
      from 'spendid'.




  By Charles S. Olcott


  THE LURE OF THE CAMERA. Illustrated.

  THE COUNTRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Illustrated.


  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

  BOSTON AND NEW YORK




  THE LURE OF THE CAMERA


  [Illustration: THE STEPPING STONES]




  THE LURE OF THE CAMERA

          BY
  CHARLES S. OLCOTT

  _Author of "George Eliot: Scenes and People of
  her Novels" and "The Country
  of Sir Walter Scott"_

  ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
  BY THE AUTHOR

  [Illustration]


      BOSTON AND NEW YORK
    HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

  The Riverside Press Cambridge
             1914


  COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT

          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
      _Published September 1914_




          TO MY BOYS
   GAGE, CHARLES, AND HOWARD
  THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
           DEDICATED




PREFACE


The difference between a ramble and a journey is about the same as that
between pleasure and business. When you go anywhere for a serious
purpose, you make a journey; but if you go for pleasure (and don't take
the pleasure too seriously, as many do) you only ramble.

The sketches in this volume, which takes its name from the first
chapter, are based upon "rambles," which were for the most part merely
incidental excursions, made possible by various "journeys" undertaken
for more serious purposes. It has been the practice of the author for
many years to carry a camera on his travels, so that, if chance should
take him within easy distance of some place of literary, historic, or
scenic interest, he might not miss the opportunity to pursue his
favorite avocation.

If the reader is asked to make long flights, as from Scotland to Italy,
then back, across the Atlantic, to New England, and thence overland to
Wyoming and Arizona, he must remember that ramblers take no account of
distance or direction. In this case they must take no account of time,
for these rambles are but the chance happenings that have occurred at
intervals in a period of more than a dozen years.

People who are in a hurry, and those who in traveling seek to "do" the
largest number of places in the shortest number of days, are advised not
to travel with an amateur photographer. Not only must he have leisure to
find and study his subjects, but he is likely to wander away from the
well-worn paths and use up his time in making inquiries, in a fashion
quite exasperating to the tourist absorbed in his itinerary.

The rambles here chronicled could not possibly be organized into an
itinerary or moulded into a guidebook. The author simply invites those
who have inclinations similar to his own, to wander with him, away from
the customary paths of travel, and into the homes of certain
distinguished authors or the scenes of their writings, and to visit with
him various places of historic interest or natural beauty, without a
thought of maps, distances, time-tables, or the toil and dust of travel.
This is the real essence of rambling.

The chapter on "The Country of Mrs. Humphry Ward" was published
originally in _The Outlook_ in 1909, and "A Day in Wordsworth's
Country," in the same magazine in 1910.




CONTENTS


     I. THE LURE OF THE CAMERA                         1

    II. LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN             15

       English Courtesy--The George Eliot
       Country--Experiences in Rural England.
       Overcoming Obstacles--A London
       "Bobby"--Carlyle's Birthplace--The Country of
       Scott and Burns

   III. A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY                49

    IV. FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN              73

     V. THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD             93

        I. MRS. WARD AND HER WORK                    95

       II. THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE                  110

      III. OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY                 128

    VI. A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES                 147

   VII. LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND           175

       I. CONCORD                                   179

      II. SALEM                                     196

     III. PORTSMOUTH                                207

      IV. THE ISLES OF SHOALS                       222

  VIII. A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS                   233

    IX. GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE                 251

     X. THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA                  271

  INDEX      297




ILLUSTRATIONS


  THE STEPPING STONES                                     _Frontispiece_

    On the River Rothay, near Ambleside, England, and below Fox How,
    the home of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, grandfather of Mrs. Humphry
    Ward. One of the scenes in "Robert Elsmere" was suggested by
    these stones.

  A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS                                             10

    White Mountains, N.H.

  PROFILE LAKE                                                        12

    Showing the Old Man of the Mountains.

    In the Franconia Notch, White Mountains, N.H. The profile
    suggested to Hawthorne the tale of "The Great Stone Face."

  THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL                                       22

    Near Nuneaton, England. The original of Cheverel Manor, in
    George Eliot's "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story."

  A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON                                                30

    Where George Eliot attended school in her eighth or ninth year.

  THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS                                          34

    In Ellastone, England, the original of the "Donnithorne Arms" of
    "Adam Bede."

  THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS                                      40

    In Ayrshire, Scotland. The poet was born here January 25, 1759.
    The left of the building is the cottage of two rooms where the
    family lived. Adjoining, on the right, is the "byre," or
    cow-house.

  THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE                                        44

    The monument was built in 1820. It is sixty feet high, and
    almost an exact duplicate of the monument in Edinburgh.

  THE BRIG O' DOON, AYRSHIRE                                          48

    The bridge over which Tam o' Shanter rode to escape the witches.

  GRASMERE LAKE                                                       60

    "For rest of body perfect was the spot."

  DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE                                              64

    Wordsworth's home for eight years. The view is from the garden
    in the rear of the cottage.

  WORDSWORTH'S WELL                                                   68

    In the garden of Dove Cottage, where the poet placed "bright
    gowan and marsh marigold" brought from the border of the lake.

  HAWTHORNDEN                                                         76

    The home of the Drummond family, on the banks of the Esk,
    Scotland.

  THE SYCAMORE                                                        80

    The tree at Hawthornden under which William Drummond met Ben
    Jonson.

  RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE                                              86

    In Roslin Glen overlooking the Esk.

  MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD                             96

    At the villa in Cadenabbia, overlooking Lake Como, where Mrs.
    Ward wrote "Lady Rose's Daughter."

  "UNDER LOUGHRIGG"                                                  100

    The view from the study window of Thomas Arnold at Fox How.

  THE PASSMORE EDWARDS SETTLEMENT HOUSE                              104

    Tavistock Place, London.

  THE LIME WALK                                                      110

    In the garden of Trinity College, Oxford. Referred to in "Robert
    Elsmere."

  COTTAGE OF "MARY BACKHOUSE"                                        114

    At Sad Gill, Long Sleddale. The barns and storehouses, on either
    end, give the small cottage an attenuated appearance.

  THE RECTORY OF PEPER HAROW                                         118

    In Surrey, England. The original of Murewell Rectory, the house
    of "Robert Elsmere."

  THE ROTHAY AND NAB SCAR                                            130

    From Pelter Bridge, Ambleside, England.

  LAKE COMO                                                          138

    From "the path that led to the woods overhanging the Villa
    Carlotta."

  STOCKS                                                             144

    The home of Mrs. Humphry Ward, near Tring, England.

  LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY                                               150

    According to Ruskin the most beautiful of the Italian Lakes.

  ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE                                         154

    The costly summer home of Count Vitaliano Borromeo in the
    Seventeenth Century.

  THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA                                      170

    At Cadenabbia, Lake Como.

  "I CALL THIS MY J. M. W. TURNER"                                   174

    View from the dining-room window of the Villa Maria.

  THE OLD MANSE                                                      180

    In Concord, where Emerson wrote "Nature" and Hawthorne lived for
    three years.

  WALDEN WOODS                                                       184

    The cairn marks the site of Thoreau's hut and "Thoreau's Cove"
    is seen in the distance.

  HOUSE OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON                                       190

    Concord, Massachusetts.

  THE WAYSIDE                                                        194

    House in Concord, where Hawthorne lived in the latest years of
    his life.

  THE MALL STREET HOUSE                                              200

    Salem, Mass. The room in which Hawthorne wrote "The Scarlet
    Letter" is in the third floor, front, on the left.

  THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES                                      204

    The house in Turner Street, Salem, Mass., built in 1669, and
    owned by the Ingersoll family.

  THE BAILEY HOUSE                                                   208

    The house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of Thomas Bailey
    Aldrich's grandfather, known as "Captain Nutter" in "The Story
    of a Bad Boy."

  "AUNT ABIGAIL'S" ROOM                                              212

    In the "Nutter" House.

  AN OLD WHARF                                                       216

    On the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth, where Aldrich often played
    in his boyhood.

  CELIA THAXTER'S COTTAGE                                            224

    On Appledore, where the poet maintained her famous "Island
    Garden."

  APPLEDORE                                                          232

    Trap-dike, on Appledore, the largest of the "Isles of Shoals."

  JOHN BURROUGHS AT WOODCHUCK LODGE                                  238

    The summer home of Mr. Burroughs is near Roxbury, New York, in
    the Catskill Mountains. When not at work he enjoys "the peace of
    the hills."

  JOHN BURROUGHS AT WORK                                             244

    The "study" is a barn, where the naturalist sits facing the
    open doors. He looks out upon a stone wall where the birds and
    small animals come to "talk with him." The "desk" is an old
    hen-coop, with straw in the bottom, to keep his feet warm.

  HYMEN TERRACE                                                      254

    At Mammoth Hot Springs in the Yellowstone National Park.

  PULPIT TERRACE                                                     258

    A part of Jupiter Terrace, the largest of the formations at
    Mammoth Hot Springs.

  OLD FAITHFUL                                                       264

    The famous geyser in the Upper Geyser Basin of the Yellowstone
    National Park. It plays a stream about one hundred and fifty
    feet high every sixty-five minutes, with but slight variations.

  THE GROTTO GEYSER                                                  266

    A geyser in the Yellowstone National Park notable for its
    fantastic crater.

  THE CAÑON OF THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER                                 268

    The view from Inspiration Point.

  THE TRAIL, GRAND CAÑON                                             278

    The view shows the upper part of Bright Angels' Trail, as it
    appears when the ground is covered with snow.

  THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA                                         290

    The view from Bright Angels'. The plateau over which the trail
    leads to the edge of the river is partly covered by a deep
    shadow. The great formation in the left foreground is known as
    the "Battleship."




I

THE LURE OF THE CAMERA




THE LURE OF THE CAMERA

I


Two pictures, each about the size of a large postage-stamp, are among my
treasured possessions. In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, in a
white dress, is vigorously kicking a football. The second depicts a
human wheelbarrow, the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, whose two
plump arms serve admirably the purpose of a wheel, his stout legs making
an excellent pair of handles, while the motive power is supplied by an
equally robust lad of eight, who grasps his younger brother firmly by
the ankles.

These two photographs, taken with a camera so small that in operation it
was completely concealed between the palms of my hands, revealed to me
for the first time the fascination of amateur photography. The discovery
meant that whatever interested me, even if no more than the antics of my
children, might be instantly recorded. I had no idea of artistic
composition, nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, and
printing papers. Still less did I foresee that the tiny little black box
contained the germ of an indefinable impulse, which, expanding and
growing more powerful year by year, was to lead me into fields which I
had never dreamed of exploring, into habits of observation never before
a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of countless places of
historic and literary interest as well as natural beauty and grandeur,
which would never have been mine but for the lure of the camera.

The spell began to make itself felt almost immediately. I determined to
buy a camera of my own,--for the two infinitesimal pictures were taken
with a borrowed instrument,--and was soon the possessor of a much larger
black box capable of making pictures three and a quarter inches square.
The film which came with it was quickly "shot off," and then came the
impulse to go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend a day at a
pretty little inland lake, a few hours' ride from our home. I hastened
to the druggist's to buy another film, and without waiting to insert it
in the camera, off we started. Arrived on the scene, our first duty was
to "load" the new machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow the
directions did not seem to fit. But we got it in place finally and began
to enjoy the pleasures of photography.

Our first view was a general survey of the lake, which is nearly twelve
miles long, with many bays and indentations in the shore-line, making a
rather large subject for a picture only three and a quarter inches
square. But such difficulties did not seem formidable. The directions
clearly intimated that if we would only "press the button" somebody
would "do the rest," and we expected the intangible somebody to perform
his part of the contract as faithfully as we were doing ours. Years
afterward, chancing to pass by the British Museum, which stretches its
huge bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of nearly four hundred
feet, we saw a little girl taking its picture with a "Brownie" camera.
"That reminds me of 'Dignity and Impudence,'" said my wife, referring to
Landseer's well-known painting which we had seen at the National Gallery
that afternoon. This is the mistake which all amateurs make at
first--that of expecting the little instrument to perform impossible
feats.

But to resume my story. We spent a remarkably pleasant day composing
beautiful views. We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the steamers and
the sail-boats and at everything else in sight except the huge
ice-houses which disfigure what would otherwise be one of the prettiest
lakes in America. We posed for each other in picturesque attitudes on
the rocks and in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had a
delightful outing and only regretted when, all too soon, the last film
was exposed. But we felt unusually happy to think that we had a
wonderful record of the day's proceedings to show to our family and
friends.

That night I developed the roll, laboriously cutting off one exposure at
a time, and putting it through the developer according to directions.
Number one was blank! Something wrong with the shutter, I thought, and
tried the next. Number two was also blank!! What can this mean? Perhaps
I haven't developed it long enough. So into the fluid went another one,
and this one stayed a long time. To my dismay number three was as vacant
as the others, and so were all the rest of the twelve. Early the next
morning I was at the drug store demanding an explanation. The druggist
confessed that the film-roll he had sold me was intended for another
camera, but "It ought to have worked on yours," he said. Subsequent
investigation proved that on my camera the film was to be inserted on
the left, while on the other kind it went in on the right. This
difference seemed insignificant until I discovered that in turning the
roll to insert it on the opposite side from what was intended, I had
brought the strip of black paper to the front of the film, thus
preventing any exposure at all! Thus I learned the first principle of
amateur photography:--_Know exactly what you are doing_ and take no
chances with your apparatus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted to
explain the use of the various "stops" on her camera, impatiently
interrupted me with the remark, "Well, that's the way it was set when I
got it and I'm not going to bother to change it. If the pictures are no
good, I'll send it back." It is such people who continually complain of
"bad luck" with their films.

It was two or three years after the complete failure of my first
expedition before the camera again exerted its spell, except that
meanwhile it was faithfully recording various performances of the
family, especially in the vacation season. It was in the autumn of 1898.
The victorious American fleet had returned from Santiago and all the
famous battleships and cruisers were triumphantly floating their ensigns
in the breezes of New York Harbor. "Here is a rare opportunity. Come!"
said the camera. Taking passage on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by
the lifeboats, outside the rail, where the view would be unobstructed.
We passed in succession all the vessels, from the doughty Texas,
commanded by the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Oregon, with the
laurels of her long cruise around Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by
one I photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, are some pictures
worth while. I had been in the habit of doing my own developing--with
indifferent success, it must be confessed. These exposures, made under
ideal conditions, were too precious to be risked, so I took the roll to
a prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, for developing and
printing. Every one was spoiled! Not a good print could be found in the
lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had left yellow spots and
finger-marks on every negative! Subsequent investigation revealed the
fact that a negro janitor had been entrusted with the work. Here, then,
was maxim number two for the amateur--_Do your own developing_, and be
sure to master the details of the operation. The old adage, "If you want
a thing well done, do it yourself," applies with peculiar force to
photography.

Another experience, which happened soon after, came near ending forever
all further attempts in photography. This time I lost, not only the
negatives, but the camera itself. Having accomplished very little, I
resolved to try no more. But a year or two later a friend offered to
sell me his 4 × 5 plate camera, with tripod, focusing-cloth and all, at
a ridiculously low price, and enough of the old fever remained to make
me an easy--victim, shall I say? No! How can I ever thank him enough? I
put my head under the focusing-cloth and for the first time looked at
the inverted image of a beautiful landscape, reflected in all its colors
upon the ground glass. At that moment began my real experience in
photography. The hand camera is only a toy. A child can use it as well
as an expert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of a prison
yard, and beyond them one cannot go. All is guesswork. Luck is the
biggest factor of success. Artistic work is practically impossible. It
is not until you begin to compose your pictures on the ground glass that
art in photography becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing to see how
many variations of the same scene may be obtained, how many different
effects of light and shade, and how much depends upon the point of view.
Then, too, one becomes more independent of the weather, for by a proper
use of the "stop" and careful application of the principles of correct
exposure, it is possible to overcome many adverse conditions.

An acquaintance once expressed surprise that I was willing to spend day
after day of my vacation walking about with a heavy camera case, full of
plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky tripod slung over my shoulder. I
replied that it was no heavier than a bagful of golf-sticks, that the
walk took me through an endless variety of beautiful scenery, and that
the game itself was fascinating. Of course, my friend could not
appreciate my point of view, for he had never paused on the shore of
some sparkling lake to study the ripple of the waters, the varying
shades of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the pebbly beach with
smooth flat stones whitening in the sun, but looking cooler and darker
where seen through the transparent cover of the shallow water, the deep
purple of the undulating hills in the distance, and above it all the
canopy of filmy, foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded
outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the loveliest cerulean blue.
He had never looked upon such scenes as these with the exhilarating
thought that something of the marvelous beauty which nature daily
spreads before us can be captured and taken home as a permanent reminder
of what we have seen.

To catch the charm of such a scene is no child's play. It requires the
use of the best of lenses and other appliances, skill derivable only
from long study and experience, and a natural appreciation of the
artistic point of view. It requires even more, for the plate must be
developed and the prints made, both operations calling for skill and a
sense of the artistic.

The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and in many forms of
recreation is the overcoming of obstacles. The football team must defeat
a heavy opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. If the
opponents are "easy," there is no fun in the game. The hunter who incurs
no hardship complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman would rather
land one big black bass after a long struggle than catch a hundred perch
which almost jump into your boat without an invitation.

[Illustration: A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS]

Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who
love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging
rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle.
Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer
for the purpose of taking the animal's picture than they would get if
they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes--and in this
class I include myself--can find all the sport they want in the less
strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out
the attractive scenes,--the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook;
the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined
castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of
some noteworthy historical event,--but the art of photography itself
presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select
the right point of view; to secure an artistic "balance" in all parts of
the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting
in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to
catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired
transparency in the shadows,--these and a hundred other considerations
give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the
never-ending fascination of the game.

I have noticed that the camera does not lure one into the beaten tracks
which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded
coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many
people are around, especially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do
its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with
leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always
felt a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable jargon of
the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show
places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such
places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the
other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an
acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at
leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not
only with a sense of complete satisfaction, but with a new friendship to
add to the pleasure of future memories.

[Illustration: PROFILE LAKE]

To visit the places made famous by their associations with literature
and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and
awe-inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast
depths of the Grand Cañon, or restful in their sweet simplicity like the
quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people in their
homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages; to find new beauty
daily, whether at home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the
sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds; to gain
that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes
from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the
picturesque and beautiful,--these are the possibilities offered by
amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera.




II

LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN




II

LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN

I

Emerson said of the English people, "Every one of these islanders is an
island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable," and that "It is almost
an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced." Holmes,
on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were "received with
nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate
kindness." Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as
"the only real thing in a wilderness of shams," and thought his
patronage "divertingly insufferable." On the other hand, he praised the
genuineness of the better men of England, as "so manly-tender, so brave,
so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is
thicker than water." Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days
what he called "the two opposite poles of English character." One of
them was "taciturn, reserved, fastidious" and without "power of
enjoyment"; the other was "expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly,
laughing loud and long." All of this suggests that in attempting to
write one's impressions of the English or any other people, one must
remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great
emphasis--"some people are not all alike!"

I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without
exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland,
manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work
delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise
obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but
seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of
the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his
orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my
protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to
another, until, continuing to pass "higher up," I was at last
photographing everything of interest, including the "Beef-Eater" who
obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these
helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be
more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I
might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should
not be disappointed.

An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic
experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure
for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example
of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere
prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as
possible, the scenes of George Eliot's writings, and on the day of our
arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a
particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned
that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the
Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the
great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully
preserved.

Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis
Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite
assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an
appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present
again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting
permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr.
Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically
repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and
wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as
a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial
smile, calling me by name and saying, "I have something I want to show
you, if you would care to see it." Considerably surprised, I saw him
touch a button as he resumed,--"It's a picture of George Eliot,--at
least we think it is, but we are not sure,--we bought it from the
executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist." Here the
attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to
be a large painting in water-colors of a woman's face, with remarkably
strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say,
"If any woman in the world can do a man's thinking, I'm that person." A
letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore
Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the
painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered
portrait was a "study" for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic
Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true
womanliness of George Eliot's character, for he certainly softened the
expression of those determined-looking eyes.

After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend
inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as
possible, the scenes of George Eliot's novels and to photograph all the
various places of interest. "Of course you'll go to Nuneaton?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, in a tone of assurance; "I expect to visit Arbury
Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor." "I suppose, then, you are
acquainted with Mr. Newdegate," said he, inquiringly. I had to confess
that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise.
"Why, you can't get in if you don't know him. Arbury is a private
estate." This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I
could go anywhere. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very
beginning appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. Of course, I could
not expect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs,
and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin
seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. "I happen to
know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I'll give you a
letter of introduction.--No, I'll do better. I'll write and tell him
you're coming."

This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was
as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the
original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was
about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and
added, "Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture";
and the interview ended with his promise to have the official
photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report
that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and
the next morning received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall
cordially inviting us to visit him.

Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the
full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir
Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging side by side in
the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I
was, therefore, eager to find them.

We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at
the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster's
conviviality. Readers of "Janet's Repentance" will recall that the great
"man of deeds" addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of
the "Red Lion," protesting against the "temptation to vice" involved in
the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He
brought the meeting to a close by calling for "Three cheers for True
Religion"; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the
inn, he caused "the most capacious punch-bowl" to be brought out and
continued the festivities until after midnight, "when several friends of
sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them
showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter."

[Illustration: THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL]

The old tavern, one of the few which still retain the old-fashioned
arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change
horses, boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished
than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was
sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept
since Shakespeare's time.

In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the private grounds of which
make a beautifully wooded park of three hundred acres. The mansion is
seen to the best advantage from the opposite side of a little pool,
where the surrounding trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in
the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are waving gently in the
summer air, and the pond-lilies spread their round green leaves to make
a richer, deeper background for their blossoms of purest white. On a
green knoll behind this charming foreground stands a gray stone mansion
of rectangular shape, its sharp corners softened with ivy and by the
foliage at either end. Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked
on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each with a double-storied
oriel, and a multitude of pinnacles surmounting the walls on every side,
give a distinguished air to the building, as though it were a part of
some great cathedral. This Gothic aspect was imparted to the mansion
something over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdigate, who was the
prototype of George Eliot's Sir Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist
describes the place as if in the process of remodeling.

We were cordially welcomed by the present owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose
hospitality doubly confirmed our first impressions of British courtesy.
After some preliminary conversation we rose to begin a tour of
inspection. Our host threw open a door and instantly we were face to
face with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel, which for so long had stood in my mind as the only known
objects of interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the way, not of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, but of George Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory,
probably a full score of years after her last visit to the place, and
this is one of several slight mistakes. These fine portraits, really
representing Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the end of a
large and sumptuously furnished room, with high vaulted ceiling in the
richest Gothic style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its
tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster Abbey. The saloon,
as the apartment is called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window,
the very one through which Sir Christopher stepped into the room and
found various members of his household "examining the progress of the
unfinished ceiling."

Looking out through these windows, our host noticed some gathering
clouds and suggested a drive through the park before the shower. Soon
his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty little horse
appropriately named "Lightheart," for no animal with so fond a master
could possibly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few minutes at
Astley Castle, the "Knebley Abbey" of George Eliot, an old but
picturesque mansion, once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour and
his ill-fated protégée, Lady Jane Grey. Then, after a brief pause at the
parson's cottage, we proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building with a
square tower such as one sees throughout England.

A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure suggested George Eliot's
bucolic parson, the Reverend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the
farmers and talked of "short-horns" and "sharrags" and "yowes" during
the week, and on Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old sermons to
the ever-increasing satisfaction of his parishioners. We photographed
this ancient temple on the inside as well as outside, for it contains
some curious frescoes representing the saints holding ribbons with
mottoes from which one is expected to obtain excellent moral lessons.

Our next objective was the birthplace of George Eliot, a small cottage
standing in one corner of the park. We were driving rapidly along one of
the smooth roads leading to the place, when the pony made a sudden turn
to the right. I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, camera
and tripod in hand. The cart went down a steep embankment, then up
again, and the next instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the ground,
while near by lay the tripod, broken into a hundred splinters.
Scrambling to my feet, I saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a
ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on the seat, and nobody
the worse for the accident except poor Lightheart, who was almost
overcome with excitement. He had encountered some men on the road
leading a bull, and quickly resolved not to face what, to one of his
gentle breeding, seemed a deadly peril.

Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked back to the house, and in
due season sat down to luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that
splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought "looked less like a
place to dine in than a piece of space inclosed simply for the sake of
beautiful outline." A cathedral-like aspect is given to the room by the
great Gothic windows which form the distinguishing architectural feature
of the building. These open into an alcove, large enough in itself, but
small when compared with the main part of the room. The ecclesiastical
effect is heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of the canopies
built over various niches in the walls, or rather it would be, were it
not for the fact that the latter are filled with life-size statues in
white marble, of a distinctly classical character. Opposite the windows
is a mantel of generous proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations
of which would not be inappropriate for some fine altar-piece; but Cupid
and Psyche, standing in a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any
churchly thoughts, though they seem to be having a heavenly time.

After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, in the left wing of the
building, examining a first folio Shakespeare, while our host busied
himself with various notes of introduction and other memoranda for our
benefit. As we sat in the oriel window of this room,--the same in which
Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp,--we noticed what appeared to
be magazines, fans, and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They
proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It is related that Sir Roger
Newdigate--"Sir Christopher Cheverel," it will be remembered--used to
remonstrate with his lady for leaving her belongings scattered over his
library. She--good woman--was not only obedient, but possessed a sense
of humor as well, for she promptly removed the articles, but later took
advantage of her lord's absence to leave their "counterfeit presentment"
in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a
century.

The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining
the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that in
the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow
panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed
arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was
curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the
full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel "standing with one arm
akimbo," exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember
that "arm akimbo," if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for
more than twenty years?

It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured
out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The
harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played--her name was Sally
Shilton--is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only
that interesting instrument, but also the "queer old family portraits
... of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly
developed head-dresses--of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high
shoulders, and red pointed beards."

Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness that we had met in
his friend Mr. Colvin, informed us that he had invited the Reverend
Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet
us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were invited,
however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, and later did so, receiving
a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various
mementoes of her husband's distinguished relative, including a lace cap
worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess
Czerlaski of "The Sad Fortune of the Reverend Amos Barton." I can still
hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and
pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, "And here is Aunt Glegg!"
There she was, sure enough, with the "fuzzy front of curls" which were
always "economized" by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this
point the canon suddenly asked, "Have you seen the stone table?" I had
been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when
Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically
told in "Middlemarch." I had expected to find it at Griff House, near
Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot's girlhood, but the arbor at the end
of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when
Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table
of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident.

Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing,
while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr.
N----, who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in
the neighborhood. We accordingly stopped our little coupé at the
doctor's door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the
landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle
and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify
nearly all the localities of "Amos Barton" and "Janet's Repentance." He
also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her
eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a
crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy
faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made
no objection.

[Illustration: A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON]

On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at
their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice.
The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known
George Eliot's father and mother, and had been interested to paint
various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call,
because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when,
upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this
same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating
that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among
them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly
Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait
of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear
people seemed determined to make our quest a success.

We now turned our attention to "Adam Bede," traveling into Staffordshire
and Derbyshire, where Robert Evans, the novelist's father and the
prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young
manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The
first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a
jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of
Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera,
and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two
miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the
real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the
only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some
surprise at the pile of luggage.

In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only
way to reach Ellastone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy
road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to
carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning to
rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury
boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though we might be
obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the
good-natured agent, whose day's work was now done, and who was anxious
to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a
fire, at our disposal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to
Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent
thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for
us. A long wait of an hour ensued, during which we congratulated
ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, it
would at least be dryer than the platform. At last the boy returned with
the news that the inn was _not_ open, but that a carriage would be sent
for us! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the
welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived! It was
a butcher's cart. When the baggage was thrown in, there was but one seat
left--the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized
passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the
only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one
which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went,
twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only
visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces
from one direction and the rain from another, but happy in the hope and
expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the
hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night's lodging than a
country railway station.

In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson,
the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to "step in an' tek
somethink." We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord's
wife, who ushered us into the "best parlor," kindled a rousing fire in
the grate (English fires are not usually "rousing"), and asked what we
would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard
lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It
disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the
eyes of the cook--none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We
then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and
particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. "Oh, no, sir,
the inn is not open," explained our good Samaritan, "but we 're always
glad to make strangers comfortable." These words indicate the spirit of
the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady's
eyes, her smile, and her gestures. I cannot set down the exact words for
the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot's landlord of the
Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam: "They 're cur'ous talkers i' this
country; the gentry's hard work to hunderstand 'em; I was brought hup
among the gentry, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a
bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for 'hev n't you'?--the
gentry, you know, says, 'hev n't you'--well, the people about here says,
'hanna yey.' It's what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir."

[Illustration: THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS]

It was curious to note, when we explored the village the next morning,
that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was
in the time of George Eliot's father. I had never expected to find the
real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by
some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as
represented--except that Adam Bede's cottage has been enlarged and
repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where
Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower
and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the
village as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first
wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the
young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the
great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was
the original of the old squire in "Adam Bede." This fine old estate was
the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of
a visit. We found the fine old "hoaks" there, which Mr. Casson
mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion
of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone
terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the
place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much
to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained the
hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the
place from all the best points of view.

It has not been my intention to follow in detail the events of our
exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many
scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have
sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur
photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real
pleasure when the people one meets manifest a genuine interest and a
spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.


II

There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I
have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some
dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder.
There are surly butlers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we
encountered one of the species in the Lake District. I had called at
the country residence of Captain ----, a wealthy gentleman and a member
of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is
described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His
High-and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of
the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening of the muscles of the back and
shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was "not
at 'ome." I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next
day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused
with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum.
"Captain ---- is ex-_treme_-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He's
_obliged_ to be in Lunnun to-day, sir, but he _towld_ me to _sai_ to
you, sir, that you're to _taik_ everythink in the 'ouse you _want_,
sir." And then the Important One gave me full possession while I
photographed the most interesting rooms, coming back occasionally to
inquire whether I wished him to move "hany harticles of furniture,"
afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the
sacred precincts of his own particular domain.

At another time, also in connection with Mrs. Ward's novels, I came
dangerously near to another break. It was down in Surrey, whither we had
gone to visit the scenery of "Robert Elsmere." I knocked at the door of
a little stone cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown into the
presence of a very old gentleman, who looked suspiciously, first at my
card, and then at me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. I
explained that I was an American and had come to take a picture of his
house. He looked puzzled, and after some further scrutiny of my face, my
clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, "Well, you people in America
must be crazy to come all the way over here to photograph this house. I
have always said it's the ugliest house in England, owned by the ugliest
landlord that ever lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the
parish." Fortunately he was not possessed of the Oriental delusion that
a photograph causes some of the virtue of an individual (or of a house)
to pass out into the picture, and upon further reflection concluded that
if a harmless lunatic wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, it
wouldn't matter much after all.

Not infrequently it happened that the keepers in charge of certain
places of public interest, while desiring to be courteous themselves,
were bound by strict instructions from their superiors. In the year when
we were exploring the length and breadth of England and Scotland in
search of the scenes of Sir Walter Scott's writings, we came one day to
a famous hall, generously thrown open to the public by the Duke of ----,
who owned it. Here we found a rule that the use of "stands" or tripods
would not be permitted in the building. Snap-shots with hand-cameras
were freely allowed, but these are always more or less dependent on
chance, and for interior views, requiring a long time-exposure, are
worthless. The duke, apparently, did not mind poor pictures, but was
afraid of good ones. I felt that I really must have views of the famous
rooms of that house, and we pleaded earnestly with the keeper. But
orders were orders and he remained inflexible, but always courteous. He
wanted to help, however, and finally conducted me to a cottage near by
where I was presented to his immediate superior, a good-looking and
good-natured woman. She, too, was willing and even anxious to oblige,
but the duke's orders were imperative. Finally a thought struck me. "You
say stands are forbidden--would it be an infraction of the rules if I
were to rest my camera on a table or chair?" "Oh, no, indeed!" she
quickly replied; then, calling to the keeper, said, "John, I want you to
do everything you can for this gentleman." John seemed pleased. He first
performed his duty to the duke by locking up the dangerous tripod where
it could do no harm. Then taking charge of us, he conducted us through
the well-worn rooms, meanwhile instructing his daughter to look after
other visitors and keep them out of our way. I rested my camera on
ancient chairs and tables so precious that the visitors were not
permitted to touch them, John kindly removing the protecting ropes. We
were taken to parts of the house and garden not usually shown to
visitors, so anxious was our guide to assist in our purpose. At last we
came to a great ballroom, with richly carved woodwork, but absolutely
bare of furniture. Here the forbidden "stand" was sorely needed. My
companion promptly came to the rescue. "I'll be the tripod," said she.
The hint was a good one, so, resting the camera upon her shoulder, I
soon had my picture composed and in focus. Then, placing the camera on a
convenient window-ledge just above my head, and making allowance for the
increased elevation, I gave the plate a long exposure and the result was
as good an "interior" as I ever made.

This is one of the best parts of the game--the overcoming of obstacles.
Without it, photography would be poor fun, something like the game of
checkers I once played with a village rustic. He swept off all my men in
half a dozen moves and then went away disgusted. I was too easy. A
picture that is not worth taking a little trouble to get is usually not
worth having. I have even been known to take pictures I really did not
need, just because some unexpected difficulties arose.

Another part of the pursuit, which I have always enjoyed, is the quiet
amusement one can often derive from unexpected situations. One day in
London, when the streets were pretty well crowded with Coronation
visitors, we decided to take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in
front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the precaution to secure a
permit, so, without asking any questions, proceeded to spread out my
tripod and compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate-holder, a
"Bobby," by which name the London policeman is generally known,
appeared, advancing with an air that plainly said, "I'll soon stop
_that_ game, my fine fellow!" I expressed my surprise and said I had a
permit, at the same time drawing the slide--an action which, not being a
photographer, he did not consider significant. He looked scornfully at
the permit, and said it was not good after 10 A.M. Here, again, the
assistant photographer of our expedition came to the rescue. She
exercised the woman's privilege of asking "Why?" and "Bobby" moved from
in front of the camera to explain. "Click" went the shutter, in went the
slide, out came the plate-holder, and into the case went the camera.
"Bobby" politely apologized for interfering, and expressed his deep
regret at being obliged to disappoint us. I solemnly assured him that it
was all right, that he had only done his duty and that I did not blame
him in the least! But I neglected to inform him that the Victoria
Monument was already mine.

[Illustration: THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS]

One of the pleasures of rambling with a camera is that it takes you
to so many out-of-the-way places, which you would not otherwise be
likely to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her "Recollections of a Tour in
Scotland" complains that all the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad.
Dorothy ought to have known, for she and William walked most of the way
to save their bones from dislocation by the jolting of their little
cart, and their limited resources compelled them to seek the shelter and
food of the poorest inns. The modern tourist, on the contrary, will find
excellent roads and for the most part hotel accommodations where he can
be fairly comfortable. It was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as
occasionally happened, we could find nothing but an inn of the kind that
flourished a century ago.

On a very rainy morning in May we alighted from the train at the little
village of Ecclefechan, known to the world only as the birthplace of
Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom we inquired the
location of a good hotel, answered in a Scotch dialect so broad that we
could not compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, and as it
afforded the only escape from the pouring rain, we stepped in and
trusted to luck. The vehicle presently drew up before the door of a very
ancient hotel, from which the landlady, whom we have ever since called
"Mrs. Ecclefechan," came out to meet us. She was a frail little woman,
well along in years, with thin features, sharp eyes, and a bald head,
the last of which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort of peaked
black bonnet, tied with strings beneath her chin, and suggesting the
rather curious spectacle of a bishop's miter above a female face. Her
dress was looped up by pinning the bottom of it around her waist,
exposing a gray-and-white striped petticoat that came down halfway
between the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a pair of coarse
woolen stockings and some heavy shoes. A burlap apron completed the
costume.

Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, clerk, porter, cook,
chambermaid, waitress, barmaid, and bootblack of the establishment, was
possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as comfortable as her limited
facilities would permit. We were taken into the public-room, a space
about twelve feet square, with a small open fire at one end, benches
around the walls and a table occupying nearly all the remaining space.
Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where the landlady baked her
oatmeal cake and served the regulars who came for a "penny'orth o' rum"
and a bit of gossip. In front was another tiny room where were served
fastidious guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. At noon we sat
down to a luncheon, which might have been worse, and at five were
summoned into the little room again. We thought it curious to serve hard
boiled eggs with afternoon tea, and thinking supper would soon be
ready, declined them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans with big,
healthy appetites, for the supper never came. The eggs were it.

We spent the evening in the public-room sitting near the fire. One by
one the villagers dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and spending
an hour or two over a very small glass. The evenings had been spent in
that way in that place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in the
atmosphere of "long ago." A middle-aged Scotchman, whose name was
pronounced, very broadly, "Fronk," seemed to feel the responsibility of
entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly I thought, a song by Lady Nairne,
"The Auld Hoose," and recited with fine appreciation the lines of
Burns's "Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn," "To a Mouse," "To a
Louse," and other poems. He related how Burns once helped a friend out
of a dilemma. Three women had been buried side by side. The son of one
of them wished to put an inscription on his mother's tombstone, but the
sexton could not remember which grave was hers. Burns solved the problem
by suggesting these lines:--

  "Here, or there, or thereaboots,
      Lies the body of Janet Coutts,
   But here, or there, or whereaboots,
        Nane can tell
   Till Janet rises and tells hersel."

Our landlady assured us that Fronk "had the bluid o' Douglas in his
veins," but he was now only a poor "ne'er-do-weel," picking up "a bit
shillin'" now and then. But he loved Bobbie Burns.

After the evening's entertainment we were shown to a tiny bedroom. Over
the horrors upstairs I must draw the veil of charity, only remarking
that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I shall seek out a nice soft pile
of old scrap-iron for a couch, rather than risk another night on one of
those beds.

Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, which is now one of the
"restored" show places, and an interesting one. We also went to the
graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we were conducted by an old
woman, nearly ninety years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived
in the village all her days. We asked if she had ever seen Carlyle. "Oh,
yes," she replied, wearily, "I hae seen 'im. He was a coo-rious mon."
Then brightening she added, with a smile that revealed her heart of
hearts, "But we a' _love_ Bobbie Burns." And so we found it throughout
Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissipated wanderer shared with
the intelligent and cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love
for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably called, affectionately,
"Bobbie."

[Illustration: THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE]

It was not long after this that we had occasion to visit the land of
Burns, for a trip through Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for
the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would scarcely be possible
without many glimpses of the places made famous by the elder and less
cultured but not less beloved poet. Scott's intimacy with Adam Ferguson,
the son of the distinguished Dr. Adam Ferguson, was the means of his
introduction to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it was at
the house of the latter, that Scott, then a boy of fifteen, met Burns
for the first and only time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet
by promptly naming the author of a poem which Burns had quoted, when no
one else in the room could give the information. It is a far cry from
the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the tavern in the Canongate
where the "Crochallan Fencibles" used to meet, but here the lines
crossed again, for to this resort for convivial souls Burns came to
enjoy the bacchanalian revels known as "High Jinks," in the same way as
did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott's fictitious Paulus Pleydell.

We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a number of places described
by Scott in "Guy Mannering," "Redgauntlet," and other novels, and found
ourselves in the very heart of the Burns country. In the center of High
Street stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which the original Effie
Deans, whose real name was Isabel Walker, was tried for child murder.
Here the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save her sister's
life, afterward walking to London to secure her pardon. Almost around
the corner is the house where Burns's Jean lived, and where "Bobbie"
died. In the same town is the churchyard of St. Michaels where Burns
lies buried in a handsome "muselum," as one of the natives informed us.

Out on the road toward the old church of Kirkpatrick Irongray, where
Scott erected a monument to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie Deans,
is a small remnant of the house once occupied by that heroine. In the
same general direction but a little farther to the north, on the banks
of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns attempted to manage a farm,
attend to the duties of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at the
same time. Out of the last came "Tam o' Shanter," but the other two
"attempts" were failures.

We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast of Carrick and what is
left of the ancestral home of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero
landed, with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graphically related
by Scott in "The Lord of the Isles." Here again we were in Burns's own
country. In the city of Ayr we saw the "Twa Brigs" and the very tavern
which Tam o' Shanter may be supposed to have frequented,--

  "And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
   His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie."

Of course we drove to Burns's birthplace, about three miles to the
south, a long, narrow cottage with a thatched roof, one end of which was
dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was built by the poet's
father, with his own hands, and when Robert was born there in the winter
of 1759 probably looked a great deal less respectable than it does now.

Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway Kirk for a view of the old
church where Tam o' Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the
witches and started on his famous ride. The keeper felt personally
aggrieved because I preferred to utilize my limited time to make a
picture of the church, rather than listen to his repetition of a tale
which I already knew by heart. We traveled over Tam's route and soon had
a fine view of the old "Brig o' Doon," where Tam at length escaped the
witches at the expense of his poor nag's tail. I have made few pictures
that pleased me more than that of the "auld brig," which I was able to
get by placing my camera on the new bridge near by. Here the memory of
Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memorial, in the form of a
Grecian temple and very similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh,
but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded by a garden of
well-trimmed yews, shrubbery of various kinds, and a wealth of brightly
blooming flowers, and best of all, stands well above the "banks and
braes o' bonnie Doon," where the poet himself would have been happy to
stand and look upon his beloved river.

[Illustration: THE BRIG O' DOON, AYRSHIRE]

Whatever may have been "Bobbie's" faults, and, poor fellow, they were
many and grievous, there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle of
love beneath which they have been concealed and forgotten. He touched
the hearts of his countrymen as none other ever did, and out of the
sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung beautiful flowers, laid out
along well-ordered and graceful paths, a delight and solace to his
fellow-men, like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the lovely garden
at the base of his memorial overlooking the Doon.




III

A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY




III

A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY


Our arrival on Saturday evening at the village of Windermere was like
the sudden and unexpected realization of a dream. On many a winter
night, under the light of our library lamp at home, we had talked of
that vague, distant "sometime" when we should visit the English Lakes.
And now--by what curious combination of circumstances we did not try to
analyze--here we were with the whole beautiful panorama, in all its
evening splendors, spread out before us. Through our minds passed, as in
a vision, the whole company of poets who are inseparably associated with
these scenes: Wordsworth, whose abiding influence upon the spirit of
poetry will endure as long as the mountains and vales which taught him
to love and reverence nature; Southey, who, himself without the
appreciation of nature, was the first to recognize Wordsworth's rare
power of interpreting her true meaning; Coleridge, the most intimate
friend of the greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be the most
wonderful man he ever met, and who, in spite of those shortcomings which
caused his life to end in worldly failure, nevertheless possessed a
native eloquence and alluring personality.

Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent twenty of the happiest years
of his life at Dove Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. His
most intimate companion was the famous Professor Wilson of Edinburgh,
known to all readers of "Blackwood's Magazine" as "Christopher North."
Attracted partly by the beauty of the Lake Country, but more by his
desire to cultivate the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius he greatly
admired, Professor Wilson bought a pretty place in Cumberland, where he
lived for several years. He enjoyed the companionship of the friendly
group of poets, but, we are told, occasionally sought a different kind
of pleasure in measuring his strength with some of the native wrestlers,
one of the most famous of whom has testified that he found him "a very
bad un to lick."

At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found himself drawn to the Lakes by
the same double attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox How on
the River Rothay, where his youngest daughter still resides. He wrote in
1832: "Our intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the brightest
spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost
daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten."

It was not alone the beauty of the Westmoreland scenery that had
attracted this group of famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland
and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. But Wordsworth was here, in
the midst of those charming displays of Nature in her most cheerful as
well as most soothing moods. Nature's best interpreter and Nature
herself could be seen together. For a hundred years this same influence
has continued to exercise its spell upon travelers, and we are bound to
recognize the fact that this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from
our prearranged path, that we might enjoy the pleasure of a Sunday in
the country of Wordsworth.

The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, suggesting that splendid day
when Wordsworth, then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed of an
irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry:

                          "Magnificent
  The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
  Glorious as e'er I had beheld--in front,
  The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,
  The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
  Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
  And in the meadows and the lower grounds
  Was all the sweetness of a common dawn--
  Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds,
  And laborers going forth to till the fields.
  Ah! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim
  My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
  Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
  Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
  A dedicated spirit."

We resolved that the whole of this beautiful day should be devoted to
catching something of that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills
which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and through him taught the love of
Nature to countless thousands. A few steps took us away from the town,
the inn, and the other tourists, into a quiet woodland path leading
toward the lake, at the end of which we stood

  "On long Winander's eastern shore."

"Winander" is the old form of Windermere. The lake was the scene of many
of Wordsworth's boyhood experiences.

               "When summer came,
  Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,
  To sweep along the plain of Windermere
  With rival oars; and the selected bourne
  Was now an Island musical with birds
  That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle
  Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown
  With lilies of the valley like a field;
  And now a third small Island, where survived
  In solitude the ruins of a shrine
  Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served
  Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race,
  So ended, disappointment could be none,
  Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
  We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,
  Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,
  And the vainglory of superior skill,
  Were tempered."

Wordsworth's boyhood was probably very much like that of other boys. He
tells us that he was "stiff, moody, and of a violent temper"--so much so
that he went up into his grandfather's attic one day, while under the
resentment of some indignity, determined to destroy himself. But his
heart failed. On another occasion he relates that while at his
grandfather's house in Penrith, he and his eldest brother Richard were
whipping tops in the large drawing-room. "The walls were hung round with
family pictures, and I said to my brother, 'Dare you strike your whip
through that old lady's petticoat?' He replied, 'No, I won't.' 'Then,'
said I, 'here goes!' and I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat;
for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly
punished. But, possibly from some want of judgment in the punishments
inflicted, I had become perverse and obstinate in defying chastisement,
and rather proud of it than otherwise." Lowell remarks upon this
incident: "Just so do we find him afterward striking his defiant lash
through the hooped petticoat of the artificial style of poetry, and
proudly unsubdued by the punishment of the Reviewers." When scarcely ten
years old, it was his joy

  "To range the open heights where woodcocks run."

He would spend half the night "scudding away from snare to snare,"
sometimes yielding to the temptation to take the birds caught in the
snare of some other lad. He felt the average boy's terror inspired by a
guilty conscience, for he says:--

         "And when the deed was done,
  I heard among the solitary hills
  Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
  Of undistinguishable motion, steps
  Almost as silent as the turf they trod."

Across the lake from where we stood, and over beyond the hills on the
other side, is the quaint old town of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth was
sent to school at the age of nine years. The little schoolhouse may
still be seen, but it is of small import. The real scenes of
Wordsworth's early education were the woods and vales, the solitary
cliffs, the rocks and pools, and the Lake of Esthwaite, five miles
round, which he was fond of encircling in his early morning walks, that
he might sit

  "Alone upon some jutting eminence,
   At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,
   Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude."

In winter-time "a noisy crew" made merry upon the icy surface of the
lake.

             "All shod with steel,
  We hissed along the polished ice in games
  Confederate, imitative of the chase
  And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn,
  The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
  So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
  And not a voice was idle."

Nor were the pleasures of social life lacking. Dances, feasts, public
revelry, and

                         "A swarm
  Of heady schemes, jostling each other,"

all seemed for a time to conspire to lure his mind away from the paths
of "books and nature," which he would have preferred. But, curiously
enough, it was after one of these nights of revelry that, on his way
home, Wordsworth was so much impressed with the beauties of the dawn
that he felt the impulse, previously mentioned, to devote himself to
poetry.

No other poet ever gave such an account of the development of his own
mind as Wordsworth gives in the "Prelude." And while he recounts enough
incidents like the snaring of woodcock, the fishing for trout in the
quiet pools and the cascades of the mountain brooks, the flying of kites
on the hilltops, the nutting expeditions, the rowing on the lake, and in
the winter-time the skating and dancing, to convince us that he was
really a boy, yet he continually shows that beneath it all there was a
deeper feeling--a prophecy of the man who was even then developing. No
ordinary boy would have been conscious of "a sense of pain" at beholding
the mutilated hazel boughs which he had broken in his search for nuts.
No ordinary lad of ten would be able to hold

        "Unconscious intercourse with beauty
  Old as creation, drinking in a pure
  Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
  Of curling mist, or from the level plain
  Of waters colored by impending clouds."

Even at that early age, in the midst of all his pleasures he felt

  "Gleams like the flashing of a shield;--the earth
   And common face of Nature spake to me
   Rememberable things."

The secret of Wordsworth's power lay in the fact that, throughout a long
life, nature was to him a vital, living Presence--one capable of
uplifting mankind to loftier aspirations, of teaching noble truths, and
at the same time providing tranquillity and rest to the soul. As a boy
he had felt for nature

                 "A feeling and a love
  That had no need of a remoter charm."

But manhood brought a deeper joy.

                 "For I have learned
  To look on nature, not as in the hour
  Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
  The still, sad music of humanity,
  Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
  To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
  A presence that disturbs me with the joy
  Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of
  Something far more deeply interfused,
  Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
  And the round ocean, and the living air,
  And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
  A motion and a spirit, that impels
  All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
  And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
  A lover of the meadows and the woods
  And mountains, and of all that we behold
  From this green earth; of all the mighty world
  Of eye and ear--both what they half create,
  And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
  In nature and the language of the sense,
  The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
  The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
  Of all my moral being."

In these noble lines we reach the very summit of Wordsworth's
intellectual power and poetic genius.

We must now retrace our steps to the village and find a carriage to take
us on our journey. For we are not like our English friends, who are good
walkers, nor do we care to emulate the pedestrian attainments of our
poet, who, De Quincey thought, must have traversed a distance of one
hundred and seventy-five thousand to one hundred and eighty thousand
English miles. So a comfortable landau takes us on our way, skirting the
upper margin of the lake, then winding along the river Brathay, pausing
for a moment to view the charming little cascade of Skelwith Force, then
on again until Red Bank is reached, overlooking the vale of Grasmere.
The first glimpse of this placid little lake, "with its one green
island," its shores well fringed with the budding foliage of spring, the
gently undulating hills forming as it were a graceful frame to the
mirror of the waters, in which the reflection of the blue sky and fleecy
white clouds seemed even more beautiful than their original
overhead--the first glimpse could scarcely fail to arouse the emotions
of the most apathetic and stir up a poetic feeling in the most unpoetic
of natures.

To a mind like Wordsworth's, such a scene was an inspiration, a
revelation of Nature's charms such as could arouse an almost ecstatic
enthusiasm in the heart of one who, all his life, had lived amid scenes
of beauty and possessed the eyes to see them. He came here first "a
roving schoolboy," on a "golden summer holiday," and even then said,
with a sigh,--

  "What happy fortune were it here to live!"

He had no thought, nor even hope, that he would ever realize such good
fortune, but only

  "A fancy in the heart of what might be
   The lot of others never could be his."

[Illustration: GRASMERE LAKE]

Possibly he may have stood on this very knoll where we were enjoying our
first view:--

  "The station whence we looked was soft and green,
   Not giddy, yet aërial, with a depth
   Of vale below, a height of hills above.
   For rest of body perfect was the spot,
   All that luxurious nature could desire;
   But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze
   And not feel motions there?"

Many years later, in the summer of 1799, Wordsworth and Coleridge were
walking together over the hills and valleys of Westmoreland and
Cumberland, hoping to find, each for himself, a home where they might
dwell as neighbors. Since receiving his degree at Cambridge in 1791
Wordsworth had wandered about in a somewhat aimless way, living for a
time in London and in France, visiting Germany, and finally attempting
to find a home in the south of England. A small legacy left him in 1795
had given a feeling of independence, and his one consuming desire at
this time was to establish a home where his beloved sister Dorothy might
be with him and he could devote his entire time to poetry.

A little cottage in a quiet spot just outside the village of Grasmere
attracted his eye. It had been a public-house, and bore the sign "The
Dove and the Olive Bough." He called it "Dove Cottage," and for eight
years it became his home. We found the custodian, a little old lady, in
a penny shop across the street, and she was glad to show us through the
tiny, low-ceilinged rooms. The cottage looks best from the little garden
in the rear. The ivy and the roses soften all the harsh angles of the
eaves and convert even the chimney-pots into things of beauty. A tangled
mass of foliage covers the small back portico and makes a shady nook,
where a little bench is invitingly placed. A few yards up the garden
walk, over stone steps put in place by Wordsworth and Hartley
Coleridge, is the rocky well, or spring, where the poet placed "bright
gowan and marsh marigold" brought from the borders of the lake. At the
farthest end is the little summer-house, the poet's favorite retreat.
How well he loved this garden is shown in the poem written when he left
Grasmere to bring home his bride in 1802:--

  "Sweet garden orchard, eminently fair,
   The loveliest spot that man hath ever found."

Seating ourselves in this garden, we tried to think of the three
interesting personages who had made the place their home. Coleridge
said, "His is the happiest family I ever saw." They had one common
object--to work together to develop a rare poetic gift. They were poor,
for Wordsworth had only the income of a very small legacy, and the
public had not yet come to recognize his genius; the returns from his
literary work were therefore extremely meager. They got along with
frugal living and poor clothing, but as they made no pretensions they
were never ashamed of their poverty. Visitors came and went, and at the
cost of many little sacrifices were hospitably entertained.

Perhaps the world will never know how much Wordsworth really owed to the
two women of his household. They lived together with no sign of jealousy
or distrust. The husband and brother was the object of their untiring
and sympathetic devotion. They walked with him, read with him, cared for
him. Mrs. Wordsworth seems to have been a plain country-woman of simple
manners, yet possessed of a graciousness and tact which made everything
in the household go smoothly. De Quincey declared that, "without being
handsome or even comely," she exercised "all the practical fascination
of beauty, through the mere compensating charms of sweetness all but
angelic, of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect and purity
of heart speaking through all her looks, acts, and movements."
Wordsworth was never more sincere than when he sang,--

  "She was a phantom of delight,"

and closed the poem with that splendid tribute to a most excellent
wife:--

  "A perfect woman, nobly planned,
   To warn, to comfort, and command;
   And yet a spirit still, and bright
   With something of angelic light."

He recognized her unusual poetic instinct by giving her full credit for
the best two lines in one of his most beautiful poems, "The
Daffodils":--

  "They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude."

To the other member of that household, his sister Dorothy, Wordsworth
gave from early boyhood the full measure of his affection. She was his
constant companion in his walks, at all hours and in all kinds of
weather. She cheerfully performed the irksome task of writing out his
verses from dictation. Her observations of nature were as keen as his,
and the poet was indebted to Dorothy's notebook for many a good
suggestion. He has been most generous in his acknowledgments of his
obligation to her:--

  "She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,
   And humble cares, and delicate fears,

       *       *       *       *       *

    And love, and thought, and joy."

In the early days when he was overwhelmed with adverse criticism and
brought almost to the verge of despair, it was Dorothy's helping hand
that brought him back to his own.

  "She whispered still that brightness would return;
   She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
   A poet, made me seek beneath that name,
   And that alone, my office upon earth."

[Illustration: DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE]

But it is De Quincey who gives the best statement of the world's
obligation to Dorothy. Said he:--

  Whereas the intellect of Wordsworth was, by its original tendency, too
  stern, too austere, too much enamored of an ascetic harsh sublimity,
  she it was--the lady who paced by his side continually through sylvan
  and mountain tracks, in Highland glens, and in the dim recesses of
  German charcoal-burners--that first couched his eye to the sense of
  beauty, humanized him by the gentler charities, and engrafted, with
  her delicate female touch, those graces upon the ruder growths of
  nature which have since clothed the forest of his genius with a
  foliage corresponding in loveliness and beauty to the strength of its
  boughs and the massiveness of its trunks.

Nearly all of Wordsworth's best poetry was written in this little
cottage, or, to speak more accurately, it was composed while he was
living here. For it was never his way to write verses while seated at a
desk, pen in hand. His study was out of doors. He could compose a long
poem while walking, and remember it all afterward when ready to dictate.
Thousands of verses, he said, were composed on the banks of the brook
running through Easedale, just north of Grasmere Lake. The tall figure
of the poet was a familiar sight to farmers for miles around, as he
paced the woods or mountain paths, his head bent down, and his lips
moving with audible if not distinguishable sounds. One of his neighbors
has left on record an impression of how he seemed when he was "making a
poem."

  He would set his head a bit forward, and put his hands behind his
  back. And then he would start in bumming, and it was bum, bum, bum,
  stop; and then he'd set down, and git a bit o' paper out, and write a
  bit. However, his lips were always goan' whoole time he was upon
  gress[1] walk. He was a kind mon, there's no two words about that; and
  if any one was sick i' the place, he wad be off to see til' 'em.

In personal appearance--about which, by the way, he cared little--he was
not unlike the dalesmen about him. Nearly six feet high, he looked
strong and hardy enough to be a farmer himself. Carlyle speaks of him as
"businesslike, sedately confident, no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about
being courteous; a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain
breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran and on all he said or did."

On our return from Grasmere we took the road along the north shore of
Rydal Water--a small lake with all the characteristic beauty of this
fascinating region, and yet not so different from hundreds of others
that it would ever attract more than passing notice. But the name of
Rydal is linked with that of Grasmere, and the two are visited by
thousands of tourists year after year. For fifty years the shores of
these two lakes and the hills and valleys surrounding them were the
scenes of Wordsworth's daily walks. As we passed we heard the
cuckoo--its mysterious sound seeming to come across the lake--and as our
own thoughts were on Wordsworth, "the wandering Voice" seemed
appropriate. If we could have heard the skylark at that moment, our
sense of satisfaction would have been quite complete, and no doubt we
should have cried out, with the poet,--

  "Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
       For thy song, Lark, is strong;
   Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
       Singing, singing,
   With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
       Lift me, guide me till I find
   That spot which seems so to thy mind."

Just north of the eastern end of the lake, beneath the shadow of Nab
Scar, is Rydal Mount, where the poet came to live in 1813, remaining
until his death, thirty-seven years later. Increasing prosperity enabled
him to take this far more pretentious house. It stands on a hill, a
little off the main road, and quite out of sight of the tourists who
pass through in coaches and _chars-à-bancs_. The drivers usually jerk
their thumbs in the general direction and say, "There is Rydal Mount,"
etc., and the tourists, who have seen only a farmhouse--not
Wordsworth's--are left to imagine that they have seen the house of the
poet.

It is an old house, but some recent changes in doors and windows give it
a more modern aspect. The unaltered portion is thickly covered with ivy.
The ground in front is well planted with a profusion of rhododendrons. A
very old stone stairway descends from the plaza in front of the house to
a kind of mound or rather a double mound, the smaller resting upon a
larger one. From this point the house is seen to the best advantage. In
the opposite direction is a landscape of rare natural beauty. Far away
in the distance lies Lake Windermere glistening like a shield of
polished silver, while on the left Wansfell and on the right Nab Scar
stand guard over the valley. In the foreground the spire of the little
church of Rydal peeps out over the trees.

At the right of the house is a long terrace which formed one of
Wordsworth's favorite walks, where he composed thousands of verses. From
here one may see both Windermere and Rydal Water, with mountains in the
distance. Passing through the garden we came to a gate leading to Dora's
Field. Here is the little pool where Wordsworth and Dora put the little
goldfishes, that they might enjoy a greater liberty. Here is the stone
which Wordsworth saved from destruction by the builders of a stone wall.
A little flight of stone steps leads down to another boulder containing
the following inscription, carved by the poet's own hand:--

  Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ's chosen flock
  Shun the broad way too easily explored
  And let thy path be hewn out of the rock
  The living Rock of God's eternal WORD

    1838

[Illustration: WORDSWORTH'S WELL]

Dora's field is thickly covered in spring-time with the beautiful golden
daffodils, planted by the poet himself. No sight is more fascinating
at this season than a field of these bright yellow flowers. We
Americans, who only see them planted in gardens, cannot realize what
daffodils mean to the English eye, unless we chance to visit England
during the early spring. What Wordsworth called a "crowd" of daffodils,
growing in thick profusion along the margin of a lake, beneath the
trees, ten thousand to be seen at a glance, all nodding their golden
heads beside the dancing and foaming waves, is a sight well worth
seeing.

  "The waves beside them danced; but they
   Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
   A poet could not but be gay
   In such a jocund company:
   I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
   What wealth the show to me had brought:

   For oft, when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
   They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude:
   And then my heart with pleasure fills,
   And dances with the daffodils."

But now the time had come to return to Windermere, and reluctantly we
turned our backs upon these scenes, so full of pleasant memories. The
day, however, was not yet done, for after supper we climbed to the top
of Orrest-Head, a little hill behind the village. No more charming spot
could have been chosen in which to spend the closing hours of this
peaceful day. Far below lay the quiet waters of the lake, only glimpses
of its long and narrow surface appearing here and there, like "burnished
mirrors" set by Nature for the sole purpose of reflecting a magnificent
golden sky. It was "an evening of extraordinary, splendor," like that
one which Wordsworth saw from Rydal Mount:--

  "No sound is uttered,--but a deep
   And solemn harmony pervades
   The hollow vale from steep to steep,
   And penetrates the glades."

As we stood watching the splendid sunset, the village church rang out
its chimes, as if to accompany the inspiring scene with sweet and holy
music.

  "How pleasant, when the sun declines, to view
   The spacious landscape change in form and hue!
   Here vanish, as in mist, before a flood
   Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood;
   Their objects, by the searching beams betrayed,
   Come forth and here retire in purple shade;
   Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white,
   Soften their glare before the mellow light."

The shadows which had been slowly falling upon the scene had now so far
enveloped the mountain-side that the narrow roadways and stone fences
marking the boundaries of the fields were barely visible. Suddenly in
the distance we saw a moving object, a mere speck upon the hillside. It
darted first in one direction and then another, like some frightened
being uncertain which way to turn. Then a darker speck appeared, and
with rapid movement circled to the rear of the whiter one, the latter
moving on ahead. Another sudden movement, and a second white speck
appeared in another spot. The black speck as quickly moved to the rear
of this second bit of white, driving it in the same direction as the
first. The white specks then began to seem more numerous. We tried to
count--one--two--three--ten--a dozen--perhaps even twenty. There was but
one black speck, and he seemed to be the master of all the others, for,
darting here and there after the stragglers, he kept them all together.
He drove them along the narrow road. Then, coming to an opening in the
fence, he hurried along to the front of the procession; then, facing
about, deftly turned the whole flock through the gate into a large
field. Through this pasture, with the skill of a military leader, he
marshaled his troop, rushing backwards and forwards, allowing none to
fall behind nor to stray away from the proper path, finally bringing
them up in a compact body to another opening in the opposite end of the
field. On he went, driving his small battalion along the road, then at
right angles into another road, until the whole flock of sheep and the
little black dog who commanded them disappeared for the night among the
out-buildings of a far distant farm.

The twilight had almost gone, and in the growing darkness we retraced
our steps to the village, well content that, through communion with the
Spirit of Wordsworth in the presence of that "mighty Being" who to him
was the great Teacher and Inspirer of mankind, our own love of nature
had been reawakened, and our time well spent on this peaceful,
never-to-be-forgotten day at Windermere.


FOOTNOTE:

  [1] Grass.




IV

FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN




IV

FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN


  "Roslin's towers and braes are bonnie--
     Craigs and water! woods and glen!
   Roslin's banks! unpeered by ony,
     Save the Muse's Hawthornden."

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

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

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

  "Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
     By Esk's fair streams that run,
   O'er airy steep through copsewood deep,
     Impervious to the sun.

       *       *       *       *       *

   Who knows not Melville's beechy grove
     And Roslin's rocky glen,
   Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,
     And classic Hawthornden?"

[Illustration: HAWTHORNDEN]

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

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

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

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

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

  "Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a crystal plain;
   Cut your white locks, and on your foaming face
   Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace
   The boat that earth's perfections doth contain."

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

  "Have ever had so rare a cause of praise."

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

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

[Illustration: THE SYCAMORE]

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

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

  "Welcome, welcome, royal Ben!"

To which Jonson quickly replied replied--

  "Thankee, thankee, Hawthornden!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Underneath [the house of Drummond] are the noted Caverns of
  _Hawthorn-Den_, by Dr. _Stuckely_ in his _Itinerarium-Curiosa_, said
  to have been the King of _Pictlands_ Castle or Palace; which nothing
  can shew the Doctor's Credulity more than by suffering himself to be
  imposed upon by the Tattle of the Vulgar, who in all things they
  cannot account for, are ascribed to the _Picts_, without the least
  Foundation. For those caves, instead of having been a Castle or
  Palace, I take them either to have been a Receptacle for Robbers, or
  Places to secure the People and their Effects in, during the
  destructive Wars between the _Picts_ and _English_, and _Scots_ and
  _English_.

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

  "Here, too, are labyrinthine paths
     To caverns dark and low,
   Wherein they say King Robert Bruce
     Found refuge from his foe."

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

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

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

[Illustration: RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE]

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

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

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

The castle was accidentally set on fire in 1447 and badly damaged, and
was leveled to the ground by English forces under the Earl of Hertford,
in 1544, who was sent to Scotland by Henry VIII to seek to enforce the
marriage of his son Edward to the infant Mary of Scotland, the daughter
of James V. In 1650 it was again destroyed, during Cromwell's campaign
in Scotland, by General Monk, and rising again, suffered severely at the
hands of a mob from Edinburgh in 1688.

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

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

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

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

  "O'er Roslin all that dreary night
     A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
   'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,
     And redder than the bright moonbeam.

  "It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
     It ruddied all the copsewood glen;
   'Twas seen from Dreyden's groves of oak,
     And seen from caverned Hawthornden.

  "Seemed all on fire that chapel proud
     Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
   Each baron, for a sable shroud,
     Sheathed in his iron panoply.

  "Seemed all on fire within, around,
     Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
   Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
     And glimmered all the dead men's mail.

  "Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
     Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
   So still they blaze when fate is nigh
     The lordly line of high St. Clair.

  "There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
     Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
   Each one the holy vault doth hold--
     But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle."

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

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

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

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

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


FOOTNOTES:

  [2] Maitland's _History of Scotland_.

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

  [4] Britton's _Architectural Antiquities_.




V

THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD




V

THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD


I

MRS. WARD AND HER WORK

"'Why does any one stay in England who _can_ make the trip to Paradise?'
said the duchess, as she leaned lazily back in the corner of the boat
and trailed her fingers in the waters of Como."

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

  When Spring descends upon the shores of the Lago di Como, she brings
  with her all the graces, all the beauties, all the fine, delicate, and
  temperate delights of which earth and sky are capable, and she pours
  them forth upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around the shores of
  other lakes--Maggiore, Lugano, Garda--blue mountains rise and the
  vineyards spread their green and dazzling terraces to the sun. Only
  Como can show in unmatched union a main composition, incomparably
  grand and harmonious, combined with every jeweled or glowing or
  exquisite detail. Nowhere do the mountains lean towards each other in
  such an ordered splendor as that which bends around the northern
  shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed masses rise behind each other,
  to right and left of a blue waterway, in lines statelier or more noble
  than those kept by the mountains of Lecco Lake as they marshal
  themselves on either hand, along the approaches to Lombardy and
  Venetia.

  [Illustration: MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD]

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: "UNDER LOUGHRIGG"]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: THE PASSMORE EDWARDS SETTLEMENT HOUSE]

The entire purpose of such play centers is to rescue the children of the
poor from the demoralization that results from being turned out to play
after school hours in the streets and alleyways, where they are
subjected to every kind of vile association and influence. The effects
already noted by those in charge of the centers are improvement in
manners, in thoughtfulness for the little ones, and in unselfishness;
increase in regard for truth and honesty; the development of the
instinct in all children to "make something"; the teaching that it is
more enjoyable to play together in harmony than when obedience to a
leader is refused. The success of this first experiment was so marked
that gradually other centers were started in different parts of
London. Liberal sums of money were placed in the hands of Mrs. Ward, who
enlisted the support of the County Council to the extent of securing
facilities in the public school buildings. The work has so far
progressed that the total attendance last year[5] reached an aggregate
of six hundred thousand. It is difficult to estimate from these figures
how many children were affected, but, taking--at a guess--fifty times as
the average attendance of each, this would mean that the lives of at
least twelve thousand poor children were directly lifted up by this
practical charity, and that as many more hard-working and anxious
parents were indirectly benefited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  We believe that many changes in the conditions of life and labour are
  needed, and are coming to pass; but we believe also that men, without
  any change except in themselves and in their feelings towards one
  another, might make this world a better and a happier place.

  Therefore, with the same sympathies but different experiences of life,
  we meet to exchange ideas and to discuss social questions, in the hope
  that, as we learn to know one another better, a feeling of fellowship
  may arise among us.

  To these ends we have a Library, Clubs, Lectures, Classes,
  Entertainments, etc., and we endeavour to make the Settlement a centre
  where we may unite our several resources in a social and intellectual
  home.

In all this work Mrs. Humphry Ward is the inspiration, and a moving,
active spirit. Her name stands next to that of the wealthy Duke of
Bedford as the most liberal contributor. She is the Honorable Secretary
of the Council, a member of the Finance Committee, president of the
Women's Club, etc. But these are only her official positions. Her
directing hand is manifest in every branch of the work, and, from the
warden down to the humblest member of the Girls' Club, her name is
accorded a respect amounting almost to reverence.

But, as with the play centers, Mrs. Ward is not content with the work of
this one institution, splendid as it is. To her it is only the means of
ascertaining the way. She feels that she is dealing with a great
problem, and her method is to ascertain, first of all, the best
solution, and then to use her large influence to induce others to take
up the work. Thus the "New Brotherhood" of Robert Elsmere has not only
continued to exist for a quarter of a century, but has in it the
elements of growth which will make it a vital power in human society
long after the real Robert Elsmere, in the person of Mrs. Ward, has
ceased to be the directing force.


II

THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE

In seeking to point out the real persons and places of Mrs. Ward's
novels, it is only fair to the author to begin with her own statement as
to the story-teller's method of procedure:--

  An idea, a situation, is suggested to him by real life, he takes
  traits and peculiarities from this or that person whom he has known or
  seen, but that is all. When he comes to write ... the mere necessities
  of an imaginative effort oblige him to cut himself adrift from
  reality. His characters become to him the creatures of a dream, as
  vivid often as his waking life, but still a dream. And the only
  portraits he is drawing are portraits of phantoms, of which the germs
  were present in reality, but to which he himself has given voice,
  garb, and action.

[Illustration: THE LIME WALK]

It is my purpose to point out some of these "germs of reality" in Mrs.
Ward's work, relying for the essential facts, at least, upon information
given me personally by the novelist herself. For Mrs. Ward does not
hesitate to admit that certain characters were drawn from real life; but
she insists upon a proper understanding of the exact sense in which this
is true. Because "Miss Bretherton" was suggested by the career of Mary
Anderson it does not follow that all that is said of the former is true
of the latter. There is a vast difference between a "suggestion" and
a "portrait." The thoughts and feelings or the personal characteristics
of a certain individual may suggest a character who in his physical
aspects, his environment, and the events of his career may be conceived
as an individual totally different. Mrs. Ward's novels contain no
portraits and no history. But they abound in characters suggested by
people whom she has known, in incidents and reminiscences of real life,
and in vivid word-pictures of scenes which she has learned to love or of
places with which she is personally familiar.

A study of the scenery of these novels properly begins in the County of
Surrey. About four miles southwest of Godalming is Borough Farm, an
old-fashioned brick house, which we reached by a drive over country that
seemed in places almost like a desert--so wild and forsaken that one
could scarcely believe it to be within a few miles of some of the
busiest suburbs of London. But it has a splendid beauty of its own. The
thick gorse with its golden blossoms everywhere waves a welcome. There
are now and then great oaks to greet you, and graceful patches of white
birch. And everywhere is a delightfully exhilarating sense of freedom
and fresh air such as only this kind of open country can suggest. Here
Mrs. Ward lived for seven summers, finding in the country round about
some of the most interesting of the scenes of her first novel, "Miss
Bretherton," and of "Robert Elsmere."

"Miss Bretherton" was published in 1884. Mary Anderson was at that time
the reigning success on the London stage, while Sarah Bernhardt, in
Paris, was startling the world with an art of a totally different
character. The beauty of the young American actress was the one subject
of conversation. Was it her beauty that attracted the crowds to the
theater, and that alone? Was she totally lacking in that consummate art
which the great Frenchwoman admittedly possessed? These questions
suggested to Mrs. Ward the theme of her first attempt at fiction. The
beautiful Miss Bretherton is taken in hand by a party of friends
representing the highest types of culture. In their effort to give her
mind and body much-needed rest from the exactions of London society she
is carried away on two notable excursions. The first is to Surrey, the
real scene of this outing being a place near Borough Farm called "Forked
Pond," well known to Mrs. Ward and her family while residents at the
farm. The other is to Oxford, where, after admiring the colleges, which
brought many happy recollections to the gentlemen of the party, Miss
Bretherton is taken to Nuneham Park, a beautiful place on the river
where a small rustic bridge enhances the romantic character of the
surroundings. This, of course, was familiar ground to the author, who
spent sixteen happy years in that vicinity as a resident of Oxford.
Through the kindness of these friends, and particularly by the influence
of Kendal, who becomes her lover, Miss Bretherton is made to take a new
view of her art, and is transformed into an actress of real dramatic
power.

Although a charming story, "Miss Bretherton" did not prove successful
and had little part in making the reputation of the novelist, who is
likely to be known as "the author of 'Robert Elsmere,'" so long as her
fame shall endure. For this great book created a sensation throughout
the English-speaking world when it appeared, and aroused controversies
which did not subside for many years.

The scenery of "Robert Elsmere" combines the Westmoreland which Mrs.
Ward learned to love in her childhood with the Oxford of her girlhood
and early married life, and the Surrey where so many pleasant summers
were spent. Not wishing, for fear of recognition, to describe the
country near Ambleside, with which she was most familiar, Mrs. Ward
placed the scenes of the opening chapters in the neighboring valley of
Long Sleddale, giving it the name of Long Whindale. Whinborough is the
city of Kendal, and the village of Shanmoor is Kentmere. Burwood Farm,
where the Leyburns lived, is a house far up the valley, which still
"peeps through the trees" at the passer-by just as it did in the days
when Robert Elsmere first met the saintly Catherine there. A few
hundred yards down the stream is a little stone church across the road
from a small stone schoolhouse, and next to the school a gray stone
vicarage, standing high above the little river, all three bearing the
date 1863. At sight of this group of buildings one almost expects to
catch a glimpse of the well-meaning but not over-wise Mrs. Thornburgh,
sitting in the shade of the vicarage, awaiting the coming of old John
Backhouse, the carrier, with the anxiously expected consignment of "airy
and appetizing trifles" from the confectioner's.

[Illustration: COTTAGE OF "MARY BACKHOUSE"]

At the extreme end of the valley the road abruptly comes to an end. A
stone bridge leads off to the left to a group of three small farms. In
front no sign of human habitation meets the eye. The hills seem to come
together, forming a kind of bowl, and there is no sound to break the
stillness save the ripple of the river. It was to this lonely spot that
Catherine was in the habit of walking, quite alone, to visit the dying
Mary Backhouse. The house of John and Jim Backhouse where Mary died may
still be seen. It is the oldest of the three farms above mentioned. A
very small cottage, it is wedged between a stable on one side and a sort
of barn or storehouse on the other, so that from the road before
crossing the bridge it seems to be quite pretentious. The house dates
back to 1670. Mary Backhouse never existed except in imagination, but
Mrs. Ward, upon seeing the photograph of the house, exclaimed with much
satisfaction, "Yes, that is the very house where Mary Backhouse died."
So real to her are the events described in her novels that Mrs. Ward
frequently refers to the scenes in this way. Behind the house is a very
steep hill, covered with trees and rough stones. It was over this hill
that Robert and Catherine walked on the night of Mary Backhouse's death.
Readers of "Robert Elsmere" will remember that poor Mary was the victim
of a strange hallucination. On the night of Midsummer Day, one year
before, she had seen the ghost or "bogle" of "Bleacliff Tarn." To see
the ghost was terror enough, but to be spoken to by it was the sign of
death within a year. And Mary had both seen and been spoken to by the
ghost. Her mind, so far as she had one, for she was really half-insane,
was concentrated on the one horrible thought--that on Midsummer Night
she must die. The night had at last arrived, and Catherine, true to her
charitable impulses, was there to comfort the dying girl.

The weather was growing darker and stormier; the wind shook the house in
gusts, and the farther shoulder of High Fell was almost hidden by the
trailing rain-clouds. But Catherine feared nothing when a human soul was
in need, and, hoping to pacify the poor woman, volunteered to go out to
the top of the Fell and over the very track of the ghost at the precise
hour when she was supposed to walk, to prove that there was nothing near
"but the dear old hills and the power of God." As she opened the door of
the kitchen, Catherine was surprised to find Robert Elsmere there, and
together they set out, over the rough, stony path, facing the wind and
rain as they climbed the distant fell-side. There Robert pleaded his
love against Catherine's stern sense of duty, and won.

When Robert and Catherine were married, they went to live at the Rectory
of Murewell, in Surrey. This old house is at Peper Harow, three miles
west of Godalming and a mile or so from Borough Farm. It was leased for
one summer by Mrs. Ward. A plain, square house of stone, much discolored
by the weather, it could hardly be called attractive in itself. But
stepping back to the road, with its picturesque stone wall surmounted by
foliage, and viewing the house as it appears from there, flanked on the
left by a fine spreading elm and on the right by a tall, pointed fir and
a cluster of oaks, with a little flower garden under the windows and the
gracefully curving walk leading past the door in a semicircle stretching
from gate to gate, the ugly house is transformed into a home of beauty,
where Robert and Catherine, one can well imagine, might have been quite
happy and contented with their surroundings.

In the rear of the house is the garden, famous for its phloxes, the
scene of many walks and family confidences. At the farther end is the
gate where Langham poured out the story of his life in passionate
speech, impelled by the equally passionate sympathy of Rose, only to
recall himself a moment later, "the critic in him making the most
bitter, remorseless mock of all these heroics and despairs the other
self had been indulging in."

Only a short walk from the Rectory is the little church of Peper Harow,
the scene of Robert's early clerical labors, and further on is the large
and beautiful Peper Harow Park, the present home of Lord Middleton. This
attractive park is the original of Squire Wendover's, but the house
itself is not described. The fine library owned by the Squire, which so
delighted Robert Elsmere with its many rare books, was in reality the
famous Bodleian Library of Oxford, with which the author became familiar
very early in life.

Three characters from real life, each a man of marked individuality,
stand out prominently in the pages of "Robert Elsmere." These are
Professor Mark Pattison, whose strong personality and scholarly
attainments suggested Squire Wendover; Professor Thomas H. Green, the
original of Mr. Grey; and the melancholy Swiss philosopher, poet, and
dreamer Amiel, who was the prototype of Langham.

The theme of the novel is the development of Robert Elsmere's character
and the gradual change of his religious views, brought about through
many a bitter struggle. In this the principal influence was that of
Roger Wendover, a typical English squire of large possessions, but, in
addition, a scholar of the first rank, the possessor of a large library
filled with rare and important volumes of history, philosophy, science,
and religion, with the contents of which he was thoroughly familiar, and
an author of two great books, one of which had stirred up a tremendous
excitement in the circles of English religious thought.

  The Pentateuch, the Prophets, the Gospels, St. Paul, Tradition, the
  Fathers, Protestantism and Justification by Faith, the Eighteenth
  Century, the Broad Church Movement, Anglican Theology--the Squire had
  his say about them all. And while the coolness and frankness of the
  method sent a shock of indignation and horror through the religious
  public, the subtle and caustic style, and the epigrams with which the
  book was strewn, forced both the religious and the irreligious public
  to read, whether they would or no. A storm of controversy rose round
  the volumes, and some of the keenest observers of English life had
  said at the time, and maintained since, that the publication of the
  book had made or marked an epoch.

[Illustration: THE RECTORY OF PEPER HAROW]

Against the influence of such a book, and more particularly against a
growing intimacy with its author, Robert Elsmere felt himself as
helpless as a child. The squire's talk "was simply the outpouring of one
of the richest, most skeptical, and most highly trained of minds on the
subject of Christian origins." His two books were, he said, merely an
interlude in his life-work, which had been devoted to an "exhaustive
examination of human records" in the preparation of a great History of
Testimony which had required learning the Oriental languages and sifting
and comparing the entire mass of existing records of classical
antiquity--India, Persia, Egypt, and Judea--down to the Renaissance.

Reference has already been made to the influence of Professor Mark
Pattison upon the early life of Mrs. Ward. To create the Squire she had
only to imagine the house in the great park of Peper Harow, equipped
with a library like the Bodleian, and inhabited by a person who might be
otherwise like any English squire, but in mental equipment a duplicate
to some extent of the Rector of Lincoln. Professor Pattison's father was
a strict evangelical. He gave his son a good education, and the boy
early manifested a delight in literature and learning. He soon developed
an independence of character, and, refusing to confine his reading to
the prescribed books of orthodoxy, delved into the classics extensively
as well as the English literature of Pope, Addison, and Swift. He was
graduated at Oxford in 1836, and took his M.A. degree in 1840. By this
time he had abandoned the evangelical teachings of his youth, and with
other young men came under the influence of Newman, in whose house he
went to live. When Newman went into the Roman Catholic Church in 1845,
Pattison was not so much shocked as others. Indeed, he confessed that he
"might have dropped off to Rome himself in some moment of mental and
physical depression or under pressure of some arguing convert." But
Pattison, who was now a Fellow at Lincoln College, was thoroughly
devoted to his work and was fast gaining a great reputation, not only
for his magnetic influence upon young men, but as one of the ablest of
college tutors and lecturers. In 1861 he became Rector of Lincoln. He
was an indefatigable writer, contributing to many magazines and to the
"Encyclopædia Britannica." An article on "Tendencies of Religious
Thought in England, 1688-1750" aroused widespread comment. His literary
work was marked by evidences of most painstaking research coupled with a
profound scholarship and excellent judgment in the arrangement of his
material. He devoted a lifetime to the preparation of a history of
learning--a stupendous undertaking of which only a portion was ever
completed. He possessed a library said to be the largest private
collection of his time in Oxford. It numbered fourteen thousand volumes,
and was extraordinarily complete in books on the history of learning and
philosophy in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. Of
Professor Pattison's personality his biographer says:--

  Under a singularly stiff and freezing manner to strangers and to those
  whom he disliked he concealed a most kindly nature, full of geniality
  and sympathy and a great love of congenial and especially of female
  society. But it was in his intercourse with his pupils and generally
  with those younger than himself that he was seen to most advantage.
  His conversation was marked by a delicate irony. His words were few
  and deliberate but pregnant with meaning and above all stimulating,
  and their effect was heightened by perhaps too frequent and,
  especially to undergraduates, somewhat embarrassing flashes of
  silence.

All these qualities are continually appearing in the Squire. But
Professor Pattison's own definition of a man of learning is the best
description of Roger Wendover:--

  Learning is a peculiar compound of memory, imagination, scientific
  habit, accurate observation, all concentrated through a prolonged
  period on the analysis of the remains of literature. The result of
  this sustained mental endeavor is not a book, but a man. It cannot be
  embodied in print; it consists of the living word.

The second in importance of the potent influences upon Robert Elsmere's
character was that of Henry Grey, a tutor of St. Anselm's (Balliol
College), Oxford. Very early in his Oxford career Elsmere was taken to
hear a sermon by Mr. Grey, which made a deep impression on his mind. The
substance of this sermon, which is briefly summarized in the novel, was
taken from a volume of lay sermons by Professor Thomas Hill Green,
entitled "The Witness of God."

  The whole basis of Grey's thought was ardently idealist and Hegelian.
  He had broken with the popular Christianity, but for him God,
  consciousness, duty, were the only realities. None of the various
  forms of materialist thought escaped his challenge; no genuine
  utterance of the spiritual life of man but was sure of his sympathy.
  It was known that, after having prepared himself for the Christian
  ministry, he had remained a layman because it had become impossible to
  him to accept miracle; and it was evident that the commoner type of
  Churchmen regarded him as an antagonist all the more dangerous because
  he was so sympathetic.

All of this, like all the other references to Grey throughout the book,
applies perfectly to Professor Green. He was the leading exponent at
Oxford of the principles of Kant and Hegel, and attracted many
followers. His simplicity, power, and earnestness commanded respect. He
associated with his pupils on terms of friendly intimacy, frequently
taking some of them with him on his vacations. He was a man of
singularly lofty character, and those who knew him were reminded of
Wordsworth, whom he resembled in some ways.

When Elsmere is advised by his friend Newcome to solve all the problems
of his doubt by trampling upon himself, flinging away his freedom, and
stifling his intellect, these words of Henry Grey flash upon his mind:--

  God is not wisely trusted when declared unintelligible. Such honor
  rooted in dishonor stands; such faith unfaithful makes us falsely
  true.

  God is forever reason; and his communication, his revelation, is
  reason.

The words are taken from the same volume of Professor Green's sermons.

The death of this dear friend of Robert Elsmere occurred in 1882, and is
most touchingly described. An old Quaker aunt was sitting by his
bedside:--

  She was a beautiful old figure in her white cap and kerchief, and it
  seemed to please him to lie and look at her. "It'll not be for long,
  Henry," she said to him once. "I'm seventy-seven this spring. I shall
  come to thee soon." He made no reply, and his silence seemed to
  disturb her.... "Thou'rt not doubting the Lord's goodness, Henry?" she
  said to him, with the tears in her eyes. "No," he said, "no, never.
  Only it seems to be his will; we should be certain of nothing--_but
  Himself_! I ask no more." I shall never forget the accent of these
  words; they were the breath of his inmost life.

To understand the third of the three characters from real life in
"Robert Elsmere," it is necessary to glance at the story of Henri
Frédéric Amiel, a Swiss essayist, philosopher, and dreamer, who was born
in 1821 and died in 1881, leaving as a legacy to his friends a "Journal
Intime" covering the psychological observations, meditations, and inmost
thoughts of thirty years. They represented a prodigious amount of labor,
covering some seventeen thousand folio pages of manuscript. This
extensive journal was translated into English by Mrs. Ward and published
in 1883, five years before the date of "Robert Elsmere." Her long and
exhaustive study of the life of this extraordinary man as revealed by
himself made a deep impression upon the mind of the novelist--so much so
that she could not refrain from introducing him in the person of the
morbid Langham. A brief glance at some of the peculiarities of Amiel
will prove the best interpretation of Langham, without which the latter
must always remain a mystery.

Amiel's estimate of the value of his life-work was not a high one. "This
Journal of mine," he said, "represents the material of a good many
volumes; what prodigious waste of thought, of strength. It will be
useful to nobody, and even for myself it has rather helped me to shirk
life than to practice it." And again, "Is everything I have produced
taken together, my correspondence, these thousands of journal pages, my
lectures, my articles, my poems, my notes of different kinds--anything
better than withered leaves? To whom and to what have I been useful?
Will my name survive me a single day? And will it ever mean anything to
anybody? A life of no account! When it is all added up, nothing!"

"Amiel," says Mrs. Ward, "might have been saved from despair by love and
marriage, by paternity, by strenuous and successful literary
production."

Family life attracted him perpetually. "I cannot escape from the ideal
of it," he said. "A companion of my life, of my work, of my thoughts, of
my hopes; within, a common worship--towards the world outside, kindness
and beneficence; education to undertake; the thousand and one moral
relations which develop around the first--all these ideas intoxicate me
sometimes."

But in vain. "Reality, the present, the irreparable, the necessary,
repel and even terrify me. I have too much imagination, conscience, and
penetration, and not enough character. The life of thought alone seems
to me to have enough elasticity and immensity to be free enough from the
irreparable; practical life makes me afraid. I am distrustful of myself
and of happiness because I know myself. The ideal poisons for me all
imperfect possession, and I abhor all useless regrets and repentances."

Mrs. Ward dramatized this strange individuality in the character of
Langham. The love-scene in which Langham wins the hand of the beautiful
Rose, followed by the all-night mental struggle in which he finally
feels compelled to renounce all that he has gained, is almost tragic in
its intensity.

Poor Langham, with the prize fairly within his grasp, found that he
lacked the courage to retain it. And so the morning after the proposal,
instead of the pleasantly anticipated call from her accepted lover, the
unfortunate Rose was shocked to receive a pessimistic letter announcing
that the engagement had not survived the night. To the casual reader it
would seem that such a man as Langham would be impossible. But that
Amiel was just such a person his elaborate journal fully reveals. And
Professor Mark Pattison has given his testimony that Amiel was not alone
in his experiences, for six months after the journal was published he
wrote, "I can vouch that there is in existence at least one other soul
which has lived through the same struggles mental and moral as Amiel."

Among the very large number of persons who come upon the stage in the
action of this remarkable book, several besides the Squire, Grey, and
Langham may have been suggested by persons whom the author knew. But the
prototypes of these three are the only ones who really enter, in a vital
way, into the actual construction of the novel. "But who was the real
Elsmere?" one naturally asks. Many attempts have been made to identify
this good preacher or that worthy reformer with the famous character,
much to the annoyance of the author, who really created Elsmere out of
the influences already described. The real Elsmere would be obviously
one whose religious views were moulded by Mark Pattison and Thomas H.
Green, and one who was profoundly interested in, if not influenced by,
the strange self-distrust of Amiel. The real Elsmere would be also one
whose religious convictions led inevitably to the desire to perform some
practical service to mankind. Such an Elsmere exists in the person of
Mrs. Ward herself, who is to-day regarded by the workers and associates
of the Passmore Edwards Settlement, in Tavistock Place, London, with
very much the same love and gratitude as Elsmere won from the people of
Elgood Street. For this beneficent institution was a direct result of
the novel, and owes its existence very largely to Mrs. Ward's energetic
and influential efforts.


III

OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY

"The History of David Grieve," Mrs. Ward's third novel, is by many
considered, next to "Robert Elsmere," her greatest achievement. David
and his sister Louie are the orphan children of a sturdy and high-minded
Englishman whose wife was a French woman of somewhat doubtful character.
Their development from early childhood to full maturity is traced with a
power of psychological analysis seldom equaled. Both are intensely human
and fall easy prey to the temptations of their environment, but in the
end David overcomes the evil influences, while poor Louie, inheriting
more of her mother's temperament, goes to her death in poverty and
disgrace.

The most attractive part of the book is the opening, where the two
children are seen roaming the hills of the wild moorland country of
their birth. This is the Kinderscout region, in Derbyshire, something
over twenty miles southeast of Manchester.

The visitor must take the train to Hayfield, called Clough End in the
novel, and then, if he is fortunate enough to have permission from the
owner, may drive a distance of four or five miles to what is now called
Upper House, the country home of a wealthy merchant of Manchester. This
was originally known as Marriott's Farm, and for several hundred years
was owned by a family of that name. Here Mrs. Ward spent two days, when
the entire house consisted of what is now the right wing. She walked
over the moors and along the top of the Kinderscout with Mr. Marriott as
her guide, and thus obtained the knowledge for the most perfect
description of pastoral life to be found in any of her novels.

Needham's Farm, the home of David and Louie, is the only other farm in
the neighborhood. It is now known as the Lower House, and is owned by
the same Manchester gentleman, but is leased to a family named Needham,
who have occupied it for many years. It looks now just as it did when
Mrs. Ward described it.

The "Owd Smithy," where the prayer-meeting was held and Louie wickedly
played the ghost of Jenny Crum, is now only remotely suggested by a heap
of rocks bearing little resemblance to a building of any kind. Huge
mill-stones, partly embedded in the earth, are scattered about here and
there. The Downfall, which, when the water is coming over, is visible
for miles around, is ordinarily a bare, bleak pile of rocks, for it is
usually nearly if not quite dry. But after a heavy rain the water comes
over in large volume, and, if the wind is strong, is blown back,
presenting a most curious spectacle of a cascade seeming to disappear
in the air when halfway to the bottom. Not far away is the Mermaid's
Pool, haunted by the ghost of Jenny Crum. There is a real ghost story
connected with this pool, which doubtless formed the basis of Mrs.
Ward's legend. An old farmer named Tom Heys was much troubled by a
ghost, of which he could not rid himself. He once shot at it, but
without effect except that the bullet-mark is in the old house even now.
An old woman once saw the ghost while shearing sheep. She threw the
tongs at it. Instantly the room was filled with flying fleece, while the
woman's clothes were cut to pieces and fell off her body. These were
some of the troublesome pranks played by the ghost. At length the farmer
discovered, somewhere on his place, an old skull, which doubtless
belonged to His Ghostship, and carried it to the Mermaid's Pool, where
he deposited it

  "To stay as long as holly's green,
   And rocks on Kinderscout are seen."

This effectually disposed of the ghost so far as he was concerned, but
the spirit still hovers over the Mermaid's Pool.

[Illustration: THE ROTHAY AND NAB SCAR]

Market Place, Manchester, where we find David after his flight from the
old farm, looks to-day very much the same. Half Street, however, on the
east of the cathedral, has disappeared. Purcell's shop in this street
was described from a quaint little book-shop which actually existed at
the time.

The Parisian scenes of "David Grieve," the Louvre, the Boulevards, the
Latin Quarter, Fontainebleau, Saint-Germain, and Barbizon, are all too
well known to need mention here. The final scenes of the novel, where
David's wife is brought after the beginning of her fatal illness, are in
one of the most beautiful localities in the English Lake District.
Lucy's house is supposed to be on the right bank of the river. The house
is imaginary (the one on the left bank having no connection with the
story), but the location is exactly described. This is just above Pelter
Bridge, a mile north of Ambleside, where the river Rothay combines with
the adjacent hills to make one of those fascinating scenes for which
Westmoreland is famous. Nab Scar looms up before us, and off to the left
is Loughrigg. A stroll along the river brings one to the little bridge
at the outlet of Rydal Water, where David walked for quiet meditation
during his wife's illness; and still farther northward the larch
plantations on the side of Silver How add their touch of beauty to the
landscape. This entire region has always been dear to Mrs. Ward's heart
from the associations of her girlhood, and, if Lucy must die, she could
think of no more lovely spot for the last sad scenes.

One character in "David Grieve" is drawn from real life--Élise Delaunay,
the French girl with whom David falls in love on his first visit to
Paris. This is, in some respects, a portrait of Marie Bashkirtseff, a
young native of Russia, whose brief career as an artist attracted much
notice. Marie was born of wealthy parents in 1860. When she was only ten
years old her mother quarreled with her husband and left him, taking the
children with her. Marie returned to her father, with whom she traveled
extensively. A born artist, the journey through Italy created in her a
new and thrilling interest. She resolved to devote her life to art, and
in 1877 entered the school of Julian in Paris. She soon showed
astonishing capacity, and Julian assured her that her draughtsmanship
was remarkable. One of her paintings, "Le Meeting," was exhibited in the
Salon of 1884, and attracted much notice. Reproductions were made in all
the leading papers, and it was finally bought by the cousin of the Czar,
the Grand Duke Constantino Constantinowitch, a distinguished connoisseur
and himself a painter. This picture represents half a dozen street
gamins of the ordinary Parisian type holding a conference in the street.
Their faces exhibit all the seriousness of a group of financiers
consulting upon some project of vast importance.

The peculiarity of Marie's character is set forth by her biographer in
words which enable the reader of "David Grieve" instantly to recognize
Élise Delaunay:--

  She never wholly yields herself up to any fixed rule of conduct, or
  even passion, being swayed this way or that by the intense
  impressionability of her nature. She herself recognized this anomaly
  in the remark, "My life can't endure; I have a deal too much of some
  things and a deal too little of others, and a character not made to
  last." The very intensity of her desire to see life at all points
  seems to defeat itself, and she cannot help stealing side glances at
  ambition during the most romantic tête-à-tête with a lover, or being
  tortured by visions of unsatisfied love when art should have engrossed
  all her faculties.

In the last year of her life Marie achieved an admiration for
Bastien-Lepage which, her biographer says, "has a suspicious flavour of
love about it. It is the strongest, sweetest, most impassioned feeling
of her existence." She died in 1884, at the early age of twenty-four,
assured by Bastien-Lepage that no other woman had ever accomplished so
much at her age.

"Marcella" and "Sir George Tressady" are novels of English social and
political life--a field in which Mrs. Ward is peculiarly at home, and in
which she has no superior. Marcella, who in her final development became
one of the most beautiful women of all Mrs. Ward's characters, was
suggested by the personality of an intimate friend, whose name need not
be mentioned. Mellor Park, the home of Marcella, is drawn from Hampden
House in Buckinghamshire. It is a famous old house, some centuries old,
now the country-seat of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, and, with its
well-kept gardens and spacious park, is unusually attractive. Twenty
years ago, however, it was in a state of neglect. The road leading to it
was full of underbrush, the garden was wholly uncared-for, and the house
itself much in need of repair. This is the state in which Mrs. Ward
describes it--and she knew it well, for she had leased it for a season
and made it her summer home. The murder of the gamekeeper, described as
taking place near Mellor Park, really happened at Stocks, Mrs. Ward's
present home near Tring.

The village of Ferth, where Sir George Tressady had his home and owned
the collieries, is a mining village ten miles from Crewe, known as "Talk
o' the Hill." The ugly black house to which Tressady brought home his
young wife was described from an actual house which the author visited.

"Helbeck of Bannisdale" was written while the author was living at
Levens Hall, the handsome country home of Captain Bagot, M.P., which
Mrs. Ward leased for a summer. It is a few miles south of Kendal, in
Westmoreland, and just on the border of the "Peat Moss" country. The
old hall dates back to 1170, the original deed now in possession of
Captain Bagot bearing that date. The dining-room has an inlaid design
over the mantel with the date 1586. The entrance-hall, dining-room, and
drawing-room contain many antique relics. But the most remarkable
feature of Levens is the garden, containing about two hundred yews
trained and trimmed into every conceivable shape. There is an "umbrella"
which has required two hundred years of constant care to reach its
present size and shape; a British lion, with perfect coronet; a peacock
with correctly formed neck and tail feathers; a barrister's wig, a
kaffir's hut, and so on through a long list of curious shapes. In front
of the house the river Kent, with a bridge of two arches, makes a
picturesque scene. This is the "bridge over the Bannisdale River" which
marked the end of Laura's drive with Mason, where at sight of Helbeck
the young man made his sudden and unceremonious departure. A spacious
park skirts the river, through which runs a grassy road bounded by
splendid oaks intertwining their branches high above. Following this
path we reached a foot-bridge barely wide enough for one person to
cross, on the park end of which is a rough platform apparently built for
fishermen. Here Laura kept her clandestine appointment with Mason, and
on her way home was mistaken for the ghost of the "Bannisdale Lady,"
much to the terror of a poor old man who chanced to be passing, and not
a little to her own subsequent embarrassment. A little beyond is the
deep pool where Laura was drowned.

The exterior of Bannisdale Hall is not Levens, but Sizergh Castle, some
two or three miles nearer Kendal. At the time of the story a Catholic
family of Stricklands owned the place, but, like Helbeck, were gradually
selling parts of their property, and dealers from London and elsewhere
were constantly coming to carry off furniture or paintings. The family
finally lost the property, and it was acquired by a distant relative,
Sir Gerald Strickland, who was recently appointed Governor of New South
Wales, and who now owns but does not occupy it.

The little chapel, high up on a hill, where Laura was buried, is at
Cartmel Fell, in Northern Lancashire. A quaint little chapel five or six
hundred years old, it is well worth a visit.

The scenes of "Eleanor" are in Italy, and here Mrs. Ward fairly revels
in descriptions of "Italy, the beloved and beautiful." The opening
chapters have their setting in the Villa Barberini, on the ridge of the
Alban Hills, south of Rome, from the balcony of which the dome of St.
Peter's can be seen in the distance, dominating the landscape by day and
seeming at night to be the one thing which has definite form and
identity. There is a visit to Nemi and Egeria's Spring, after which the
scene changes to the valley of the Paglia, beyond the hill town of
Orvieto, "a valley with wooded hills on either side, of a bluish-green
color, checkered with hill towns and slim campaniles and winding roads;
and, binding it all in one, the loops and reaches of a full brown
river."

Torre Amiata--the real name of which is Torre Alfina--is a magnificent
castle, "a place of remote and enchanting beauty." Through some Italian
friends, Mrs. Ward met the agent of this great estate, who put his house
at her disposal for a season. This happy opportunity gave her the
intimate acquaintance with the surrounding country which she used with
such excellent skill in "Eleanor," and enabled her, among other things,
to discover the ruined convent and chapel which formed the dismal
retreat of Lucy and Eleanor in their strange flight from Mr. Manisty.

"Lady Rose's Daughter," which followed "Eleanor," likewise reflects the
author's love of Italy. It was written, in part at least, in the
beautiful villa at Cadenabbia, on Lake Como, from which a view of
surpassing loveliness meets the eye in every direction. Mrs. Ward never
tires of it, and in her leisure moments while there found great delight
in reproducing in her sketch-book the charming colors of a landscape
which can scarcely be equaled in any other part of the world.

The setting of the novel in its earlier chapters is London. But when
Julie Le Breton, worn out by mental anguish, the result of experiences
which had nearly ruined her life, could be rescued and brought back to
life only by a quiet rest amid pleasant surroundings, Lake Como was the
place selected by her kind-hearted little friend the duchess. As her
strength gradually returned she daily walked over the hill to the path
that led to the woods overhanging the Villa Carlotta.

  Such a path! To the left hand, and, as it seemed, steeply beneath her
  feet, all earth and heaven--the wide lake, the purple mountains, the
  glories of a flaming sky. On the calm spaces of water lay a shimmer of
  crimson and gold, repeating the noble splendor of the clouds.... To
  her right a green hillside--each blade of grass, each flower, each
  tuft of heath, enskied, transfigured by the broad light that poured
  across it from the hidden west. And on the very hilltop a few
  scattered olives, peaches, and wild cherries scrawled upon the blue,
  their bare, leaning stems, their pearly whites, their golden pinks and
  feathery gray, all in a glory of sunset that made of them things
  enchanted, aerial, fantastical, like a dance of Botticelli angels on
  the height.

[Illustration: LAKE COMO]

The story opens with a graphic description of Lady Henry's
salon--frequented by the most prominent people in London--where the
chief attraction was not the great lady herself, but her maid companion,
Julie Le Breton. Everywhere Julie was met with smiles and evidence of
eager interest. She knew every one, and "her rule appeared to be at once
absolute and welcome." But one evening Lady Henry was ill and gave
orders that the guests be turned away with her apologies. As the
carriages drove up, one by one, the footman rehearsed Lady Henry's
excuses. But a group of men soon assembled in the inner vestibule, and
Julie felt impelled to invite them into the library, where they were
implored not to make any noise. The distinguished frequenters of Lady
Henry's salon were all there. Coffee was served, and, stimulated by the
blazing fire and a sense of excitement due to the novelty of the
situation, an animated conversation sprang up, which continued till
midnight and was at last suddenly interrupted by the unexpected
appearance of Lady Henry herself.

Lady Henry's awakening led to Julie's dismissal. But her friends did not
desert her. A little cottage was found, where Julie was soon comfortably
installed.

This much of the story--and little if any more--was suggested by the
life of Julie de Lespinasse, a Frenchwoman who figured brilliantly in
the Paris society of the middle of the eighteenth century.

In 1754 the Marquise du Deffand was one of the famous women of Paris.
Her quick intelligence and a great reputation for wit had brought to her
drawing-room the famous authors, philosophers, and learned men of the
day. But the great lady, now nearly sixty, was entirely blind and
subject to a "chronic weariness that devoured her." She sought a remedy
in the society of an extraordinarily attractive young woman, of somewhat
doubtful parentage, named Julie de Lespinasse, whom she took into her
home as a companion. Julie became a great social success. For ten years
she remained with Madame du Deffand, when a bitter quarrel separated
them. Julie's friends combined to assure her an income and a home, and
she was soon established almost opposite the house of her former patron.
The Maréchale de Luxembourg presented her with a complete suite of
furniture. Turgot, the famous Minister of Louis XVI, and President
Hénault were among those who provided funds. D'Alembert, distinguished
as a philosopher, author, and geometrician, who was the cause of the
quarrel with the marquise, became Julie's most intimate friend. When she
founded her own salon, his official patronage and constant presence
assured its success. Her success was, in fact, astonishingly rapid. "In
the space of a few months," says her biographer, the Marquis de Ségur,
"the modest room with the crimson blinds was nightly filled, between
the hours of six and ten, by a crowd of chosen visitors, courtiers and
men of letters, soldiers and churchmen, ambassadors and great ladies,
... each and all gayly jostling elbows as they struggled up the narrow
wooden stairs, unregretting, and forgetting in the ardor of their talk,
the richest houses in Paris, their suppers and balls, the opera, and the
futile lures of the grand world."

The remarkable career and unique personality of this famous woman
furnished the suggestion for Julie Le Breton. But beyond this the
resemblance is slight. The subsequent history of the Frenchwoman has no
relation to the story of "Lady Rose's Daughter," and the personality of
the two women differs in many respects.

"The Marriage of William Ashe" is like "Lady Rose's Daughter" in two
important respects: it is a story in which the author reveals an
extraordinary knowledge of English politics and familiarity with the
social life of the upper classes, and it is one in which a story of real
life plays an important part. Indeed, there is far more of real life in
this novel than in any other the author has written. William Ashe and
his frivolous and erratic wife Kitty are portraits, considerably
modified, it is true, but nevertheless real, of William and Caroline
Lamb. William Lamb--known to posterity as Lord Melbourne--did not
become a distinguished statesman until after he had entered the House of
Lords. For twenty-five years he had been a member of the House of
Commons, of little influence and almost unknown to the country at large.
But soon after the death of George IV he entered the cabinet of Earl
Grey as Home Secretary. This was in 1830. Less than four years later he
rose suddenly to the highest position in the state. As Premier it was
his unique privilege to instruct the young Queen, Victoria, in the
duties of her high office--a task which he executed with commendable
tact and skill. It is the inconsequential William Lamb of the House of
Commons, and not the exalted Lord Melbourne, whom Mrs. Ward had in mind
in portraying William Ashe; and it was more particularly his young wife,
Caroline Lamb, who furnished the real motive of the novel.

"Lady Caroline," we are told by Lord Melbourne's biographer, Dr.
Dunckley, "became the mistress of many accomplishments. She acquired
French and Latin, and had the further courage, Mr. Torrens tells us, to
undertake the recital of an ode of Sappho. She could draw and paint, and
had the instinct of caricature. Her mind was brimming with romance, and,
regardless of conventionality, she followed her own tastes in
everything. In conversation she was both vivacious and witty." Such was
Lady Caroline Ponsonby when she married William Lamb. The marriage
proved an extremely unhappy one. Lady Caroline's whole life was a series
of flirtations--deliberately planned, as a matter of fact, and yet
entered upon with such mad rushes of passion as to seem merely the
result of some irresistible impulse. A son was born to the couple, but
he brought no joy, for as he grew up he developed an infirmity of
intellect amounting almost to imbecility. The life of the young people
was "an incessant round of frivolous dissipation." The after-supper
revels often lasted till daybreak. But this brought no happiness, and
both husband and wife came to realize that marriage had been, for them,
a troublesome affair. About this time Lord Byron appeared on the scene.
"Childe Harold" had brought him sudden fame. He had traveled in the
East, was the hero of many escapades, had been sufficiently wicked to
win the admiration of certain ladies of romantic tendencies, and
altogether created quite a _furor_ through the peculiar charms of his
handsome face and dashing ways. He sought and obtained an introduction
to Lady Caroline. He came to call the next day when she was alone, and
for the next nine months almost lived at Melbourne House. They called
each other by endearing names, and exchanged passionate verses. They
were constantly together, and the intimacy caused much scandalous
comment. It lasted until Byron became tired of it all, and announced
his intention of marrying. The marriage to a cousin of Lady Caroline
aroused the fierce jealousy of the latter, who proceeded to perform a
little melodrama of her own, first trying to jump out of a window and
then stabbing herself--not so deep that it would hurt--with a knife.

Such escapades could have but one result. There came a separation, of
course; but some traces of the early love remained in both, and when
Lady Caroline was dying, William Lamb was summoned from Ireland. The
final parting was not without tender affection on both sides, and
William felt his loss deeply.

In this brief sketch the reader of Mrs. Ward's novel will recognize
Kitty Ashe in every line. The portraiture is very close. Cliffe takes
the place of Lord Byron without being made to resemble him. But he
serves to reveal the weakness of Kitty's character. Even Kitty's
mischievous work in writing a book, which came near ruining her
husband's career, was an episode in the life of Caroline Lamb. She wrote
a novel in which Byron and herself were the principal characters, and
their escapades were paraded before the world in a thin disguise which
deceived nobody.

[Illustration: STOCKS]

Of Mrs. Ward's later books there is little to say, so far as scenes and
"originals" are concerned. In "Fenwick's Career" the little cottage
where the artist and his wife lived was in reality the summer home of
Mrs. Ward's daughter Dorothy. It stands on the slope of a hill near the
Langdale Pikes in Westmoreland, commanding a view of surpassing
loveliness.

In the "Testing of Diana Mallory" the scenery is all taken from the
country near Stocks, the summer home of the novelist.

In "Daphne," or "Marriage à la Mode," Mount Vernon, Washington, Niagara
Falls, and an imaginary English estate supply the necessary scenery, and
these are not described with real interest, for the author, contrary to
her usual custom, is here writing with a fixed didactic purpose. But a
chapter incidentally thrown in reflects the novelist's impressions of a
visit to the White House as the guest of President Roosevelt--an
experience which interested her greatly. In "the tall, black-haired man
with the meditative eye, the equal, social or intellectual, of any
Foreign Minister that Europe might pit against him, or any diplomat that
might be sent to handle him," it is easy to recognize Mr. Root.
Secretary Garfield is "this younger man, sparely built, with the sane
handsome face--son of a famous father, modest, amiable, efficient."
Secretary Taft, with whom, apparently, the distinguished author did not
really become acquainted, is lightly referred to as "this other of huge
bulk and height, the hope of a party, smiling already a Presidential
smile as he passed."

It has been said of this book that it does an injustice to America. But
such was assuredly far from the author's intent. Mrs. Ward, who is one
of the keenest observers of English and European public men, pays a high
compliment in the remark that "America need make no excuses whatever for
her best men.... She has evolved the leaders she wants, and Europe has
nothing to teach them." She is attacking the laxity of the divorce laws
in certain American States, and in doing so is actuated by motives which
every high-minded American must applaud. The English general who berates
American institutions is held up to ridicule, and the most agreeable
woman in the book--perhaps the only agreeable one--is an American.
Daphne, through whom the author condemns the evil, is not a typical
American girl, but, with evident intent to avoid offense, is made the
daughter of a foreigner.

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ward's feelings toward America are of the
kindliest nature, and, whatever may be said of the merits of "Marriage à
la Mode" as a work of fiction, in condemning an abuse which nobody can
defend she has performed a real service.


FOOTNOTE:

  [5] 1908.




VI

A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES




VI

A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES


We caught our first glimpse of Maggiore from a window in Stresa, late in
the afternoon of a charming day in early spring. In spite of the
lateness of the hour, with all the enthusiasm of amateurs, we proceeded
to make a photograph of the charming scene. Ruskin was right when he
declared Maggiore to be the most beautiful of all the Italian lakes;--at
least, we felt willing to admit this, even though we had not yet seen
the others. In the foreground were the green lawns and white paths of a
well-kept park, skirting the lake; then a wide stretch of water,
roughened by the wind so that its surface, usually smooth, was now
dotted with whitecaps, dancing and sparkling in the afternoon sun;
across the water to the left, the village of Pallanza, pushing itself
far out into the lake, and thrown into strong relief by the high
mountains at its back; far away in the distance, the white-capped summit
of some Alpine range; and above it all, the most beautiful of blue
Italian skies.

We gazed long upon the scene, until the twilight began to deepen. Soon
two figures appeared at the entrance to the park, one a woman in a
green velvet gown, the other a man in a long flowing mantle of the style
peculiar to Italy. They seemed in earnest conversation, now approaching
each other with vigorous but graceful gestures, now falling back a step
or two and again advancing. The man would throw his cloak over his left
shoulder; then, when his earnestness caused it to slip away, he would
throw it back again, repeating the movement over and over. We could
almost fancy overhearing Lorenzo say:--

              "In such a night
  Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
  And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
  As far as Belmont";

and hearing Jessica reply:--

          "And in such a night
  Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,
  Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
  And ne'er a true one."

The little pantomime seemed all that was needed to complete the romance
of the scene, while the gathering twilight lent its aid.

[Illustration: LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY]

The Lago di Maggiore, known to the Romans as Lacus Verbanus, is the
westernmost as well as the largest of three lovely lakes which lie on
the southern slope of the Alps, in an area not greater than that of the
State of Rhode Island. The Lago di Como, or Lacus Larius, is the
easternmost of the group, while the Lago di Lugano, smaller, but not
less beautiful, lies between the other two.

There is a peculiar delicacy of beauty about these lakes like an
exquisitely tinted rosebud or the perfume of apple blossoms. The
ruggedness of aspect common to most mountain lakes is here lost in the
soft luxuriance of the green shores, the sparkling waters, and the rich
blue sky. The hills are lined with terraces of green vineyards,
interspersed with the pink of peach and almond blossoms. Camellias and
azaleas brighten the gardens. Mulberry trees, olives, and cypresses,
mingling with their sturdy Northern companions, the spruces and pines,
cast their varied foliage against the brown of the near-by mountains. In
the distance the snow-clad peaks of the Alps interpose their white
mantles between the blue of the sky and the warmer tones of the
hillsides, while here and there picturesque villages stand out on
projecting promontories to lend an additional gleam of whiteness to the
landscape.

Mingling with the charm of all this natural beauty and intensifying it
are the atmosphere of poetry and romance which one instinctively feels,
and the more tangible associations with history, literature, science,
art, and architecture which are constantly suggested as one makes the
tour of the lakes.

In the morning we found our places on the upper deck of the little
steamer that makes a zigzag journey through Maggiore. No sooner had the
boat started than we heard sweet strains of music and a chorus of
well-modulated male voices. The night before we had had a miniature play
for our special benefit. Can it be possible that now we are to have
Italian opera? They were only a party of native excursionists, but we
were genuinely sorry when they disembarked at the next landing.

Leaving Stresa, famous as the home of Cavour, when that great statesman
was planning the creation of a united Italy, we soon came in sight of
Isola Bella. As it lay there in the bright sunlight, its green terraces
and tropical foliage, its white towers and arcaded walls reflected in
the blue waters of the lake, the snowy mountains forming a distant
background and a cloudless blue sky surmounting the whole, we thought it
beautiful. But in this, it seems, our taste was at fault, and while
admiring we ought to have been criticizing. It was like spending an
evening with genuine enjoyment at the theater, only to find out the next
morning from the critic of the daily newspaper that the play was poor,
the acting only ordinary, and the applause merely an act of generosity.
Southey wrote of it, "Isola Bella is at once the most costly and the
most absurd effort of bad taste that has ever been produced by wealth
and extravagance." A more recent English writer condemns its "monstrous
artificialities." He declares that "the gardens are a triumph of bad
taste," and that "artificial grottoes, bristling with shells, terrible
pieces of hewn stone, which it would be an offense to sculpture to term
statuary, offend the eye at every turn." Another says that it is "like a
Périgord pie, stuck all over with the heads of woodcocks and
partridges," while some one else thinks it "worthy the taste of a
confectioner."

On the other hand, our own distinguished novelist, Mrs. Edith Wharton,
found much to be admired:--

  The palace has ... one feature of peculiar interest to the student of
  villa architecture, namely, the beautiful series of rooms in the south
  basement, opening on the gardens, and decorated with the most
  exquisite ornamentation of pebble-work and sea-shells, mingled with
  delicate-tinted stucco. These low-vaulted rooms, with marble floors,
  grotto-like walls, and fountains dripping into fluted conches, are
  like a poet's notion of some twilight refuge from summer heats, where
  the languid green air has the coolness of water: even the fantastic
  consoles, tables, and benches, in which cool glimmering mosaics are
  combined with carved wood and stucco painted in faint greens and
  rose-tints, might have been made of mother-of-pearl, coral, and
  seaweed for the adornment of some submarine palace.

It was the fashion to admire the island before it became the rule to
condemn its artificiality. Bishop Burnet visited Maggiore in 1685,
fourteen years after the Count Vitaliano Borromeo had transformed the
island from a barren slate rock into a costly summer residence. He
thought it "one of the loveliest spots of ground in the world," and
wrote, "there is nothing in all Italy that can be compared with it." At
a much later time, Lord Lytton allowed himself to rise to the heights of
enthusiasm:--

  "O fairy island of a fairy sea,
     Wherein Calypso might have spelled the Greek,
   Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury,
      Culled from each shore her zephyr's wings could seek,--
       From rocks where aloes blow.

  "Tier upon tier, Hesperian fruits arise:
     The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon;
   An India mellows in the Lombard skies,
     And changelings, stolen from the Lybian sun,
       Smile to yon Alps of snow."

[Illustration: ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE]

The charge of artificiality must be admitted. A bare rock cannot be
transformed into a thing of beauty and escape the charge. The ten
terraces are a series of walls, built in the form of a pyramid and
covered with earth, transported from the mainland at great expense.
Orange and lemon trees, amid a profusion of tropical foliage, are thus
made to wave their fragrant branches in the face of Alpine snows. Is not
this worth while? The truth is that Lake Maggiore is so rich in the
kind of beauty which the hand of Nature has provided that the creations
of man--the villas, the gardens, the vineyards, the villages nestling
close to the water's edge, and the pilgrimage churches high up on the
mountain-sides--seem only to accentuate the charm.

The Isola dei Pescatori, or Island of the Fishermen, lying near the
"Beautiful Island," forms a striking contrast. If distance is needed to
lend enchantment and conceal the lavish expenditure of wealth on the
Isola Bella, it is needed still more to hide the squalor and avoid the
odor of the poor fishermen's island. Yet the latter, seen from the
steamer's deck, is far more picturesque than its more pretentious
neighbor. The third of the Borromean group is known as the Isola Madre.
It has seven terraces, surmounted by an unused villa. Its gardens are
full of roses, camellias, and all kinds of beautiful plants, lemons,
oranges, myrtle, magnolia, and semi-tropical trees in great profusion.
Less popular than Isola Bella, it is considered by many far more
attractive.

Two villages lying farther south on the western shore of the lake are
worthy of at least passing mention:--Belgirate and Arona. The former was
the home, in the late years of his life, of the great master of Italian
prose, Manzoni, whose novel, "I Promessi Sposi," was thought by Scott to
be the finest ever written. He was a man of the people, greatly beloved
by his countrymen for his benevolence, tender sympathy, and warmth of
affection. Arona was the home of the patron saint of the Italian lakes,
Carlo Borromeo. A colossal statue, sixty-six feet high on a pedestal of
forty feet, built to his memory in 1697, is one of the sights of the
region. St. Charles was born in 1537. At the age of twenty-three he was
made a cardinal by his uncle, Pope Pius IV. Inheriting great wealth, he
devoted his revenues to charity, sometimes living on bread and water and
sleeping on straw. Traveling as a missionary, he visited the remotest
villages and almost inaccessible shepherds' huts high up on the
mountains. He is best remembered for his self-sacrifice and heroic
devotion to the people in the great plague at Milan in 1575. But the
great saint was a hater of heretics and caused many of them to be put to
death. Nor was he without enemies among those of his own faith. A
Franciscan monk once fired upon him, but he escaped as if by miracle,
the bullet glancing from the heavy gold embroidery of his cope--a
demonstration that gold lace is not always a wholly superfluous
decoration.

Our little steamer zigzagged back and forth, stopping at many villages,
until finally Luino was reached. This busy little town was the
birthplace of Bernardino Luini, the illustrious disciple of Leonardo da
Vinci, whose frescoes adorn many of the Italian churches. It was also
the scene of one of Garibaldi's brave exploits, though an unsuccessful
one. Here we left the steamer for a short ride by tramway to Ponte
Tresa, on Lake Lugano, where another little boat was waiting. Although
usually regarded as one of the Italian lakes, the greater portion of
Lugano is in Swiss territory. Most tourists make it the gateway from the
north into Italy, passing through its most populous town, Lugano, which,
with its neighbor, Paradiso, lines the shores of a beautiful blue bay,
guarded on either side by high mountains, clothed with groves of oak and
chestnut set off by vineyards and gardens on the lower slopes. To the
front Monte Caprino rises straight up from the water like one huge,
solitary rock, keeping stern watch over the soft luxuriance of the
towns. San Salvatore is the sentinel on the right, while Monte Bri and
Monte Boglia are on duty at the left. Lugano was the home of the Italian
patriot, Mazzini, who has been called the prophet of Italian unity, as
Garibaldi was its knight-errant and Cavour its statesman.

On the eastern side of the lake and farther to the south is Monte
Generoso. We saw it only from the steamer, but it ought to be seen at
close range, for it is covered with woods and pastures and commands a
view of the chain of lakes that is said to be unsurpassed in all Italy.
We maintained our zigzag journey, however, until Porlezza was reached,
where another little train stood ready to carry us over to Lake Como.

For kaleidoscopic revelations of Nature's choicest scenes and rarest
beauties, the descent from the highlands to the town of Menaggio could
scarcely be equaled. The train moved slowly through the vineyards and
gardens, gradually descending, until with a sudden turn the whole
northern end of Como burst gloriously into view. Never was sky a
lovelier blue and never did water more splendidly reflect its azure hue.
Far away the snowy Alps gave a touch of the sublime to a view of
surpassing grandeur. In a moment the scene changed, and Bellagio with
its white villas stood before us, separating the two arms of the lake.
Then Varenna with its solitary tower, and finally, at the edge of the
water, the village of Menaggio itself.

    "How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets
  Thy open beauties or thy lone retreats,--
  Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales
  Thy cliffs: the endless waters of thy vales:
  Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore,
  Each with its household boat beside the door."

So sang Wordsworth in the days of his youth.

Slowly winding our way down the precipitous slopes, we reached at last
the end of the railway, and a third steamer closed the experiences of
the day by carrying us safely to Cadenabbia. "That was Italy! and as
lovely as Italy can be when she tries." So the poet Longfellow wrote to
James T. Fields in 1868. And every one who has been there can appreciate
the poet's feeling when he wrote:--

  "I ask myself, Is this a dream?
     Will it all vanish into air?
   Is there a land of such supreme
     And perfect beauty anywhere?
   Sweet vision! Do not fade away;
     Linger until my heart shall take
   Into itself the summer day
     And all the beauties of the lake."

Above Cadenabbia and reached by a winding path through terraces of
vineyards, there is a bit of woods, made brilliant at this time of the
spring by a wealth of wild cherries, peaches, and almonds in full
blossom, and by the tall, luxuriant growths of rhododendrons, now
covered in thick profusion with huge clusters of splendid pink and
purple blossoms. A shady spot near the edge of the woods, where there
was a table and some chairs, made a convenient place where we could rest
after our climb, and view Longfellow's vision of "supreme and perfect
beauty." The grand and majestic beauty of Maggiore and the more modest
but sweeter loveliness of Lugano were but the preparation for the
glorious, satisfying perfection of Como, the most beautiful of all the
lakes, "a serene accord of forms and colors."

Lake Como is famous, not alone for its beauty, but for the many
associations of history, science, art, and literature. For centuries its
shores have been thickly set with costly villas--the homes of wealth and
luxury, and not infrequently of learning and culture. The elder Pliny,
whose habits of industry were so great that he worked on his prodigious
"Natural History" even while traveling at night in his carriage, was
born at the city of Como, as was also his gifted nephew. Volta, the
great physicist and pioneer in electrical science, Pope Innocent III,
and Pope Clement XIII were all natives of the same place. The Cathedral
of Como is one of the most splendid in northern Italy. The churches
scattered all along the shores of the lake, as well as the villas, are a
delight to students of art and architecture. They are filled with
paintings of great interest and valuable works of sculpture.

Historically, although not conspicuous in the great events of the
world's progress, the lake has been the theater of many stirring scenes,
particularly in mediæval times. Halfway between Menaggio and the
northern end of the lake lies a rocky promontory known as Musso, the
site in the sixteenth century of a great and almost impregnable castle.
It was the center of the activities of one of the ablest, wickedest, and
most picturesque figures in the history of Italy. His name was Gian
Giacomo de Medici, although he was not related to the famous Florentine
family. He is best known by the name of "Il Medeghino." He is described
as a man of medium stature, broad-chested, and of pallid but
good-humoured countenance, and possessed of a keen and searching glance.
He was kind to his family and possessed the affection of his soldiers;
he was temperate and not given to the indulgence of the senses; and he
gave liberally to charity and to the encouragement of art. But he was a
murderer, traitor, liar, and all-round villain of the first magnitude.
If San Carlo Borromeo was the patron saint of the Italian lakes, his
uncle, Il Medeghino, was their presiding demon. He began his career at
the age of sixteen by killing another youth--an act for which he was
banished from Milan, but which became the stepping-stone to a successful
campaign of ambition, based upon crime and bloodshed.

In those days of violence the capacity to do murder was a
recommendation, and Il Medeghino soon rose to a position of power. He
helped Francesco Sforza, the last of that famous house, to regain the
Duchy of Milan by taking the life of a French courier and stealing his
documents, for which services he demanded the Castle of Musso. The price
asked by the duke was another murder, and the victim this time was a
personal friend and fellow soldier. Il Medeghino did not hesitate, but
brutally assassinated his friend. The duke, no longer able to refuse,
sent him to the castle with a letter to the governor, ordering the
latter to turn the fortress over to the young adventurer, but also with
a sealed letter requesting the governor to cut his throat. Il Medeghino
took no chances on the secret letter. He broke the seal and destroyed
this message, presenting the open letter and obtaining possession of the
stronghold. Immediately he made his power felt. He strengthened the
walls of the fort and made the cliffs inaccessible. He made himself
feared and his authority respected. He began a career of piracy and
plunder, continuing until he became the master, not only of Lake Como,
but of Lugano and much of the adjacent territory. His fleet of seven
large ships and many smaller ones swept the lake from end to end.

Although but thirty years of age, he was now a power to be reckoned
with. The Spaniards, finding him dangerous and not to be conquered by
force, finally succeeded in winning him by concessions. Charles V
created him Marquis of Musso and Count of Lecco, and induced him to
begin a vigorous warfare against his former master, the Duke of Milan.
But the end was near. A great force of Swiss attacked from the north and
the Duke of Milan sent a large fleet and great army to subdue the rebel.
A battle off Menaggio was lost by the pirate. He made a desperate fight,
but was compelled to yield to superior forces. But he nevertheless
retired with honors. He was given an enormous sum of money and the title
of Marquis of Marignano, together with free pardon for himself and all
his followers. The rest of his days were spent in the service of Spain.
When he died, in his sixtieth year, his brother, Pope Pius IV, erected a
magnificent tomb to his memory in the Cathedral of Milan, where all who
feel so disposed may pause to honor this prince of pirates and most
unscrupulous of plunderers, conspicuous for his wickedness, even in an
age ruled by violence.

It is a relief to turn from the history of one of the wickedest of men
to that of one of the noblest of women, by merely crossing the lake to
the village of Varenna--a town known to tourists for its milk-white
cascade, the Fiume Latte, a waterfall which leaps in spring-time from a
height of a thousand feet. Here the remnant of the castle of the good
Queen Theodelinda may still be seen.

In the sixth century A.D., the Langobards, or Long-Beards, taking
advantage of the weakness and desolation following the long wars against
the Goths, descended into Italy to take possession of the land. A
powerful race of Teutons, renowned for daring and love of war, they met
with little resistance. Their king, soon after, met a tragic death at
the hands of his wife, and his successor reigned only two years. After
ten years of experiments with a national confederacy, composed of some
thirty-five dukes, constantly at war with each other, and resulting in a
condition of anarchy, the first real king of the Lombards was chosen,
Authari the Long-haired, known also by his Roman name of Flavius. The
chief event in the life of this monarch was his courtship and marriage.
Having decided, probably for reasons of state, upon the daughter of
Garibald, Duke of Bavaria, as his future wife, he sent ambassadors to
arrange the union. But becoming possessed of a strange and unaccountable
desire to catch a glimpse of the lady before taking the final step, he
is said to have accompanied his messengers in disguise. Fortunately for
the romance of the incident, he was charmed with her beauty while the
princess promptly fell in love with him.

The Christian Theodelinda became the honored queen of the Lombards and
so won the confidence of their leaders that after the death of Authari,
shortly after their marriage, she was invited to choose her own husband,
who would thereupon become the king. She chose Agilulf, Duke of Turin.
Through the influence of Theodelinda, the Lombards were brought into the
Catholic Church, and the queen herself built at Monza the first Lombard
cathedral. Pope Gregory the Great is said to have recognized her
services by sending her a precious relic, one of the nails of the Cross,
wrought into a narrow band or fillet of iron. Sometime later, probably
in the twelfth century, this ancient relic, combined with a broad band
of gold set with many jewels, was converted into the celebrated Iron
Crown of Lombardy, with which the German Emperors in mediæval times were
crowned Kings of Italy. It was used at the coronation of Napoleon at
Milan in 1805, and by the present King of Italy upon his accession.
Theodelinda's name was held in reverence by her people, not only for her
great public and private charities, but for her kindliness of heart. The
castle at Varenna is said to have been her home during the last years of
her life.

If this story of the Larian Lake, to use its Roman name, is being told
backwards, it is because we first saw it at the northern end, where the
interest centers in the events of the Middle Ages. But having jumped
from the sixteenth back to the sixth century, it requires no greater
agility to skip a few more hundreds of years until we get back to the
time of Julius Cæsar, who as governor of Cisalpine Gaul sent five
thousand colonists to the shores of the lake to protect the region
against the depredations of the Gauls. Five hundred of them settled at
the ancient town of Comum. The city never played an important part in
the history of Rome, but remained a comparatively quiet yet prosperous
municipality.

In the Golden Age of Rome, the shores of the Lacus Larius became lined
with costly villas, where wealthy men sought a retreat from the too
strenuous life of the Imperial City. The need of such a refuge must be
apparent to any one having even the most superficial knowledge of Roman
municipal life in the first century of the Christian era. To escape the
corruption of official life, the endless feasts of extravagance and
immorality, and even the public amusements, where, as in the Flavian
amphitheater, 87,000 people were wont to gather to witness vast
spectacles of cruelty, obscenity, and bloodshed, there was need enough,
and the moral, self-respecting, and refined people of Rome fully
realized it. For there were such people, though the fact has been
obscured by history, which has to deal chiefly with the excesses of the
ruling classes.

The two Plinys and their friends were brilliant examples of the Romans
of the better sort. Though an aristocrat, Pliny the younger was a
charitable, good-natured man, who loved the quiet of a home where he
could combine study with fishing, hunting, and the companionship of
congenial friends. He possessed several villas on the shores of Como,
but two particularly interested him, one of which, in a somewhat
whimsical letter, he called "Tragedy" and the other "Comedy"; the high
boot worn by tragedians suggesting the name of the one on a high rock
over the lake, while the sock or slipper of the comedian applied to the
villa down by the water's edge. The latter had the great advantage that
one might fish from his bedroom, throwing the line out of the window
while he lay in bed. Pliny does not tell how many fish he caught under
these conditions.

The Villa Pliniana, just above Torno, on the eastern side of the lake,
was built in 1570 by Count Giovanni Anguisola, whose claim to
distinction lies in his participation in the murder of Pierluigi
Farnese. The villa was erected as a safe retreat, where he might escape
vengeance. Its feature of greatest interest is a curious stream which
flows through the central apartment of the house. Fifteen centuries
before the villa was constructed, Pliny described this stream in one of
his most interesting letters. "A certain spring," he writes, "rises in a
mountain and runs down through the rocks till it is inclosed in a small
dining-parlor made by hand; after being slightly retarded there, it
empties itself into the Larian lake. Its nature is very remarkable.
Three times a day it is increased or diminished in volume by a regular
rise and fall. This can be plainly seen, and when perceived is a source
of great enjoyment. You recline close to it and take your food and even
drink from the spring itself (for it is remarkably cold): meanwhile with
a regular and measured movement, it either subsides or rises. If you
place a ring or any other object on the dry ground it is gradually
moistened and finally covered over: then again it comes to view and is
by degrees deserted by the water. If you watch long enough you will see
both of these performances repeated a second and even a third time."

Another famous villa at the southern end of the lake, near the city of
Como, was erected by Cardinal Gallio, the son of a fisherman, who
achieved high honors in his Church and amassed great wealth. This villa
was later the home of the discarded Queen Caroline, wife of George IV,
who gave it the name of Villa d'Este and made great additions to its
elegance. It is now a fashionable hotel. Cardinal Gallio seems to have
had a passion for extensive villas. His palace at Gravedona, at the head
of the lake, was one of the most splendid in Europe. It is said that he
could make the journey to Rome, requiring six days, and stop at one of
his own palaces every night.

The Villa Carlotta now the property of the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen, is at
Tremezzo, a village adjoining Cadenabbia on the south. Its chief beauty
lies in the garden, filled with a profusion of plants of every
variety--roses, camellias, azaleas, magnolias, oranges, lilies--all
arranged in charming walks, with here and there a vista of the lake and
Bellagio in the distance, reflecting the bright sunlight from its white
walls. Above are the woods and the little round table overlooking the
water, where we began our survey of the Larian shores. The interior
contains a large collection of sculptures, but most visitors remember
only two pieces,--Thorwaldsen's "Triumphant Entry into Babylon of
Alexander the Great," and Canova's lovely "Cupid and Psyche."

After seeing some of these palaces merely as tourists, and learning the
history of others of an earlier day, particularly the homes described by
Pliny, we could not help wishing to see an Italian palace which is not a
show place but a home, and typical of modern life on the shores of this
wonderful lake, for so many centuries sought by men of wealth as the
place where they could realize their dreams of comfort and delight.

The opportunity of gratifying this desire came sooner than we expected.
We had started one morning to make a call at the summer home of Mrs.
Humphry Ward, who had leased the Villa Bonaventura for a season.
Mistaking the directions, we entered the gate of the Villa Maria, a
large house in the classical lines of the Italian Renaissance, standing
high above the road and reached by winding paths through a garden of
surpassing loveliness. Our ring was answered by the Italian butler, who
in response to our inquiries nodded pleasantly, not understanding a word
we said, and disappeared. In a few moments we were most cordially
greeted by an American gentleman, who assured us he was delighted to see
us, and would be happy to show us the villa. In another moment, and
before we could make explanations, another ring of the doorbell
announced two other callers, who, as it happened, were really expected
at the hour of our arrival, by invitation to see the villa. We had made
a mistake, and in turn had been mistaken for two other people, but our
friendly host insisted that we, too, should see his beautiful home.

[Illustration: THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA]

We were standing in the atrium before a large marble vase--a restoration
of the so-called Gaeta vase, by Salpion, a Greek sculptor of the time of
Praxiteles. The original was thrown into the Bay of Gaeta, where for
centuries it remained partially embedded in the mud. The fishermen of
many generations used it as a convenient post for mooring their boats,
and did much damage with their ropes. It was finally rescued and taken
to a church for use as a baptismal font, and later transferred to the
Naples Museum. The theme of the vase is the presentation of the infant
Bacchus, by Mercury, to one of the Nymphs--a favorite subject with
ancient sculptors. Mr. Haines, our courteous host, was justly proud of
this--the first complete restoration of this beautiful work of art. The
decoration of the atrium, including the eight lunettes, as well as of
the entire villa, are by the hand of Pogliaghi, who now stands at the
head of the Lombard decorators. He is the young sculptor who in 1895 was
commissioned to design the magnificent bronze doors of the Cathedral
of Milan, a work requiring seven years.

One striking feature of the villa is its harmony of color. Glance out
the doorway, from the atrium across the lake, or from the dining-room
toward Menaggio, or through the library windows into the garden, and
everywhere you see the blue Italian sky, the brown of the distant
mountains, the green of the freshly budding trees, the sparkle of the
lake, and the brilliant tints of the camellias, hyacinths, and
cineraria, combining to make a scene of splendor rarely equaled in this
good old world of ours. Then, glancing back into the rooms of the villa,
you find the same tints and shadings in the walls and ceilings, the
paintings, tapestries, and upholstery. Perfect harmony with Nature at
her best seems to have been Pogliaghi's motive.

Passing to the right of the atrium, we entered the music saloon,
decorated and furnished in the style of Louis XIV, a large and beautiful
room, noteworthy, not only for its acoustic properties, but also for
extreme richness and harmony of design and color. An arched opening
reveals a portion of a fine piece of tapestry by Giulio Romano, dating
from the sixteenth century, which covers the rear wall of the
dining-room. This tapestry, formerly owned by the Duke of Modena, is a
representation of the old Greek legend of the presentation of Bacchus,
the same theme as that of the Gaeta vase. Indeed, it was the possession
of this tapestry which suggested to Mr. Haines the idea of obtaining a
restoration of the famous vase. A striking feature of the dining-room is
the frieze of Poliaghi representing young Bacchantes in the midst of
fruit and flowers, so cleverly painted that it seems to be done in high
relief, completely deceiving the eye.

On the left of the atrium is the library, with two life-size portraits
by De La Gandara, one of Mr. Haines and the other of his wife. Mrs.
Haines was an accomplished musician as well as an enthusiastic collector
of works of art. The Villa Maria was designed by her as a fitting shrine
for her valuable collections as well as with a view to musical
entertainments. Since her death, in 1899, Mr. Haines, with equal
enthusiasm and taste, has added to the collections and improved the
villa. His study is in the rear of the library. Its distinguishing
feature is a life-size portrait of the children of Catherine de Medici,
by Federico Zuccheri. This painting is seven hundred years old, but the
colors are still fresh, and although life-size it has the exactness of a
miniature. It was formerly in the Borghese collection.

Ascending the marble stairway we were ushered into the "Porcelain" room,
containing the most unique and valuable portion of the art treasures of
the villa. There are four cabinets in the style of Louis XV, containing
what is probably the best collection to be found in Europe of rare
Ancienne, Porcelain de Saxe, Old Chelsea, Nymphenberg, Dresden, Meissen,
Ludwigsburg, and Sèvres pieces in endless variety and bewildering
richness of design. There are fans painted by Nicolas Poussin, and
others by French and Italian artists of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. There is a fine portrait of the Duchess de Chevreuse by La
Guillière and an original painting of Louis le Grand by Le Fèvre. A rare
clock of the period of Louis XV, made about 1750, with miniature
allegorical paintings, surrounded by pearls, stands upon a Louis XIV
desk, ornamented with elaborate carved bronzes by Reisinger. On either
side of the clock is a fine old Bohemian vase, while near by is a
miniature of Napoleon by Isabey. The decoration of the room is completed
by a fine old piece of Gobelin tapestry, bearing the signature of
Boucher and the date 1747, originally presented by Louis XV to one of
the queens of Spain.

These are a few of the treasures shown to us in a very brief visit to
the Villa Maria. The enthusiasm of its owner for art goes hand in hand
with a love of nature. If the interior decorations have been done with
the eye of a discriminating artist, no less has the exterior received
the same careful attention. The fine fountain, just within the gates,
the flower-beds with their well-harmonized tints, the olives and
cypresses, the camellias, the cherry tree in full blossom, all add their
charm to a view which would be unsurpassed even without their aid. For
the villa is situated at one of the loveliest points on beautiful Como,
commanding on all sides a panorama of distant mountains, with here and
there a snow-capped peak, of peaceful water glistening in the warm April
sun, of little white villages dotting the shores of the lake, of quaint
little chapels in nooks and corners of the mountains, of peach trees and
almonds adding a touch of pink to the landscape, of blue skies and
fleecy clouds surmounting the whole like a brilliant canopy. No wonder
that our genial host, after showing all the beauties of his palace,
stood by the open window and waving his hand exclaimed, "I call this my
J. M. W. Turner." But the window framed a lovelier work of art than the
hand of man will ever paint.

[Illustration: "I CALL THIS MY J. M. W. TURNER"]




VII

LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND




VII

LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND


The quest for literary landmarks is always a fascinating pursuit,
particularly to the amateur photographer who likes to take pictures that
mean something. I have always found a certain exhilaration in seeing for
myself and reproducing photographically the places made memorable by
some favorite author. To look into the ground glass of my camera and see
the reflected image of some lovely scene that has been an inspiration to
poet or novelist, is like suddenly coming into possession of a prize
that had ever before been thought unattainable. It brings the author of
a by-gone generation into one's own time. It deepens the previous
enjoyment--makes it more real. When I stand before the house in which
some great author has lived, I seem to see more than a mere dwelling.
The great man himself comes out to meet me, invites me in, shows me his
study, presents me to his wife and children, walks with me in his
garden, tells me how the surroundings of his home have influenced his
literary work, and finally sends me away with a peculiar sense of
intimacy. I go home, reach out my hand for a certain neglected book on
my shelves, and lo! it opens as with a hidden spring, a new light glows
upon its pages, and I find myself absorbed in conversation with a
friend.


I

CONCORD

For this kind of hunting I know of no better place in America than New
England, and no better town in which to begin than the sleepy old
village of Concord, twenty miles northwest of Boston. On the occasion of
a recent visit, we walked out Monument Street and made our first stop at
a point in the road immediately opposite the "Old Manse." A party of
school-children were just entering. Had we been looking at the grove on
the hillside, at the opposite end of the town, where Hawthorne used to
walk to and fro, composing the "Tanglewood Tales," we might have
supposed they had come to catch a few echoes of the famous
story-teller's voice, and I should have made a photograph with the
children in it. But here they did not seem so appropriate, and we waited
until they had gone. When all was quiet again, it did not require a very
vigorous imagination to look down the vista of black-ash trees seen
between the "two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone," and fancy a man
and woman walking arm in arm down the avenue toward the weather-stained
old parsonage, its dark sides scarcely visible beneath the shadows of
the overarching trees. The man is of medium height, broad-shouldered,
and walks with a vigorous stride, suggesting the bodily activity of a
young athlete. His hair is dark, framing with wavy curves a forehead
both high and broad. Heavy eyebrows overhang a pair of dark blue eyes,
that seem to flash with wondrous expressiveness, as he bends slightly to
speak to the little woman at his side. His voice is low and deep, and
she responds to what he is saying with an upward glance of her soft gray
eyes and a happy smile that clearly suggest the sunshine which she is
destined to throw into his life.

Thus Nathaniel Hawthorne and Sophia Peabody, his bride, on a day in
July, 1842, passed into the gloomy old house where they were to begin
their honeymoon. I say "begin" because it was not like the ordinary
honeymoon that ends abruptly on the day the husband first proposes to go
alone on a fishing excursion. Nor was it like that of a certain "colored
lady" whom I once knew. On the day following the wedding she left
William to attend to his usual duties in the stable and the garden while
she started on a two weeks' "honeymoon" trip to her old Virginia home,
explaining afterward that she "couldn't afford to take dat fool niggah
along, noway."

[Illustration: THE OLD MANSE]

The Hawthorne honeymoon was one of that rare kind which begins with the
wedding bells and has no ending. They were married lovers all their
days. Hawthorne had seen enough of solitariness in his bachelorhood
to appreciate the rare companionship of his gifted wife, and he wanted
nothing more. The dingy old parsonage was a Paradise to them and the new
Adam and Eve invited no intrusions into their Eden. Some of their
friends came occasionally, it is true, but Hawthorne records that during
the next winter the snow in the old avenue was marked by no footsteps
save his own for weeks at a time. And his loving wife, though she had
come from the midst of a large circle of friends, found only happiness
in sharing this solitude.

During the three years in which Hawthorne lived in this "Old Manse," he
seldom walked through the village, was known to but few of his
neighbors, never went to the town-meeting, and not often to church,
though he lived in a house that had been built by a minister and
occupied by ministers so long that "it was awful to reflect how many
sermons must have been written there."

Let us peep through the windows of the parlor at the end of the dark
avenue and indulge in another flight of fancy. It is an unusual day at
the Manse, for two visitors have called to greet the new occupant. The
elder of the two, a man in his fortieth year, is Ralph Waldo Emerson,
who lives in the other end of the town in a large, comfortable, and
cheery house, which we expect to see a little later. He knows the Old
Manse well. His grandfather built it shortly before the outbreak of the
Revolution and witnessed the battle of Concord from a window in the
second story. This good man, who was the Revolutionary parson of the
village, died in 1776 at the early age of thirty-three, and a few years
later his widow married the Reverend Ezra Ripley, who maintained, for
more than sixty years, the reputation of the Manse as a producer of
sermons, being succeeded by his son, Samuel, also a minister. In
October, 1834, Emerson came there with his mother and remained a year,
during which he wrote his first, and one of his greatest essays,
"Nature."

The other visitor is Henry D. Thoreau, a young man of twenty-five, then
living with the Emersons. The two guests and their host are sitting bolt
upright in stiff-backed chairs. The host speaks scarcely a word except
to ask, for the sake of politeness, a few formal questions, which
Thoreau answers with equal brevity. Emerson alone talks freely, but his
words, however much weighted with wisdom, are those of a monologuist and
do not beget conversation. Yet there is something in the manner of all
three that seems to betray the unspoken thought. Hawthorne's observing
eyes seem to be saying, "So this is Emerson, the man who, they say, is
drawing all kinds of queer and oddly dressed people to this quiet little
village,--visionaries, theorists, men and women who think they have
discovered a new thought, and come to him to see if it is genuine.
Perhaps he might help solve some of my problems. What a pure,
intellectual gleam seems to be diffused about him! With what full and
sweet tones he speaks and how persuasively! How serene and tranquil he
seems! How reposeful, as though he had adjusted himself, with all
reverence, to the supreme requirements of life! Yet I am not sure I can
trust his philosophy. Let me admire him as a poet and a true man, but I
shall ask him no questions."

Then while Thoreau is talking, Emerson gazes at Hawthorne and reflects:
"This man's face haunts me. His manner fascinates me. I talk to him and
his eyes alone answer me; and yet this seems sufficient. He does not
echo my thoughts. He has a mind all his own. He says so little that I
fear I talk too much. Yet he is a greater man than his words betray. I
have never found pleasure in his writings, yet I cannot help admiring
the man. Some day I hope to know him better. I have much to learn from
him."

Meanwhile Hawthorne's gaze has turned upon the younger visitor. "What a
wild creature he seems! How original! How unsophisticated! How ugly he
is, with his long nose and queer mouth. Yet his manners are courteous
and even his ugliness seems honest and agreeable. I understand he
drifts about like an Indian, has no fixed method of gaining a
livelihood, knows every path in the woods and will sit motionless beside
a brook until the fishes, and the birds, and even the snakes will cease
to fear his presence and come back to investigate him. He is a poet,
too, as well as a scientist, and I am sure has the gift of seeing Nature
as no other man has ever done. Some day I must walk with him in the
woods."

Every man in the room loves freedom, and hates conventionalities. The
ordinary formalities of polite society are unendurable. Therefore the
four walls seem oppressive and the straight-back chairs produce an
agonizing tension of the nerves. They are all glad when the call is
over.

[Illustration: WALDEN WOODS]

Now let the scene change. It is winter and the river behind the house is
frozen. In the glory of the setting sun, its surface seems a smooth sea
of transparent gold. The edges of the stream are bordered with fantastic
draperies, hanging from the overarching trees in strange festoons of
purest white. Once more our three friends appear, but the four walls are
gone and the wintry breeze has blown away all constraint. All three
lovers of the open air are now on skates. Thoreau circles about
skillfully in a bewildering series of graceful curves, for he is an
expert at this form of sport and thinks nothing of skating up the river
for miles in pursuit of a fox or other wild creature. Emerson finds
it harder; he leans forward until his straight back seems to parallel
the ice and frequently returns to the shore to rest. Hawthorne, if we
may recall the words of his admiring wife, moves "like a self-impelled
Greek statue, stately and grave," as though acting a part in some
classic drama, yet fond of the sport and apparently indefatigable in its
pursuit.

Once more let the scene change. Summer has come again. The icy
decorations have given place to green boughs and rushes and meadow-grass
which seem to be trying to crowd the river into narrower quarters. A
small boat is approaching the shore in the rear of the old house. In the
stern stands a young man who guides the craft as though by instinct.
With scarcely perceptible motions of the single paddle, he makes it go
in whatsoever direction he wills, as though paddling were only an act of
the mind. The boat is called the Musketaquid, after the Indian name of
the river. Its pilot, who is also its builder, quickly reaches the
shore, and we recognize the man of Nature, Thoreau. Hawthorne, who has
been admiring both the boat and steersman, now steps aboard and the two
friends are soon moving slowly among the lily-pads that line the margin
of the river. Hawthorne is rowing. He handles the oars with no great
skill, and as for paddling, it would be impossible for him to make the
boat answer _his_ will. Thoreau plucks from the water a white pond-lily,
and remarks that "this delicious flower opens its virgin bosom to the
first sunlight and perfects its being through the magic of that genial
kiss." He says he has "beheld beds of them unfolding in due succession
as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to flower"; and this leads
Hawthorne to reflect that such a sight is "not to be hoped for unless
when a poet adjusts his inward eye to a proper focus with the outward
organ." We fancy that under these conditions their talk "gushed like the
babble of a fountain," as Hawthorne said it did when he went fishing
with Ellery Channing.

But we must not linger at the gate of the Old Manse indulging these
dreams, for we have other pleasures in store. A hundred yards beyond, we
turn into the bit of road, at right angles with the highway, now
preserved because it was the scene of the famous Concord fight. A
beautiful vista is made by the overarching of trees that have grown up
since the battle, and in the distance we see the Monument, the Bridge,
and the "Minute Man." The Monument marks the spot where the British
soldiers stood and opened fire on the 19th of April, 1775, while the
"Minute Man" stands at the place where the Americans received their
order to return the fire. The Monument was dedicated on the sixty-first
anniversary of the battle, Emerson offering his famous "Concord Hymn,"
the opening stanza of which, thirty-nine years later, was carved on the
pedestal of the Minute Man, erected in commemoration of the centennial
of the event:--

  "By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
     Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
   Here once the embattled farmers stood,
     And fired the shot heard round the world."

The bridge is of no significance. It is a recent structure of cement,
the wooden bridge over which the Minute Men charged having disappeared
more than a century ago.

Hawthorne took little interest in the battlefield, though he did express
a desire to open the graves of the two nameless British soldiers, who
lie buried by the roadside, because of a tale that one of them had been
killed by a boy with an axe--a fiendish yarn which we may be glad is not
authenticated. The great romancer confessed that the field between the
battlefield and his house interested him far more because of the Indian
arrow-heads and other relics he could pick up there--a trick he had
learned from Thoreau.

On our way back to the village we made a turn to the left, for a visit
to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Never was such a place more appropriately
named. An elliptical bowl, bordered by grassy knolls, with flowering
shrubs and green groves, forms a perfect cradle among the hills in which
sleep generation after generation of the inhabitants of old Concord. On
the opposite side of the hollow, well up the slope of the hill and
shaded by many trees, we came to the graves of the Emersons, the
Thoreaus, and the Hawthornes, in neighborly proximity. The Emerson grave
seemed eminently satisfactory. A rough-hewn boulder at the foot of a
tall pine marks the resting-place of a strong, sincere, and
unpretentious character, who lived close to Nature. By his side lies
Lidian, his wife, with an inscription on her tombstone, which few,
perchance, stop to read, but which ought to be read by all who can
appreciate this rare tribute to a woman's worth:--

        In her youth an unusual sense of
      the Divine Presence was granted her
         and she retained through life
      the impress of that high Communion.
       To her children she seemed in her
      native ascendancy and unquestioning
         courage, a Queen, a Flower in
            elegance and delicacy.
     The love and care for her husband and
    children was her first earthly interest
       but with overflowing compassion
   her heart went out to the slave, the sick
    and the dumb creation. She remembered
  them that were in bonds as bound with them.

Thoreau's grave is not quite so satisfactory. It creates the impression
that the poet and naturalist who brought fame to his family was only
one of a considerable number of children and died in infancy with all
the rest. It is marked with a small headstone and the single name,
Henry. In the center of the lot a larger stone records the names of all
the members of the family who lie buried there.

The Hawthorne grave is wholly unsatisfactory. It is not easily found by
a stranger, even after careful directions. The small lot is inclosed by
an ugly fence, only partially concealed by a poorly kept hedge. By
making an effort one can peep through and see a simple headstone with
the name Hawthorne. The most conspicuous object in the inclosure is a
big sign warning the public not to pluck the leaves, etc., and ending
with the curt injunction, "Have respect for the living if not for the
dead." The unsightly fence and the rudeness of the sign clang
discordantly upon the sensibilities of those who have been taught to
admire the gracious hospitality and courteous disposition of the man. We
came to gaze reverently upon the grave of a man whom we had seemed to
know for many years as a personal friend, but found ourselves treated
with contempt as if we were merely vulgar seekers for useless souvenirs!
Let us get back to the village and see the things of life.

Next to the Old Manse, the most interesting house in Concord is
Emerson's. It is southeast of the public square, at the point where the
Cambridge Turnpike joins the Lexington Road. When Emerson bought it in
1835, it was on the outskirts of the village and not prepossessing. He
said, himself, "It is in a mean place, and cannot be fine until trees
and flowers give it a character of its own. But we shall crowd so many
books and papers, and, if possible, wise friends into it, that it shall
have as much wit as it can carry." In September of that year, Emerson
went to Plymouth and was married to Miss Lydia Jackson, in a colonial
mansion belonging to the bride, who suggested that they remain there.
But Concord had charms which the poet could not sacrifice, so the couple
established themselves in the big house at the southern edge of the
village, where, ere long, the philosopher was dividing time between his
study and the vegetable-garden, while Lidian, as her husband preferred
to call her, set out her favorite flowers transplanted from the garden
at Plymouth.

[Illustration: HOUSE OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON]

The first thing that strikes your eye, as you pass the Emerson house, is
the row of great horse-chestnuts shading its front. Mr. Coolidge, of
Boston, who built the house in 1828, remembered the lofty chestnuts of
his boyhood home in Bowdoin Square and promptly set to work to duplicate
them when he completed his new country house. Emerson added to his
original two acres until he had nine, and planted an orchard of apple
trees and pear trees, on which Thoreau did the grafting. "When I
bought my farm," said Emerson, "I did not know what a bargain I had in
the bluebirds, bobolinks, and thrushes, which were not charged in the
bill. As little did I guess what sublime mornings and sunsets I was
buying, what reaches of landscape, and what fields and lanes for a
tramp." To appreciate the full extent, therefore, of Emerson's domain,
we must next visit the favorite objective of his Sunday walks, Walden
Pond, only a mile or two away.

Walden Pond is a pretty sheet of water, about half a mile long,
completely inclosed by trees, which grow very near to the water's edge.
I fancy the visitors who go there may be divided into two classes:
first, those who go for a swim in the cool, deep waters, as Hawthorne
liked to do; and second, those who go to lay a stone upon the cairn that
marks the site of Thoreau's hut. It is well worth a pilgrimage, in these
days, to see the place where a man actually built a dwelling-house at a
cost of $28.12½ and lived in it two years at an estimated expense of
$1.09 a month. One of his extravagances was a watermelon, costing two
cents, and this was classified in his summary among the "Experiments
which failed!" The site of the hut was admirably chosen. It overlooks a
little cove or bay, and the still surface of the pond, glimpses of which
could be seen through the trees, reflecting the blue sky overhead, made
a beautiful picture.


We must now return to the village, for there are two more houses to be
seen, both on the Lexington Road. The first is the Alcott house, now
restored to something like its original condition and preserved as a
memorial to the author of "Little Women." A. Bronson Alcott came to live
in Concord in 1840, having visited there for the first time five years
earlier. Emerson at once hailed him as "the most extraordinary man and
the highest genius of his time." He marveled at the "steadiness of his
vision" before which "we little men creep about ashamed." The "Sage of
Concord" was too modest and time failed to justify his enthusiasm for
the new neighbor. He came to admit that Alcott, though a man of lofty
spirit, could not be trusted as to matters of fact; that he did not have
the power to write or otherwise communicate his thoughts; and that he
was like a gold-ore, sometimes found in California, "in which the gold
is in combination with such other elements that no chemistry is able to
separate it without great loss."

Alcott was a "handy man" with tools, could construct fanciful
summer-houses or transform a melodeon into a bookcase, as a piece of his
handiwork in the "restored" house will testify. But in intellectual
matters he fired his bullets of wisdom so far over the heads of his
fellow men that they never came down, and therefore penetrated nobody's
brain.

This lack of practical wisdom came near bringing disaster to the family.
But his daughter came to the rescue with "Little Women," a book that has
had an astonishing success from the first. Originally published in 1868,
it has had a circulation estimated at one million copies and is still in
demand.

In the winter of 1862-63, Louisa M. Alcott marched off to war, carrying
several volumes of Dickens along with her lint and bandages, determined
that she would not only bind up the soldiers' wounds, but also relieve
the tedium of their hospital life during the long days of convalescence.
When she was ready to start, Alcott said he was sending "his only son."
Girl visitors to the old "Orchard house" take great delight in the
haunts of Meg, Amy, Beth, and Joe, and particularly in Amy's bedroom,
where the young artist's drawings on the doors and window-frames are
still preserved.

Just beyond the Alcott house is a pine grove on the side of a hill and
then the "Wayside," Hawthorne's home for the last twelve years of his
life. When Hawthorne left the Old Manse, he went to Salem, then to
Lenox, and for a short time to West Newton. In the summer of 1852, he
returned to Concord, having purchased the "Wayside" from Alcott.

While living in Lenox he had written "The Wonder-Book," which so
fascinated the children, including their elders as well, that his first
task upon settling in the new home was to prepare, in response to many
urgent demands, a second series of the same kind to be known as "The
Tanglewood Tales."

[Illustration: THE WAYSIDE]

In the following spring the family sailed for Liverpool, where Hawthorne
was to be the American Consul, and from this journey he did not return
until 1860, seven years later. He was then at the height of his fame as
the author of "The Scarlet Letter," "The House of the Seven Gables," and
"The Marble Faun." As soon as his family was settled in the Wayside, he
began extensive alterations, the most remarkable of which is the tower,
which not only spoiled the architecture of the building, but failed,
partially at least, to serve its primary purpose as a study. It was a
room about twenty feet square, reached by a narrow stairway where the
author could shut himself in against all intrusion. A small stove made
the air stifling in winter, and the sun's rays upon the roof made it
unbearable in summer. Nevertheless, Hawthorne managed to make some use
of it and here he wrote "Our Old Home." I fancy he must have composed
most of it while walking back and forth in the seclusion of the pine
grove which he had purchased with the house. And here in this pleasant
grove we must leave him for the present, while we go back to Boston and
thence to Salem, to search out a few more old houses, which would
fall into decay and finally disappear without notice, like hundreds of
others of the same kind, but for the one simple fact that the touch of
Hawthorne's presence, more than half a century ago, conferred upon these
dingy old buildings a dignity and interest that draw to them annually a
host of visitors from all parts of the United States.


II

SALEM

On arrival at Salem we inquired of a local druggist whether he could
direct us to any of the Hawthorne landmarks. He promptly pleaded
ignorance, but referred us to an old citizen who chanced to be in the
store and who admitted that he knew all about the town, having been
"born and raised" there. Did he know whether there was a real "House of
Seven Gables"? Well, he had heard of such a place, but it was torn down
long ago. Could he direct us to the Custom House? Oh, yes, right down
the street: he would show us the way. Any houses where Hawthorne had
lived? Well, no,--he hadn't "followed that much." Had any of his family
ever seen Hawthorne, or spoken of him? Yes--but he didn't amount to
much: kind of a lazy fellow. People here didn't set much store by him.

We were moving away, fearing that the old fellow would offer to
accompany us and thereby spoil some of our anticipated enjoyment of the
old houses, when he called after us--"Say, there's an old house right
down this street that I've heard had something to do with Hawthorne. I
don't know just what, but maybe the folks there can tell you. It's just
this side of the graveyard." We thanked the old man, and following his
directions, soon stood before an old three-story wooden house, with
square front, big chimneys, and its upper windows considerably shorter
than those below--a type common enough in Salem and other New England
towns. It stood directly on the sidewalk and had a small, inclosed
porch, with oval windows on each side, through which one could look up
or down the street. In all these details it agreed exactly with
Hawthorne's description of the house of Dr. Grimshawe. Adjoining it on
the left was the very graveyard where Nat and little Elsie chased
butterflies and played hide-and-seek among the quaint old tombstones,
which had puffy little cherubs and doleful verses carved upon them. That
corner room, no doubt, that overlooks the graveyard, was old Dr. Grim's
study, so thickly festooned with cobwebs, where the grisly old
monomaniac sat with his long clay pipe and bottle of brandy, with no
better company than an enormous tropical spider, which hung directly
above his head and seemed at times to be the incarnation of the Evil One
himself.

How could Hawthorne, in his later years, conceive such horrible
suggestions in connection with a house which must have been associated
in his mind with the happiest memories of his life? For here lived the
Peabody family, Dr. Nathaniel Peabody and his highly cultivated wife,
their three sons, only one of whom lived to maturity, and their three
remarkable daughters--Elizabeth Palmer, who achieved fame as one of the
foremost kindergartners of America and died at a ripe old age; Mary, who
became the wife of Horace Mann; and the gentle, scholarly, and
high-minded Sophia, who refused to come down to see Hawthorne, on plea
of illness, the first time he called at the house, but fell in love with
him at a subsequent visit. The calls were frequent enough after that,
and before the family left the old house to reside in Boston, the lovers
were engaged to be married.

During the period of the courtship, Hawthorne lived with his mother and
two sisters in a house on Herbert Street not far distant, and the two
families came into close neighborly relations. Of course, we walked over
to Herbert Street to find this house, but what remains of it has been
remodeled into an ordinary tenement house and no longer resembles the
house to which Sophia Peabody once sent a bouquet of tulips for Mr.
Hawthorne, only to have it quietly appropriated by his sister Elizabeth,
who thought her brother incapable of appreciating flowers, though she
kindly permitted him to look at them! In the rear of this building,
fronting on Union Street, is the plain, two-story-and-a-half house, with
a gambrel roof, where Hawthorne was born.

When the Hawthornes returned to Salem, after their residence in the Old
Manse, they occupied the Herbert Street house, with Madam Hawthorne and
her two daughters, Elizabeth and Louisa. This proved inconvenient for so
large a family and they moved into a three-story house on Chestnut
Street, well shaded by some fine old elms. This was only a temporary
arrangement, and soon afterward, the family took a large three-story
house on Mall Street, where the mother and sisters occupied separate
apartments. Hawthorne's study was on the third floor--near enough his
own family for convenience, but sufficiently remote for quiet. It was to
this house that he returned one day in dejected mood and announced that
he had been removed from his position at the Custom House. "Oh! then,
you can write your book!" was the unexpectedly joyous reply of his wife,
who knew that he had a story weighing on his mind. And then she produced
the savings which she had carefully hoarded to meet just such an
emergency. "The Scarlet Letter" was begun on the same day.

It was to this same house that James T. Fields came in the following
winter and found Hawthorne in despondent mood sitting in the upper room
huddled over a small stove. The preceding half-year had been the most
trying period in his life. Discouragement over the loss of his position
and the prospect of meager returns for his literary work was followed by
serious pecuniary embarrassment, for Mrs. Hawthorne's store of gold was,
after all, a tiny one. The illness and death of his mother had left him
in a nervous state from the great strain of emotion, and this was
followed by the sickness of every member of the household, himself
included. The story of how Fields left the house with the manuscript of
"The Scarlet Letter" in his pocket is well known. The immediate success
of the novel proved to be the tonic that restored the author to health
and happiness, and when he left Mall Street in the following spring he
was no longer the "obscurest man of letters in America."

The old Salem Custom House is the best-known building in the town. As we
stood before it and looked upon the great eagle above the portico, with
"a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw"
and a "truculent attitude" that seemed "to threaten mischief to the
inoffensive community," it seemed as though we might fairly expect the
former surveyor, or his ghost, to open the door and walk down the old
granite steps.

[Illustration: THE MALL STREET HOUSE]

I have already mentioned the apparent indifference toward Hawthorne of a
certain old citizen of Salem--a feeling which characterizes a large part
of the population, particularly those whose ancestors have lived longest
in the town. One would naturally expect Salem to be proud of her most
distinguished citizen, to delight in honoring him, and to extend a
cordial welcome to thousands of strangers who come to pay him homage.
Shakespeare is the principal asset of Stratford-on-Avon, Scott of
Melrose, Burns of Ayr, and Wordsworth of the English Lakes. Every
citizen is ready to talk of them. Not so of Hawthorne and Salem. The
town is quite independent, and would hold up its head if there had never
been any Hawthorne. The later generation, it is true, recognize his
greatness, but the prejudice of the older families is sufficient to
check any manifestation of enthusiasm.

This old Custom House upon which we are looking furnishes the
explanation. When Hawthorne took possession as surveyor, he found
offices ornamented with rows of sleepy officials, sitting in
old-fashioned chairs which were tilted on their hind legs against the
walls. These old gentlemen made an irresistible appeal to his sense of
humor, such that he could scarcely have avoided the impulse to write a
description of their whimsicalities. After his "decapitation" he yielded
to the impulse and prepared in the best of good humor the amusing
description of his former associates in the "Introduction" to "The
Scarlet Letter." It brought the wrath of Salem upon his head. These old
fellows did not fancy being caricatured as "wearisome old souls," who
"seemed to have flung away all the golden grain of practical wisdom
which they had enjoyed so many opportunities of harvesting, and most
carefully to have stored their memories with the husks." Especially
enraged were the family of the Old Inspector of whom Hawthorne said
nothing worse than that he remembered all the good dinners he had eaten.
"There were flavors on his palate that had lingered there not less than
sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently as fresh as that of
the mutton chop which he had just devoured for his breakfast," said
Hawthorne with fine humor. "He called one of them a pig," said a
Salemite to me, indignantly.

After all, Salem never really knew Hawthorne. Though the town was his
birthplace, he had little liking for it, and was seldom there. During
the four years of his incumbency of the Custom House, he kept aloof from
the townspeople, most of whom had no knowledge whatever of his literary
efforts. When the fame of "The Scarlet Letter" had made Hawthorne's name
a familiar one throughout America and England, the author was no longer
a resident of Salem, for immediately after the publication of his first
and most famous novel, he was glad to seek relief from the gloomy
memories of Mall Street in the fresh mountain air of the Berkshires.

Hawthorne, though apparently glad to escape, still allowed his thought
to dwell in Salem, for in the same year of the completion of "The
Scarlet Letter" and his removal to Lenox, Massachusetts, he began "The
House of the Seven Gables." The identity of this house has long been a
matter of curiosity. Three old Salem houses, two of which have since
disappeared, have been pointed out as originals, the authenticity of all
of which has been denied by George Parsons Lathrop, Hawthorne's
son-in-law, who maintains that the author's statement, that he built his
house only of "materials long in use for constructing castles in the
air," must be taken literally.

It must not be supposed that an author need ever describe such a
building in detail or provide for its future identification. He may do
as Scott often did, put the details of three or four houses into one
structure, taking his material, not "out of the air," but from
recollections of many places he has seen. It does not detract from the
supposed "original" to find that the author has made material, even
radical, departures from the original plan. The real point of interest
is to know whether the old landmark suggested anything to the author,
and if so, how much.

To those who follow this line of reasoning, an old house at the foot of
Turner Street, now commonly known as "The House of the Seven Gables,"
has many points of interest. It is a weather-stained old building dating
back to 1669, and contains so many gables that you are reasonably
content to accept seven as the number, though I believe it has eight,
not counting the one over the rear porch, recently added.

The identification of this house as the one which, more than any other,
suggested to Hawthorne the idea of a house of seven gables, rests upon
two facts. The first is that in 1782 it came into the possession of
Captain Samuel Ingersoll, whose wife was a niece of Hawthorne's
grandfather. It passed, later, to their only surviving daughter,
Susannah. Her portrait, which now hangs in the parlor of the old house,
shows that, as a young woman, she was not unattractive. An unfortunate
love affair caused her to withdraw from society and to live a life of
solitude in the old house, from which all male visitors were rigidly
excluded. An exception seems to have been made in favor of her cousin
Nathaniel Hawthorne, who, it is said, was a frequent visitor and
listened with interest to the legends of the house as told by his elder
cousin.

[Illustration: THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES]

The second fact of identification rests upon more recent evidence. The
building was purchased in 1908 by a generous resident of Salem and
turned into a settlement house. This lady, who possesses the highest
antiquarian instincts, determined to restore the house to its original
form. In doing so she discovered traces of four gables which had been
removed. These, with three that remained, made the desired seven, but,
unfortunately, about the same time an old plan was unearthed which
proved that the house at one time must have had eight gables! So the
house has been restored to its full quota of eight. When Hawthorne
was calling there it had only three gables, and his elderly kinswoman
must have told traditions of the time when it had seven or eight, as the
case may be. And so the question of gables becomes as bewildering as Tom
Sawyer's aunt's spoons.

Aside from this not very profitable speculation, the house is an
interesting survival of the time when Salem was a seaport town of some
importance. A secret staircase has been reconstructed according to the
recollections of the man who took it down a quarter of a century ago. It
opens by a secret spring in a panel of the wall in the third-story front
room, now known as "Clifford's chamber," and ascends through a false
fireplace in the dining-room. It will be remembered how Clifford
mysteriously disappeared from his room, and as mysteriously reappeared
in the parlor where Judge Pyncheon sat in the easy-chair, dead. Perhaps
he came down this secret stairway, though Hawthorne forgot to mention
it.

A little shop, where real gingerbread "Jim Crows" are sold, makes the
present "House of the Seven Gables" seem real, so that when the bell
tinkles as you open the door, you would not be at all surprised if
Hepzibah Pyncheon herself should appear, entering from the quaint little
New England kitchen on the right. A sunny chamber upstairs now called
"Phoebe's room," and a pleasant little garden in the rear, still
further heighten the illusion and make one feel that if this is not the
real "House of the Seven Gables," it certainly ought to be.

The conditions under which "The House of the Seven Gables" was written
were quite the reverse of those which brought forth "The Scarlet
Letter." Instead of obscurity, ill health, and financial difficulties,
the author was now in the full flush of his fame, reveling in the
friendship of the most distinguished men of letters, enjoying the best
of health himself, and happy in the consciousness that his dear wife was
also well, and living amid the most delightful surroundings, free from
care and taking no anxious thought for the morrow.

The people of Salem are now preparing to make ample amends for any
neglect of Hawthorne in the past. A committee of prominent citizens has
been at work for several years upon a plan to erect a handsome statue
upon the Common, the design for which has been made by a well-known
artist, and a portion of the funds collected. With this monument before
them, we may reasonably hope that future generations will be able to
forgive the frankness which irritated their ancestors, though it was
kindly meant, and eventually open their hearts to adopt Hawthorne as
their very own, just as Stratford does Shakespeare, acknowledging the
full extent of their obligation for the luster which his brilliant
genius has shed upon their town.


III

PORTSMOUTH

If Thomas Bailey Aldrich were living to-day and could enter the front
door of his grandfather's house in Court Street, Portsmouth, New
Hampshire, he would be likely to have a strange feeling of suddenly
renewed youth, for his eyes would rest upon the same rooms and many of
the same furnishings as those which greeted him in 1849, when he
returned to the old house, a lad of twelve, to enter upon those happy
boyish experiences so pleasantly related in "The Story of a Bad Boy."
And then, as he passed from room to room and gazed once more upon the
old familiar sights, he would experience a deeper and richer joy--a
sense of pride, mingled with love and gratitude, for this unique and
splendid tribute to his memory, from his faithful wife and many loyal
friends.

In the summer of 1907, following the death of Mr. Aldrich, which
occurred in the spring of that year, it was suggested in a local
newspaper of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that the old Bailey house, where
"Tom Bailey" lived with his "Grandfather Nutter," should be purchased by
the town and refurnished as a permanent memorial to its distinguished
son. The response was instant and hearty. The Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Memorial Association was at once formed, and a fund of ten thousand
dollars was raised by popular subscriptions, in sums varying from one
dollar to one thousand dollars. The house, which had fallen into alien
hands and had not been kept in good repair, was purchased and restored
to its original condition, and the heirs gladly gave back all that had
been taken away at the death of Grandfather Bailey. On June 30, 1908,
the restored house was formally dedicated by a distinguished
representation of Aldrich's friends, including Richard Watson Gilder,
William Dean Howells, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Thomas Wentworth Higginson,
Thomas Nelson Page, Samuel L. Clemens, and many others whose names are
well known.

[Illustration: THE BAILEY HOUSE]

The "Nutter" house, or the "Aldrich Memorial" as it is officially known,
impresses one with a sense of perfect satisfaction. I have seen
memorials that are barn-like in their emptiness, so difficult has it
been to secure a sufficient number of relics to furnish the rooms;
others impress me like shops for the sale of souvenirs; others have the
cold, touch-me-not aspect of a museum; and some are overloaded with
busts, pictures, and inscriptions intended to convey an impression of
the greatness of the former occupant. The Nutter house, on the contrary,
looks as though Tom and his grandfather had gone off to the village an
hour before, and Aunt Abigail and Kitty Collins, after "tidying" the
rooms to perfection, had slipped away to gossip with the neighbors. The
visitor has a feeling that real people are living there and is surprised
to learn that at a certain hour each day the attendants go away and lock
it up for the night.

Mrs. Aldrich told us that when her husband took her there for the first
time, as his bride, the old house made such a strong impression upon her
mind that when she came to restore the place, many years afterward, she
remembered distinctly where every piece of furniture used to stand. The
perfection of her work is seen in the hundreds of little touches--the
shawl thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, the fan lying on the
sofa, the books on the center table, the music on the old-fashioned
square piano, grandfather's Bible and spectacles on his bedroom table,
the embroidered coverlet in the "blue-chintz room," the netting over
Aunt Abigail's bed, the clothing in the closets, and even the
night-clothes carefully laid out on each corpulent feather bed. I fancy
the most loving touches of all were given to the little hall bedroom
where Tom Bailey slept. There is the little window out of which Tom
swung himself, with the aid of Kitty Collins's clothes-line, at the
awful hour of eleven o'clock, and tumbled into a big rosebush, on the
night before "the Fourth." The "pretty chintz curtain" may not be the
one Tom knew, but it is very like it; and there is a very good
imitation of the original wall-paper, on which Tom counted two hundred
and sixty-eight birds, each individual one of which he admired, although
no such bird ever existed. He knew the exact number because he once
counted them when laid up with a black eye and dreamed that the whole
flock flew out of the window. The little bed has "a patch quilt of more
colors than were in Joseph's coat," and across it lies a clean white
waistcoat waiting for Tom to put it on, as though to-morrow would be
Sunday. Above the head of the bed are the two oak shelves, holding the
very books that Tom loved. In front of the window is the "high-backed
chair studded with brass nails like a coffin," and on the right "a chest
of carved mahogany drawers" and "a looking-glass in a filigreed frame."
A little swallow-tailed coat, once worn by Tom, hangs over the back of a
chair, ready to be worn again. Surely Tom Bailey is expected home
to-night!

Even the garret is ready in case to-morrow should be stormy. "Here meet
together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken-down
chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy hats,
all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that
have retired from business, weary with the march of life." One slight
liberty has been taken, in placing "The Rivermouth Theater" in one
corner of the attic, next to Kitty Collins's room, but this may be
forgiven in view of the fact that the barn, where the "Theater" really
was, has disappeared.

In our anxiety to see Tom's room and the attic, we have rushed upstairs
somewhat too rapidly. Let us now go down and inspect the other rooms
with more leisure.

In the front of the house, on the second floor, and at the left of the
tiny bedroom which Tom occupied, is Grandfather Nutter's room. It was
too near for Tom's convenience, and that is why the young gentleman
lowered himself from the window by a rope--at least, that was the reason
he doubtless argued to himself in favor of the more romantic mode of
exit, although as a matter of fact grandfather was a sound sleeper and
Tom might have walked boldly downstairs without awakening him. Still he
would have had to pass the door of Aunt Abigail's room at the head of
the stairs, and if the old lady had suddenly appeared, Tom could
scarcely have escaped a dose of "hot drops," which his aunt considered a
certain cure for any known ailment, from a black eye to a broken arm.
Aunt Abigail, it will be remembered, was the maiden sister of Captain
Nutter, who "swooped down on him," at the funeral of the captain's wife,
"with a bandbox in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella in the
other." Though apparently intending to stay only a few days, she
decided that her presence was indispensable to the captain, and whether
he wished it or not she kept on staying for seventeen years, and might
have stayed longer had not death released her from the self-imposed
duty.

On the right of Tom's room is "the blue-chintz room, into which a ray of
sun was never allowed to penetrate." But it was "thrown open and dusted,
and its mouldy air made sweet with a bouquet of pot-roses" on the
occasion of Nelly Glentworth's visit, and a very delightful room Nelly
must have found it, if it looked as well then as it does now, under the
skillful direction of Mrs. Aldrich.

Across the hall from Aunt Abigail's room is the guest chamber. An
old-fashioned rocking-chair by the window, with a Bible and candle
conveniently placed on a stand close by, offer the visitor every
opportunity to get himself into a proper frame of mind before taking a
plunge into the depths of the snow-white mountain of feathers,
hospitably piled up to an enormous height for his comfort.

[Illustration: "AUNT ABIGAIL'S" ROOM]

Descending now to the main floor (for we are inspecting this house
exactly contrary to the usual order), we step into the large corner room
at our left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconsolately on the
haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven to distraction by the monotonous
click-click of Aunt Abigail's knitting-needles, but sometimes happily
diverted by the spectacle of grandfather going to sleep over his
newspaper and setting fire to it with the small block-tin lamp which he
held in his hand.

Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom open except on Sundays,
and was "pervaded by a strong smell of center table." Here again we
fancy Tom sitting in one corner, "crushed." All his favorite books are
banished to the sitting-room closet until Monday morning. There is
nothing to do and nothing to read except Baxter's "Saint's Rest."
"Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are
banished." It was no fault of the room, however, that Tom felt doleful,
for there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big brass andirons from
which a wonderful amount of cheer might have been extracted, while a
piano in one corner and some shelves of books in another were capable of
providing boundless entertainment, had the room been accessible on any
other day than Sunday.

Passing down through the hall we enter a door on the left, into the
dining-room. Do you remember how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at
the breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth of July, by reading
from the Rivermouth "Barnacle" an account of the burning of the
stage-coach the night before? "Miscreants unknown," read the
grandfather, while Tom's hair stood on end. "Five dollars reward
offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators. Sho! I hope Wingate
will catch them," continued the old gentleman, while Tom nearly ceased
to breathe. And the sly old fox knew all about it and had already
settled Tom's share of the damages!

We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which we ought to have visited
first, as everybody else does. A more delightful New England kitchen
could scarcely be imagined. This was the only place where Sailor Ben
felt at home--and no wonder, for how could any room have a more inviting
fireplace? Here Tom sought refuge when oppressed by the atmosphere of
the sitting-room and found relief in Kitty Collins's funny Irish
stories. And here Sailor Ben gathered the whole family around the table
while he spun his yarn "all about a man as has made a fool of hisself."

This is the delightful fact about the Nutter house of to-day--every room
brings back memories of Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt Abigail,
Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The furnishings are so perfect that we
should not have been surprised if any one of these old friends had
suddenly confronted us. Our minds were concentrated upon their
personalities and upon "The Story of a Bad Boy." The illusion is so
complete that we scarcely gave a thought to the author of the tale until
we entered the Memorial building at the rear. Suddenly Tom Bailey
vanished and with him all the other ghosts of the old house. We stood in
the presence of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the writer of a
multitude of delightful tales, and the man of genial personality. Here,
in a single large room, are brought together the priceless autographs,
manuscripts, first editions, and pictures which Aldrich had found
pleasure in collecting. Here is the little table on which he wrote "The
Story of a Bad Boy," and there are cases containing countless presents,
trophies, and expressions of regard from his friends. The walls are hung
with manuscripts, framed in connection with portraits of their
distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to have them. At the end of the
room is a handsome oil painting of Aldrich himself. Everything tends to
suggest the exquisite taste of the man, his genial nature, his varied
attainments, and the extent of his wide circle of distinguished friends.
Above all, the room speaks in eloquent terms of the affectionate loyalty
to his memory that has led his family to bring together the material for
a memorial unsurpassed in variety of interest and tasteful arrangement
of details.

Even the garden in the rear of the house is made to sing its song in
memory of Aldrich, for here are growing all the flowers mentioned in his
poetry, blending their perfumes and uniting harmoniously their richness
of color in one graceful tribute to the beauty and delicacy of his
verse.

[Illustration: AN OLD WHARF]

After living over again the scenes of "The Story of a Bad Boy," in so
far as they were suggested by the Nutter house, it was only natural that
we should wish to stroll about the "Old Town by the Sea" in the hope of
identifying some of the out-of-door scenes of "young Bailey's" exploits.
The first house on the right, as we walked toward the river, is the
William Pitt Tavern. In the early days of the Revolution it was an
aristocratic hotel, much frequented by the Tories, and kept by a certain
astute landlord named John Stavers. He had formerly kept a tavern on
State Street, known as the "Earl of Halifax," and when it became
necessary to move to the newer house in Court Street, he carried sign
and all with him. But the patriots, whose resort was the old Bell
Tavern, kept a jealous eye on the Earl of Halifax, and in 1777 attacked
it, seriously damaging the building. Master Stavers, being at heart
neither Tory nor patriot, but primarily an innkeeper, promptly changed
both his politics and his sign. The latter became "William Pitt," in
honor of the colonists' English friend and supporter, and the thrifty
landlord began to entertain the leaders of the Revolution at his house.
John Hancock, Elbridge Gerry, and Edward Rutledge decorated with their
autographs the pages of his register as well as the Declaration of
Independence. General Knox was a frequent visitor and Lafayette came
there in 1882. Moreover, the old tavern has had the honor of
entertaining the last of the French kings, Louis Philippe, who came
there with his two brothers during the French Revolution, and the first
American President, who was a guest in 1789.

All this glory had long since departed in Aldrich's day, and his chief
interest in the old tavern lay in the fact that he could climb up the
dingy stairs to the top floor and listen for hours to the stories of the
olden times, as told by Dame Jocelyn, with whom, as she asserted,
Washington had flirted just a little, though in a "stately and highly
finished manner"!

Continuing down the street, we found the empty old warehouses and
rotting wharves among which Aldrich spent so many hours of his boyhood,
and we took a picture of one old crumbling dock, which we felt sure must
have been very like the one upon which the boys of the Rivermouth
Centipedes fired a broadside from "Bailey's Battery." The old abandoned
guns, twelve in all, were cleaned out, loaded, provided with fuses, and
set off mysteriously at midnight, much to the astonishment of the
Rivermouthians, who thought the town was being bombarded or that the end
of the world had come. The old wharf possessed a singular fascination
for me because I still recall how vividly the incident impressed me in
my boyhood and how fervently I envied Tom Bailey his unusual
opportunities. Nor did it mar my enjoyment in the least to learn that
the wharf I was looking at was not the right place, the real one, where
the guns were stored, having been removed some time ago. It was near the
Point of Graves, the spot where the boys went in bathing and where Binny
Wallace's body was washed ashore after the ill-fated cruise of the
Dolphin. The real Binny, by the way, was not drowned at all. The author,
here, deviated from the facts to make his story more dramatic.

Point of Graves takes its name from the old burying-ground, occupying a
triangular space near the river's edge. It has quaint old tombstones
dating back as far as 1682, with curious epitaphs, skulls, and cherubs
carved upon them. Here is the place where Tom Bailey, disappointed in
love and determined to become "a blighted being," used to lie in the
long grass, speculating on "the advantages and disadvantages of being a
cherub"--the disadvantages being that the cherub, having only a head and
wings, could not sit down when he was tired and could not possess
trousers pockets!

A stroll through this part of the town, which in olden times was the
center of its trade and commerce, is like walking through some of the
old English villages. Every house, nearly, has its history, and I fancy
the streets have not greatly changed their appearance since the days of
Aldrich's boyhood.

On the corner of Fleet and State Streets we came to an old house, which
has an interesting connection with our story. A part of it was occupied
as a candy store for nearly sixty years. On the Fourth of July, after
Tom had treated the boys to root-beer, a single glass of which "insured
an uninterrupted pain for twenty-four hours," they came here for
ice-cream. It is said that one of the ringleaders subsequently
celebrated every third of July, until his death, by eating ice-cream in
the same room. The story was based upon an incident that really happened
in 1847, in which, of course, Aldrich could have had no part, as he was
not then living in Portsmouth. I am inclined to doubt whether the real
event was half so delightful as the tale which Aldrich tells, of the
twelve sixpenny ice-creams, "strawberry and verneller mixed," and how
poor Tom was left to pay for the whole crowd, who slipped out of the
window while he was in another room ordering more cream!

No doubt we might have coupled many other places in Portsmouth with "The
Story of a Bad Boy"--for it is a very real story, though not to be taken
literally in every detail. It is interesting to think of the town, also,
as the scene of "Prudence Palfrey." The old Bell Tavern, where Mr.
Dillingham boarded, ceased to exist as a public house in 1852 and was
destroyed by fire fifteen years later. It is pleasant also to follow
Aldrich in a walk through the streets, with a copy of "An Old Town by
the Sea" for a guide, and note all the fine old houses he so charmingly
describes.

But we must not devote our entire time to Aldrich, for an older poet has
a slight claim to our attention. The opening scene of Longfellow's "Lady
Wentworth," in the "Tales of a Wayside Inn," is laid in State Street.

  "One hundred years ago and something more,
   In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door,"--

is the way the poem opens. Queen Street was the old name for State
Street, and the tavern was the old Earl of Halifax before Master Stavers
carried the sign over to the new house in Court Street. It has long
since disappeared. It was before this house that the barefooted and
ragged little beauty, Martha Hilton, was rebuked by Dame Stavers for
appearing on the street half-dressed and looking so shabby, to which she
quickly replied:--

  "No matter how I look: I yet shall ride
   In my own chariot, ma'am."

The house to which she did drive in her own chariot, many a time in
later days, as the wife of Governor Wentworth, is one of the most
pleasantly situated of all the houses in Portsmouth. It is at Little
Harbor, on one of the many peninsulas that jut out into the Piscataqua,
below the town, and commands a fine view of the beautiful river and its
many islands. The house is a large wooden building containing forty-five
rooms, though originally it had fifty-two. Architecturally it is
unattractive, external beauty of design having been sacrificed to
utility.

  "Within, unwonted splendors met the eye,
   Panels and floors of oak, and tapestry;
   Carved chimney pieces, where on brazen dogs
   Reveled and roared the Christmas fires of logs."

The historic building, with its great Chamber where the Governor and his
Council met for their deliberations, still remains in almost its
original state.

One could spend many days in Portsmouth investigating its connection
with the history of the country, from the early explorations in 1603 of
Martin Pring and the visit in 1614 of Captain John Smith, down through
the settlements of David Thomson and Captain John Mason, the Indian wars
and massacres, the incidents of the Revolution, and the rise and fall of
the town's commerce, and find plenty of old landmarks to give zest to
the pursuit. But our search, at present, is for literary landmarks. We,
therefore, take passage on the little steamer that plies to and from the
Isles of Shoals for a pilgrimage to the Island Garden of Celia Thaxter.


IV

THE ISLES OF SHOALS

It is a pleasant sail down the Piscataqua, past the old "slumberous"
wharves, where "the sunshine seems to lie a foot deep in the planks";
past the long bridges; the numerous clusters of islands; the white sails
of the yacht club, hovering like gulls about the huge battleships,
moored to the docks of the navy yard; the ruins of Fort Constitution,
formerly Fort William and Mary, famed in history, but more interesting
to us as the place where Prudence Palfrey came near surrendering her
heart to the infamous Dillingham; the ancient town of Newcastle with its
old-fashioned dwellings mingling with pretty new summer cottages, the
whole dominated by the white walls of a huge hotel; Kittery Point,
birthplace of Sir William Pepperell, the famous Governor and Indian
fighter: and at last, the broad Atlantic, stretching to the eastward
with nothing to obstruct the view save a few tiny specks, dimly visible
in the distance. These are the Isles of Shoals, looking so small that
they seem to be only rocks jutting a few feet above the sea, upon which
it would be impossible to land.

As we approach Appledore, the islands still seem to be only a cluster of
barren rocks, with a few scattered buildings. The charm which they
undoubtedly exert upon those who come year after year does not
immediately manifest itself to the stranger. He must spend a night
there, breathing the pure sea air, watching in the early evening the
glistening lights on the far-off shore, and finally falling asleep to
dream that he is in mid-ocean, on one of the steadiest of steamers,
enjoying the luxury of absolute rest, for which there is no better
prescription than an ocean voyage. In the morning, he must walk around
the island--it can be done in an hour or two--threading the narrow paths
through the huckleberry bushes and picking his way over the high rocks
that present their front to the full force of the waves, on the side of
Appledore that faces the sea. Here he will see artists spreading their
easels and canvases for a day's work and less busy people settling down
in various shady nooks, to read, to chat, to knit, to dream.

To get the real spirit of the islands it is advisable to find one of
these quiet nooks and read Celia Thaxter's "Among the Isles of Shoals,"
a book of sketches for which the author needlessly apologizes, but of
which Mrs. Annie Fields says, "She portrays, in a prose which for beauty
and wealth of diction has few rivals, the unfolding of sky and sea and
solitude and untrammeled freedom, such as have been almost unknown to
civilized humanity in any age of the world." Celia Thaxter is herself
the Spirit of the Isles of Shoals, and if we are to know and love them,
we must take her as our guide. She will be found an efficient one and
there is no other.

[Illustration: CELIA THAXTER'S COTTAGE]

With this purpose in mind, we began our tour of the islands, book in
hand, stopping first at the cottage of Mrs. Thaxter. One room is
maintained somewhat as she left it, with every square foot of wall space
covered by her pictures. But the flower-garden is sadly neglected. Only
the vines that still clamber over the porch, and a few hollyhocks that
stubbornly refuse to die, remain to suggest the dooryard where the
garden flowers used to "fairly run mad with color." The salt air and
some peculiar richness of the soil seem to impart unusual brilliancy to
the blossoms and strength to the roots of all kinds of flowers, whether
wild or cultivated. Celia Thaxter was one of those people for whom
flowers will grow. They responded with blushing enthusiasm to the
constant manifestations of her love and tender care. Flowers have a
great deal of humanity about them after all. They refuse to display
their real luxuriance for cold, careless, or indifferent people, just as
babies and dogs know how to distinguish between those who love them and
those who love only themselves.

  "More dear to me than words can tell
     Was every cup and spray and leaf;
     Too perfect for a life so brief
   Seemed every star and bud and bell."

Celia Thaxter loved her flowers with a devotion born of the hours of
solitude when they were her sole companions. "The little spot of earth
on which they grow is like a mass of jewels. Who shall describe the
pansies, richly streaked with burning gold; the dark velvet coreopsis
and the nasturtiums; the larkspurs, blue and brilliant as lapis-lazuli;
the 'ardent marigolds' that flame like mimic suns? The sweet peas are of
a deep, bright rose-color, and their odor is like rich wine, too sweet
almost to be borne, except when the pure fragrance of mignonette is
added,--such mignonette as never grows on shore. Why should the poppies
blaze in such imperial scarlet? What quality is hidden in this thin
soil, which so transfigures all the familiar flowers with fresh beauty?"

Unfortunately, the mysterious quality hidden in the soil, assisted by
the warm sunshine and the salt air, with all their powers could not
maintain the island garden after the loving hands of its owner were
withdrawn, and the little inclosure is now a mass of weeds.

Celia Laighton was brought to the Isles of Shoals as a child of five,
and lived with her parents in a little cottage on White Island where her
father was the keeper of the lighthouse. She grew to womanhood in the
companionship of the rocks, the spray of the ocean, the seaweeds, the
shells and the miniature wild life she discovered among them, the tiny
wild flowers which her sharp young eyes could find in the most secret
crannies, and the marigolds, "rich in color as barbaric gold," which she
early learned to cultivate in "a scrap of garden literally not more than
a yard square." She shouted a friendly greeting to the noisy gulls and
kittiwakes that fluttered overhead, chased the sandpipers along the
gravelly beach, made friends and neighbors of the crabs, the sea-spiders
and land-spiders, the sea-urchins, the grasshoppers and crickets, and
set in motion armies of sandhoppers, that jumped away like tiny
kangaroos when she lifted the stranded seaweed. And then the birds came
to see her. The swallows gathered fearlessly upon the window-sills and
built their nests in the eaves, seeming to know that the loving eyes
watching their movements could mean no evil. Now and then a bobolink, an
oriole, or a scarlet tanager would be seen. The song sparrows came in
flocks to be fed every morning. With them, at times, came robins and
blackbirds, and occasionally yellowbirds and kingbirds. Sometimes, in
hazy weather, they would fly against the glass of the lighthouse with
fatal results. "Many a May morning," says Mrs. Thaxter, "have I wandered
about the rock at the foot of the tower mourning over a little apron
brimful of sparrows, swallows, thrushes, robins, fire-winged blackbirds,
many-colored yellowbirds, nuthatches, catbirds, even the purple finch
and scarlet tanager and golden oriole, and many more beside--enough to
break the heart of a small child to think of."

It is no wonder that such a sympathetic soul could even summon the birds
to keep her company--as she frequently did with the loons. "I learned to
imitate their different cries; they are wonderful! At one time the loon
language was so familiar that I could almost always summon a
considerable flock by going down to the water and assuming the
neighborly and conversational tone which they generally use: after
calling a few minutes, first a far-off voice responded, then other
voices answered him, and when this was kept up a while, half a dozen
birds would come sailing in. It was the most delightful little party
imaginable; so comical were they that it was impossible not to laugh
aloud."

To her love of birds and flowers, Mrs. Thaxter added a love of the sea
itself, finding delight equally in the sparkle of the calm waves of
summer or the wild beating of the surf in winter. She developed a
marvelous ear for the music of the sea--something akin to that which
enables John Burroughs to name a bird correctly from its notes, even
when the songster is trying to imitate the call of another bird as the
little impostors sometimes do. She says: "Who shall describe that
wonderful voice of the sea among the rocks, to me the most suggestive of
all the sounds in nature? Each island, every isolated rock, has its own
peculiar note, and ears made delicate by listening, in great and
frequent peril, can distinguish the bearings of each in a dense fog."

Equally well did she know humanity. The daily life of the fishermen, the
kind and quantity of the fish they caught, the adventures they
experienced, the stories they told, the hardships they endured, the
little domestic tragedies that now and then took place in their humble
cottages, the sufferings from illness or accident, were all matters of
everyday knowledge to her and enlisted her profound sympathy.

Everything in nature appealed to her--the sea and sky, the sunrise and
the sunset, the winds and storms, the birds and flowers, the butterflies
and insects, the sea-shells and kelp, the fishes and all the lower forms
of life--all were objects of careful observation in which she took
delight; and to these must be added a deep interest in humanity,
particularly of the kind which she met in fishermen's cottages, where
her good common sense and knowledge of simple remedies enabled her to
render, again and again, a service in time of need when no other
assistance could be obtained.

Such was the unique character whose spirit dominates the islands even
to-day,--a lover of nature worthy to stand with Gilbert White, Thoreau,
or Burroughs, a poet, an artist, a friendly neighbor, and a womanly
woman.

It was a part of our good fortune to have the actual guidance in our
tour of the islands of the only surviving brother of Mrs. Thaxter, Mr.
Oscar Laighton. In his little motor boat he took us to the tiny island
known as Londoners, where for many winters he was the sole inhabitant.
Although advancing years have now made it inexpedient for him to live in
solitude, the little cottage still remains ready for occupancy at any
moment. We stepped inside expecting to see, in so desolate a spot, only
such rude furnishings as might be found in some mountain cabin or
hunter's lodge. To our astonishment we found it a veritable little
bower, a model of neatness and order, and every room, including the
kitchen, filled with well-chosen pictures and books, as though some
dainty fairy, of literary tastes, had planned it for her permanent
abode. Among the highly prized ornaments were many pieces of china,
painted by Mrs. Thaxter. To our minds, the most valuable article in the
house--valuable because of the lesson it teaches--is a typewritten card,
hanging conspicuously over the kitchen stove, with this cordial greeting
to the uninvited guest:--

  "Welcome to any one entering this house in shipwreck or trouble. You
  will find matches in the box on the mantel. The key to the wood-house
  is in this box. Start a fire in the stove and make yourself
  comfortable. There are some cans of food on shelf in the pantry.
  Blankets will be found in the chamber on lower floor. There is a dory
  ready to launch in the boat-house."

Three times have shipwrecked men entered the house and taken advantage
of this kindly welcome.

Our next visit was to White Island, where, after much difficulty in
getting ashore, we climbed to the top of the lighthouse. This is a very
different structure from the old wooden building of Celia Thaxter's
childhood and only a small part of the original dwelling remains. But
the landing is very much as she describes it. "Two long and very solid
timbers about three feet apart are laid from the boat-house to low-water
mark, and between those timbers the boat's bow must be accurately
steered.... Safely lodged in the slip, as it is called, she is drawn up
into the boat-house by a capstan, and fastened securely." Our boat was
not drawn up, and we had to walk up the steep, slippery planks--with
what success I shall not attempt to describe. Here, at night, the little
Celia used to sit, with a lantern at her feet, waiting in the darkness,
without fear, for the arrival of her father's boat, knowing that the
"little star was watched for, and that the safety of the boat depended
in a great measure upon it."

Haley's Island, or "Smutty Nose," as it was long ago dubbed by the
sailors because of its long projecting point of black rocks, lies
between Appledore and Star Island. Of the two houses now remaining, one
is the original cottage of Samuel Haley, an energetic and useful
citizen, who once owned the island. Nearby fourteen rude and neglected
graves tell a pathetic tale. The Spanish ship Sagunto was wrecked on
Smutty Nose, during a severe snowstorm on a January night. The
shipwrecked sailors saw the light in Haley's cottage and crept toward
it, benumbed with cold and overcome with the horror and fatigue of their
experience. Two reached the stone wall in front of the house, but were
too weak to climb over, and their bodies were discovered the next
morning, frozen to the stones. Twelve other bodies were found scattered
about the island. How gladly the old man would have given these poor
sailors the warmth and comfort of his home could he have known the
tragedy that was happening while he slept soundly only a few yards away!

Star Island, once the site of the village of Gosport, was in early days
the most important of the group. Before the Revolution a settlement of
from three to six hundred people carried on the fisheries of the island,
catching yearly three or four thousand quintals of fish. All this
business is now a thing of the past. The great shoals of mackerel and
herring, from which the islands took their name, have
disappeared--driven away or killed by the steam trawlers. The old
families departed long since, and new ones have never come to take their
places, save a few lobster fishermen, who with difficulty eke out a bare
living. A quaint little church of stone is perched upon the highest
rocks of Star Island, but I fear the attendance is small, even in the
summer time.

We found our way back to Appledore, content to spend the remaining days
of our visit on this the largest and most inviting of the group.

  "A common island, you will say;
   But stay a moment; only climb
   Up to the highest rock of the isle,
   Stand there alone for a little while,
   And with gentle approaches it grows sublime,
   Dilating slowly as you win
   A sense from the silence to take it in."

Lowell was right. The greatest charm of the islands is felt when you
stand on "the highest rock of the isle," looking out upon the ever
sparkling sea that stretches

  "Eastward as far as the eye can see--
   Still Eastward, eastward, endlessly";

and feeling the restful quietude of the spot. I fancy Celia Thaxter
stood upon this rock when she sang--

  "O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar
     Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
     The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
   That breaks in tender music on the shore."

[Illustration: APPLEDORE]




VIII

A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS




VIII

A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS


"Oh, everybody here calls him Uncle John," was the quick reply to one of
my queries of the man who drove me to the country house of John
Burroughs, near Roxbury, New York. He had been saying many pleasant
things about the distinguished naturalist, dwelling particularly upon
his kind heart and genial nature. I noticed that he never referred to
him as "Dr." Burroughs, nor "Mr." Burroughs, nor even as "Burroughs,"
but always as "John" or "good old John," or most often, "Uncle John." So
I asked by what name the people called him, and the answer seemed to me
the most sincere compliment that could have been paid.

When a man has received many honorary degrees which the great
universities have felt proud to confer, it is an indication that those
most competent to judge have appreciated his intellectual attainments or
public services, or both. When the people of his native village bestow
upon him the title of "Uncle," it is an indication that the achievement
of fame has not eclipsed the lovable qualities in his character nor
dimmed the affectionate regard of the neighbors who have learned to
know him as a man. There is a certain friendliness implied in the title
of "Uncle," while it also suggests respect. If you live in a small town
you call everybody by his first name. But one of your number becomes
famous. To call him "John" seems too familiar. It implies that you do
not properly appreciate his attainments. To call him "Mister" or
"Doctor" seems to make a stranger of him, and you would not for the
world admit that he is not still your friend. "Uncle" is often a happy
compromise, particularly if he still retains the neighborly qualities of
his less distinguished years.

I do not know that the people of Roxbury ever followed this line of
reasoning, but it does seem quite appropriate that they should call
their most distinguished fellow citizen "Uncle John." He was born on a
farm near this little village in the Catskills on the 3d of April, 1837,
in the very time of the return of the birds. Perhaps this is why he is
so fond of them and particularly of Robin Redbreast, that fine
old-fashioned democrat, who is one of his prime favorites. He spent his
boyhood here, and now, in the fullness of his years, quietly returns
each summer to the old familiar haunts, living the same simple life as
of yore, except that the pen is now his tool instead of the farming
implements.

The little red schoolhouse, where Burroughs and Jay Gould went to school
together, may still be seen in the valley, standing in the open country
with one of those rounded hilltops in the background which form the
characteristic feature of the Catskills. Near by is the Gould
birthplace, now a comfortable-looking farmhouse, glistening with a fresh
coat of white paint. "Take away the porch and the back extension, and
the top story and the paint," said my driver, "and you will have the
original 'birthplace.'" He said that when he first began the livery
business in Roxbury many people came to see the birthplace of Jay Gould,
but no one mentioned Burroughs. Now it is just the other way, and the
number of visitors increases yearly, all anxious to see the home of the
famous philosopher. Yet these two men, one of whom seems to have
belonged to the generations of the past while the other is a part of the
ever-living present, were boys together in the same schoolhouse more
than sixty years ago.

As my conveyance drew up to the door, Mr. Burroughs came out with a
hearty welcome. He was alone, for during the summer, when he retires to
this place for work, he prefers to do his own housekeeping in his own
way. "I am a good cook," said he, "but a poor housekeeper." I did not
agree with the latter part of the statement, for as I looked around I
thought he had about all he needed and everything was clean. Moreover,
things were where he could get at them, and from a man's point of view
what better housekeeping could anybody want?

The house which he now occupies is a plain-looking farmhouse, built in
1869 by Mr. Burroughs's elder brother. Its most distinctive feature is
the rustic porch, a recent addition, which serves the purposes of
living-room, library, and bedroom. Mr. Burroughs is a believer in fresh
air and during the summer likes to sleep out of doors. He has a rustic
table, covered with favorite books. When he is not at work, he likes to
sit on the porch and enjoy what he calls "the peace of the hills."
Across the road there is a field, broad and long and crossed by numerous
stone walls. In the distance are the hills of his well-loved Catskills,
their smoothly undulating lines giving a sense of repose. At the right
of the house I noticed a small patch of green corn, in front of which
were some rambling cucumber vines. In the rear and at the left were a
few old apple trees, and farther back, capping the summit of a ridge, a
fine grove of trees, standing in orderly array, like an army ready for
action. Mr. Burroughs has named the place, in characteristic fashion,
"Woodchuck Lodge," "because," he said, "I can sit here and count the
woodchucks, sometimes eight or ten at a time."

[Illustration: JOHN BURROUGHS AT WOODCHUCK LODGE]

Not wishing to interfere with his plans, I expressed the hope that I was
not interrupting him, when he quickly replied, "O, my work for to-day
is all done. I rise at six and usually do all my writing before noon."
"You are like Sir Walter Scott, then," said I, "who always began early
and, as he said, 'broke the neck of the day's work' before the family
came down to breakfast and was 'his own man before noon.'" "Ah, he was a
wonderful man," replied Mr. Burroughs. Then, after a pause and with a
little sigh--"I wish I could invest these hills with romance as he did
the hills of Scotland." "But you _have_ invested them with romance," I
said, "although of a different kind." "Yes," he replied, with
brightening eyes, "with the romance of humanity and of nature, the only
kind to which they are entitled."

I could not help thinking how wonderfully like Wordsworth this seemed.
The romance of humanity and nature! Is it not this, which, since
Wordsworth's time, has given a new charm to the hills and valleys of
Westmoreland and Cumberland, causing every visitor to seek the
dwelling-places of the poet? And are not those who spend their summers
in the Catskills finding a new delight in those beautiful mountains
because of the spell which John Burroughs has thrown upon them?

Wordsworth wrote the history of his own mind and called it "The
Prelude," intending it to be but the introduction to a greater poem to
be entitled "The Recluse," which should be a broad presentation of his
views on Man, Nature, and Society. "The Excursion" was to be the second
part, but the third was never written. He conceived that this great work
would be like a Gothic church, the main body of which would be
represented by "The Recluse," while "The Prelude" would be but the
ante-chapel. All his other poems, when properly arranged, would then be
"likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses,
ordinarily included in those edifices."

Burroughs is far too modest to compare his writings to a cathedral, but
he has nevertheless, like Wordsworth, written himself into nearly all of
them. Following the English poet's simile in a modified form, we may
think of the product of his pen, not as a cathedral, but as a mansion of
many rooms, each furnished with beautiful simplicity and charming taste
to represent some different phase of the author's mind, and each
equipped, so to speak, with a mirror, possessing all the magic but
without the unpleasant duty of the one in Hawthorne's tale, so arranged
as to reflect the very soul of its builder with perfect fidelity.

So sincere is Burroughs that you feel certain he is constantly revealing
his true self. Therefore, when he praises Wordsworth as the English poet
who has touched him more closely than any other, you begin to realize
the bond of sympathy. When he says that Wordsworth's poetry has the
character of "a message, special and personal to a comparatively small
circle of readers," you know that he is one of the few who have taken
the message to heart.

Wordsworth's love of Nature was of the same kind as the American poet's.
"Nature," says Burroughs, "is not to be praised or patronized. You
cannot go to her and describe her; she must speak through your heart.
The woods and fields must melt into your mind, dissolved by your love
for them. Did they not melt into Wordsworth's mind? They colored all his
thoughts; the solitude of those green, rocky Westmoreland fells broods
over every page. He does not tell us how beautiful he finds Nature, and
how much he enjoys her; he makes us share his enjoyment." Substitute
Burroughs for Wordsworth, and Catskill for Westmoreland, and you have in
this passage a fine statement of the reason why John Burroughs is
winning the gratitude of more and more people every year.

Wordsworth thought of Nature as an all-pervading Presence, something
mysterious and sublime, a supreme Being,--

  "The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
   The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
   Of all my moral being."

Burroughs does not rise to such ethereal heights, but recognizes that
the passion for Nature is "a form of, or closely related to, our
religious instincts." He lives closer to Nature than Wordsworth ever
did. His knowledge of her secrets is far deeper and more intimate. He is
a naturalist and scientist, as well as a man of poetic temperament. He
has a trained eye that sees what others would miss. "There is a great
deal of byplay going on in the life of Nature about us," he says, "a
great deal of variation and outcropping of individual traits, that we
entirely miss unless we have our eyes and ears open."

Probably no other man has a keener ear for the music of the birds. He
possesses that "special gift of grace," to use his own expression, that
enables one to hear the bird-songs. Not only can he distinguish the
various species by their songs, but he instantly recognizes a new note.
He once detected a robin, singing with great spirit and accuracy the
song of the brown thrasher, and on another occasion followed a thrush
for a long time because he recognized three or four notes of a popular
air which the bird had probably learned from some whistling shepherd
boy. He loves to put words into the mouths of the birds to fit their
songs and to fancy conversations between husband and wife upon their
nest. The sensitiveness of his ear for bird-music is wonderfully
illustrated in his story of a new song which he heard on Slide Mountain
in the Catskills. "The moment I heard it, I said, 'There is a new bird,
a new thrush,' for the quality of all the thrush songs is the same. A
moment more and I knew it was Bicknell's thrush. The song is in a minor
key, finer, more attenuated, and more under the breath than that of any
other thrush. It seemed as if the bird was blowing into a delicate,
slender, golden tube, so fine and yet so flute-like and resonant the
song appeared. At times it was like a musical whisper of great sweetness
and power." I do not believe that Wordsworth or any other poet, however
passionate his love of Nature, ever heard such a bird-song or could
describe its qualities with so keen a discernment.

Mr. Burroughs made me think of Wordsworth again when, as we sat looking
over toward the Catskills, he explained his residence at Woodchuck Lodge
by referring to his enjoyment of the open country and the peace and
quiet of the scene. For, says Wordsworth,--

  "What want we? Have we not perpetual streams,
   Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields
   And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds
   And thickets full of songsters, and the voice
   Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound
   Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,
   Admonishing the man who walks below
   Of solitude and silence in the sky?"

After an hour of pleasant conversation my host arose, saying he would
build his fire and we would have our dinner. In due course we sat down
to a repast that would have gladdened the heart of General Grant
himself. The old veteran, as many will remember, after his return from a
tour of triumph around the world, in which he had been banqueted by
kings and emperors, dukes, millionaires, and public societies, once
slipped into a farmer's kitchen for a dinner of corned beef and cabbage,
declaring that he was glad to get something good to eat. Our meal did
not consist of corned beef and cabbage, but of corn cakes, made of fresh
green corn plucked not a couple of yards from the kitchen door and baked
on a griddle by one of the foremost literary men of America. There were
other good things, plenty of them, but those delicious cakes with maple
syrup of the genuine kind exactly "touched the spot," as old-fashioned
folks used to say. Mine host must have noticed the unusual demands upon
his crop of corn and marveled to see the rapid disappearance of the
cakes, but he did not seem displeased. On the contrary, as he brought
in, time after time, a fresh pile of the steaming flapjacks, his face
beamed with the smile that betokens genuine hospitality. Our
conversation at table was mostly on politics, in which Mr. Burroughs
takes keen interest and upon which he is a man of decided convictions;
but this is a subject which he must be allowed to elucidate in his own
way.

[Illustration: JOHN BURROUGHS AT WORK]

After dinner, Mr. Burroughs laughingly remarked that his study was
the barn, and we walked up the road to visit it. "I cannot bear to be
cramped by the four walls of a room," said he, "so I have moved out to
the barn. I enjoy it greatly. The birds and the small animals come to
see me every day and often sit and talk with me. The woodchucks and
chipmunks, the blue jays and the hawks, all look in at me while I am at
work. A red squirrel often squats on the stone wall and scolds me, and
the other day an old gray rabbit came. He sat there twisting his nose
like this" (here Mr. Burroughs twisted his own nose in comical fashion),
"and seemed to be saying saying--

  'By the pricking of my thumbs
   Something wicked this way comes.'"

Arrived at the barn, Mr. Burroughs seated himself at his "desk." With
twinkling eyes he explained that it was an old hen-coop. The inside was
stuffed with hay to keep his feet warm, and if the weather happens to be
chilly, he wears a blanket over his shoulders. A market-basket contains
his manuscript and a few books complete the equipment. The desk is just
inside the wide-open doors of the barn, and he sits with his face to the
light. "There is a broad outlook from a barn door," said he, smilingly.

Beyond the low stone wall, where his animal friends seat themselves for
the daily conversations, is an apple orchard, and in the distance are
the rounded summits of the Catskills--a view as peaceful and refreshing
as the one from the house. Here Mr. Burroughs is never lonely. One day a
junco, or slate-colored snowbird, came on a tour of inspection. She
decided to build her nest in the hay. She scorned all the materials so
close at hand and brought everything from outside. Her instinct had
taught her to find certain materials for a nest, and she could not
suddenly learn to make use of the convenient hay. Mr. Burroughs, in
speaking of this, told me of a phoebe who built her nest over the window
of his house. She brought moss to conceal it, but as the moss did not
match the color of the house, she succeeded only in making her nest more
conspicuous. Since the evolution of the species, phoebes have built
their nests on the sides of cliffs, using moss of the color of the rocks
to conceal them. The little bird who, like the junco, followed her
instincts, failed to note the difference between the house and the
rocks.

In conversation of this kind, Mr. Burroughs turned the hours into
minutes, and I was surprised to look up and see the team approaching
which was to carry me away. After a reluctant farewell, we drove over
the brow of a hill and stopped for a few moments before the farmhouse
which was the birthplace of John Burroughs. A comical incident took
place. It was raining hard when we arrived and we drove into the barn,
directly across the road from the house. An old dog and a young one
were here, keeping themselves dry from the shower. I set up my camera in
the barn, to take a picture of the house. As I did so, I noticed the old
dog walk deliberately out in the rain and perch himself upon the
doorstep, where he turned around once or twice as if trying to strike
the right attitude. This point determined, he stood perfectly still
until I had taken the picture, and when I started to put away the
camera, came trotting back to the barn. I do not know what instinct, if
any, prompted the dog to wish his picture to be taken, but he was no
more foolish than many people,--men, women, and children,--who have
insisted upon getting into my pictures, though they knew there was no
possibility of their ever seeing them.

Mr. Burrough's permanent home is at West Park, on the Hudson River, a
few miles south of Kingston. Here he has a farm mostly devoted to the
cultivation of grapes. He occupies a comfortable stone house, pleasantly
situated and nearly surrounded by trees of various kinds. Back of the
house and near the river is the study or den, a little rustic building
on the slope of the hill, where Mr. Burroughs can write undisturbed by
the business of the farm. The walls are partly lined with bookshelves,
well crowded with favorite volumes. Near by is a small rustic summer
house from which a delightful view of the river may be seen for miles
to the north and to the south. This is why the place is called
"Riverby"--simply "by-the-river." It has been the author's home for many
years.

Even the study, however, did not satisfy Mr. Burroughs's longing for
quiet, and so he built another retreat about a mile and a half west of
the village which he calls "Slabsides." It is reached by walking up a
hill and passing through a bit of hemlock woods which I found quite
charming. Slabsides is a rustic house like many camps in the
Adirondacks. It is roughly built, but sufficiently comfortable, and has
a pleasant little porch, at the entrance to which a climbing vine gives
a picturesque effect which is greatly enhanced by a stone chimney, now
almost completely clothed with foliage. It is in an out-of-the-way
hollow of the woods where nobody would be likely to come except for the
express purpose of visiting Mr. Burroughs. For several summers this was
his favorite retreat. He would walk over from his home at Riverby and
stay perhaps two or three weeks at a time, doing his own cooking and
housekeeping. Of late years, however, Slabsides has been less frequently
used, Woodchuck Lodge having received the preference.

All of these abodes, whether you see them within or without, reveal the
secret of John Burroughs's strength. They coincide with his personal
appearance, his dress, his conversation, his manner. It is the strength
of absolute simplicity. Everything is sincere. Nothing is superfluous.
There is no such thing as "putting on airs." Fame and popularity have
not spoiled him. He is genuine. You feel it when you see his workshops.
You know it when you meet the man.

Mr. Charles Wagner, the apostle of "the simple life," has said, "All the
strength of the world and all true joy, everything that consoles, that
feeds hope, or throws a ray of light along our dark paths, everything
that makes us see across our poor lives a splendid goal and a boundless
future, comes to us from people of simplicity, those who have made
another object of their desires than the passing satisfaction and
vanity, and have understood that the art of living is to know how to
give one's life."

John Burroughs is one of these "people of simplicity," and his
contribution to our happiness lies in his rare power of bringing to his
reader something of his own enjoyment of Nature--an enjoyment which he
has been able to obtain only through the living of a simple life. He is
the complete embodiment of Emerson's "forest seer":--

  "Many haps fall in the field
   Seldom seen by wishful eyes;
   But all her shows did Nature yield,
   To please and win this pilgrim wise.
   He saw the partridge drum in the woods;
   He heard the woodcock's evening hymn;
   He found the tawny thrushes' broods;
   And the shy hawk did wait for him;
   What others did at distance hear,
   And guessed within the thicket's gloom,
   Was shown to this philosopher
   And at his bidding seemed to come."




IX

GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE




IX

GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE


The Yellowstone National Park is Nature's jewel casket, in which she has
kept her choicest gems for countless generations. Securely sheltered by
ranges of rugged mountains they have long been safe from human
depredations. The red man doubtless knew of them, but superstition came
to the aid of Nature and held him awe-struck at a safe distance. The
first white man who came within sight of these wonders a century ago
could find no one to believe his tales, and for a generation or two the
region of hot springs and boiling geysers which he described was
sneeringly termed "Colter's Hell." Only within the last half-century
have the generality of mankind been permitted to view these precious
jewels, and even then jealous Nature, it would seem, did not consent to
reveal her treasures until fully assured that they would have the
protection of no less powerful a guardianship than that of the National
Government.

On the 18th of September, 1870, a party of explorers, headed by General
Henry D. Washburn, then Surveyor-General of Montana, emerged from the
forest into an open plain and suddenly found themselves not one hundred
yards away from a huge column of boiling water, from which great rolling
clouds of snow-white vapor rose high into the air against the blue sky.
It was "Old Faithful" in action. Then and there they resolved that this
whole region of wonders should be made into a public park for the
benefit of all the people, and renouncing any thought of securing the
lands for personal gain, these broad-minded men used their influence to
have the National Congress assume the permanent guardianship of the
place. And now that protection is fully assured these jewels of Nature
may be seen by you and me.

Those who have traveled much will tell you that Nature is prodigal of
her riches, and, indeed, this would seem to be true to one who has spent
a summer among the snow-clad peaks of the Alps, or dreamed away the days
amid the blue lakes of northern Italy, or wandered about in the green
forests of the Adirondacks, where every towering spruce, every fragrant
balsam, every dainty wild flower and every mossy log is a thing of
beauty. But these are Nature's full-dress garments, just as the
broad-spreading wheatfields of the Dakotas are her work-a-day clothes.
Her "jewels" are safely locked up in places more difficult of access,
where they may be seen by only a favored few; and one of these
safe-deposit boxes, so to speak, is the Yellowstone National Park.

[Illustration: HYMEN TERRACE]

The first collection of these natural gems is at Mammoth Hot Springs,
and here my camera, as if by instinct, led me quickly to the daintiest
in form and most delicate in colorings of them all, a beautiful
formation known as Hymen Terrace. A series of steps, covering a circular
area of perhaps one hundred feet in diameter, has been formed by the
overflow of a hot spring. The terraces consist of a series of
semicircular and irregular curves or scallops, like a combination of
hundreds of richly carved pulpits, wrought in a soft, white substance
resembling coral. Little pools of glistening water reflect the sunlight
from the tops of the steps, while a gently flowing stream spreads
imperceptibly over about one half the surface, sprinkling it with
millions of diamonds as the altar of Hymen ought to be. The pools are
greens and blues of many shades, varying with the depth of the water.
The sides of the steps are pure white in the places where the water has
ceased to flow, but beneath the thin stream they range in color from a
rich cream to a deep brown, with all the intermediate shades
harmoniously blended. From the highest pools, and especially from the
largest one at the very summit of the mound, rise filmy veils of steam,
softening the exquisite tints into a rich harmony of color against the
azure of the sky.

The Terrace of Hymen is the most exquisite of the formations, but there
are others much larger and more magnificent. Minerva Terrace gave me a
foreground for a charming picture. Beyond its richly colored steps and
sparkling pools were the splendid summits of the Gallatin Range towering
more than ten thousand feet above the level of the sea and seeming, in
the clear mountain air, to be much nearer than they really are. Hovering
above their peaks were piles upon piles of foamy clouds, through which
could be seen a background of the bluest of skies, while down below were
the gray stone buildings with their bright red roofs that form the
headquarters of the army guarding the park.

Jupiter Terrace, the most imposing of all these formations, extends a
quarter of a mile along the edge of a brilliantly colored mound, rising
about three hundred feet above the plain upon which Fort Yellowstone is
built. Pulpit Terrace, on its eastern slope, reproduces upon a larger
scale the rich carvings and exquisite tints of Hymen, though without the
symmetry of structure. The springs at its summit are among the most
strikingly beautiful of these unique formations which I like to call the
"jewels" of Nature. Two large pools of steaming water lie side by side,
apparently identical in structure, and separated only by a narrow ridge
of lime. The one on the left is a clear turquoise blue, while its
neighbor is distinctly Nile green. Surrounding these springs are several
smaller pools, one a rich orange color, another light brown, and a third
brown of a much darker hue. The edges of all are tinted in yellow,
brown, and gold of varied shades. The pools are apparently all a part of
the same spring or group of springs, and subject to the same conditions
of light; yet I noticed at least five distinct colors in as many pools.
The water itself is colorless and the different hues must be imparted by
the colorings of the lime deposits, influenced by the varying depth and
temperature of the water.

What is known as "the formation" of the Mammoth Hot Springs covers
perhaps fifty or sixty acres on the slope of Terrace Mountain. It is a
heavy deposit of lime or travertine, essentially the same as the
stalagmites and stalactites which one sees in certain caverns. When dry
it is white and soft like chalk. The colorings of the terraces are of
vegetable origin, caused by a thin, velvety growth, botanically classed
as algæ, which flourishes only in warm water. The heat of rocks far
beneath the surface warms the water of the springs, which, passing
through a bed of limestone, brings to the surface a deposit of pure
calcium carbonate. Wherever the flow of water remains warm the algæ
appear and tint the growing formation with as many shades of brown as
there are varying temperatures of the water. When the water is diverted,
as is likely to happen from one season to the next, the algæ die and the
surfaces become a chalky white.

Leaving the Hot Springs, the road passes through the Golden Gate, where,
on one side, a perpendicular wall of rock rises to a height of two
hundred feet or more, and on the other are the wooded slopes and rocky
summit of Bunsen Peak--a beautiful cañon, where the view suggests the
greater glories of Swiss mountain scenery, but for that very reason is
not to be mentioned here among the rare gems of the park. Nor shall I
include the "Hoodoos," which, though distinctly unusual, are far from
beautiful. An area of many acres is covered with huge fragments of
massive rocks, piled in disorderly confusion, as though some Cyclops, in
a fit of ugly temper, had torn away the whole side of a mountain and
scattered the pieces. Through these rocks project the whitened trunks of
thousands of dead trees,--a sort of ghostly nightmare through which we
were glad to pass as quickly as possible.

[Illustration: PULPIT TERRACE]

We stopped for lunch at the Norris Geyser Basin, and here saw some
miniature geysers, as a kind of preparation for the greater ones beyond.
The "Constant," true to its name, throws up a pretty little white
fountain so often that it seems to prepare for a new eruption almost
before the previous one has subsided. The "Minute Man" is always on duty
and pops up his little spray of hot water, fifteen feet high, every
minute or two. The "Monarch," near by, is much larger, but not at all
pretty. It throws up a stream of black, muddy water seventy-five to one
hundred feet high about every forty minutes.

Some of these geysers are steady old fellows who have found their
appointed task in life and have settled down to perform it with
commendable regularity. The Norris Basin, however, seems to be the
favorite playground of the youngsters,--a frisky lot of geysers of no
fixed habits and a playful disposition to burst out in unexpected
places. Such is the New Crater, which asserted itself with a great
commotion in 1891, bursting forth with the violence of an earthquake.
Another erratic young fellow is the "Fountain Geyser," in the Lower
Basin. In July, 1899, he was seized with a fit of the "sulks" and for
three months refused to play at all. In October he decided to resume
operations and behaved quite well for ten years, when he suddenly took a
notion to abandon his crater for the apartments of his neighbor next
door. Apparently the furnishings of his new abode did not suit him, for
he began at once to throw them out with great violence, hurling huge
masses of rock with volcanic force to a height of two hundred feet. Amid
terrific rumblings and the hissing of escaping steam, this angry
outburst continued for several days, and did not wholly cease for nearly
two months. Since then the "Fountain" has settled down to the ordinary
daily occupation of a self-respecting geyser. When I saw him he was as
calm and serene as a summer's day, and to all appearances had never been
guilty of mischief, nor even exhibited a ruffled temper in all his life.
Indeed, had I not known his history (inconceivable in one of the gentler
sex), I should have personified this geyser in the feminine gender,
because of his exquisite beauty. A great jewel seemed to be set into the
surface of the earth. Its smooth upper face, about thirty feet in
diameter, was level with the ground upon which we stood. Its color, at
first glance, seemed to be a rich turquoise blue, but as we looked into
the clear, transparent depths there seemed to be a hundred other shades
of blue, all blending harmoniously. In the farthest corner, beneath a
shelf or mound of geyserite, appeared the opening of a fathomless cave.
All around its edges, and continuing in wavy lines of delicate tracery
around the bottom of the bowl, were marvelous patterns of exquisite
lacework, every angle seeming to catch and throw back its own particular
ray of bluish light. There was not a ripple to disturb the surface, not
a bubble to foretell the violent eruption which a few hours would bring
forth, and only a thin film of vapor to suggest faintly the
extraordinary character of this beautiful pool.

Only a few hundred feet away is another curious phenomenon in this
region of surprises. It is a cauldron of boiling mud, measuring forty
or fifty feet in diameter, known as the "Mammoth Paint Pots," where a
mass of clay is kept in a state of continuous commotion. Millions of
bubbles rise to the surface and explode, sputtering like a thick mess of
porridge kept at the boiling point. The color is a creamy white where
the ebullition is greatest, but thick masses thrown up around the edges
and allowed to cool have assumed a delicate shade of pink. A smaller but
more beautiful formation of the same kind is seen near the Thumb Station
on the Yellowstone Lake.

As we proceeded, Nature's jewels seemed to increase in number and
magnificence. Turquoise Spring, a sheet of water one hundred feet wide,
has all the beauty of the Fountain Geyser in the latter's quiet state,
with an added reputation for tranquillity, for it is not a geyser at
all. Near by is Prismatic Lake, about four hundred feet long and two
hundred and fifty feet wide. Its center is a very deep blue, changing to
green of varying shades, and finally, in the shallowest parts, to
yellow, orange, and brown. It is a great spring from the center of which
the water flows in delicate, wavy ringlets. The mineral deposits have
formed countless scallops, like miniature terraces, a few inches high,
sculpturing a wonderful pattern in hues of reds, purples, and browns,
delicately imposed upon a background of gray. A thin veil of rising
steam was carried away by the wind just enough to reveal the wonderful
colorings to our eyes, while the sun added to the bewildering beauty of
the spectacle by changing the vapor into a million prisms reflecting all
the colors of the rainbow.

In this connection I must not fail to mention the Morning-Glory Spring,
where the action of a geyser has carved out a deep bowl, twenty feet in
diameter. It would seem as though Nature had sunk a gigantic
morning-glory into the earth, leaving its rim flush with the surface and
yet retaining, clearly visible beneath the smooth surface of the
transparent water, all the delicate shades of the original flower.

The Sapphire Spring, not far away, is another of the little gems of the
region. It is a small, pulsating spring, and the jewel itself is not
less remarkable than its extraordinary setting, resembling coral. The
constant flow of the waters from a center to all directions has caused
the formation of a series of irregular concentric circles, broken into
little knobs or mounds, from which the vicinity takes its name of the
"Biscuit Basin."

As we approached the Upper Geyser Region, the number and variety of
these highly colored pools, hot springs, geysers, and strange formations
increased steadily, until at last we stood in the presence of "Old
Faithful," the crown jewel of the collection, the Koh-i-noor of Nature's
casket.

A strong breeze from the north was blowing as I stood before the geyser
for the first time, and for that reason, I decided to place my camera
directly to the west. A small cloud of steam was rising, which seemed
gradually to increase in volume. Then, as I watched, a small spray of
water would shoot up occasionally above the rim of the crater. Then a
puff of steam and another spray, breaking into globules as the wind
carried it away. Then silence. Suddenly a large, full stream shot up a
distance of twenty or thirty feet and fell back again, and the crater
remained quiet for at least five minutes. Is that all? I thought. Does
its boasted regularity only mean that while it plays once in sixty-five
minutes, yet the height of some of the eruptions may be only trifling? I
began to feel doubtful, not to say disappointed. The column of steam
seemed smaller, and I wondered if I should have to wait another hour for
a real eruption, when suddenly the lazily drifting cloud became a giant,
like the genie in the Arabian Nights. Up into the air shot a huge column
of water, followed instantly by another still higher, then another,
until in a moment or two there towered above the earth a gigantic column
of boiling water one hundred and fifty feet high. Straight as a
flagstaff it seemed on the left, while to the right rolled the waving
folds of a huge white banner, obscuring the blue of the sky in one great
mass of snowy vapor. For several minutes the puffs of steam rolled up,
and the fountain continued to play. Then, little by little, its form
grew less, its force weakened, and at last there was only the little
lazy pillar of vapor outlined against the distant hills.

Again and again during the day I watched it with an ever-increasing
sense of fascination, which reached its climax in the evening, when the
eruption was lighted by the powerful search-light on the hotel. As the
great clouds of steam rolled up, the strong light seemed to impart a
vast variety of colors, ranging from rich cream to yellow, orange,
brown, and purple, blended harmoniously but ever changing like the rich
silk robes of some Oriental potentate,--a spectacle of bewildering
beauty, defying the power of pen to describe or brush to paint.

[Illustration: OLD FAITHFUL]

There are other geysers greater than "Old Faithful." "The Giant" plays
to a height of two hundred and fifty feet, and the "Grand" and "Beehive"
nearly as high; the "Grotto" has a more fantastic crater; the "Castle"
has the largest cone, and with its beautifully colored "Castle Well" is
more unique; and the "Riverside," which plays a stream diagonally across
the Firehole River, makes a more striking scenic display. But all of
these play at irregular intervals and with far less frequency, varying
from a few hours to ten or twelve days between eruptions. On the other
hand, the regularity with which "Old Faithful" sends his straight,
magnificent column to the skies is fascinating beyond description. Every
sixty-five or seventy minutes, never varying more than five minutes, day
and night, in all seasons and every kind of weather, "Old Faithful" has
steadily performed his task since first discovered in 1870 until the
present time, and no man can tell for how many centuries before.

  "O! Fountain of the Wilderness! Eternal Mystery!
   Whence came thy wondrous power?
   For ages,--long before the eye of Man
   Found access to thy charm, thou'st played
   Thy stream of marvelous beauty.
   In midnight dark no less than glorious day,
   In wintry storms as well as summer's calm,
   Oblivious to the praise of men,
   Each hour to Heaven thou hast raised
   Thine offering pure, of dazzling white.
   Thy Maker's eye alone has seen
   The tribute of thy faithfulness,
   And thou hast been content to play thy part
   In Nature's solitude."

Not alone as the guardian of Nature's jewels is the Yellowstone National
Park remarkable. Even if the wonderful geysers, hot springs, and
many-colored pools were taken away,--locked up in a strong box and
hidden from sight as jewels often are,--the more familiar phases of
natural scenery, such as mountains, rivers, lakes, and waterfalls would
make it one of the wonder-places of America. On the eastern boundary is
the great Absaroka Range, with peaks rising over 10,000 feet. In the
northwest corner is the Gallatin Range, dominated by the Electric Peak,
11,155 feet high, covered with snow, and so charged with electricity as
to make the surveyor's transit almost useless. The Yellowstone and
Gardiner Rivers, which join at the northern boundary, are separated
within the park by a range of mountains of which the highest is Mount
Washburne (10,350 feet), named for the leader of the expedition of 1870.
Farther south, and midway between the Upper Geyser Basin and the
Yellowstone Lake, is the Continental Divide. The road passes between two
small lakes, one of which discharges its waters into the Atlantic Ocean
by way of the Yellowstone, the Missouri, and the Gulf of Mexico, while
the other flows into the Pacific through Snake River and the Columbia.
From a point a few miles to the east Lake Shoshone may be seen far
below, and seeming to tower directly above it, but really fifty miles
away, just beyond the southern boundary of the park, are the three
sentinels of the Teton Range, the highest 13,741 feet above the sea. The
entire park is in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, its lowest level
being over 6000 feet elevation.

[Illustration: THE GROTTO GEYSER]

The park is full of lakes and streams varying in size from the hundreds
of little pools and brooks, hidden away among the rocks, to the great
Yellowstone Lake, twenty miles in width, and the picturesque river of
the same name. Here and there are beautiful cascades which one would go
miles to see anywhere else, but the surfeited travelers give them only a
careless glance as the stages pass without stopping. The Kepler Cascades
tumble over the rocks in a series of falls of more than a hundred feet,
making a charming veil of white lace, against a dark background of rocks
and pines. The Gibbon Falls, eighty feet high, are nearly as attractive,
while the little Rustic Falls, of sixty feet, in Golden Gate Cañon, are
really quite delightful. These, and many others, are passed in
comparative indifference, for the traveler has already seen many
wonderful sights and knows that greater ones are yet in store. His
anticipations are realized with good measure running over, when at last
he catches his first glimpse of the great Cañon of the Yellowstone.

With us this glimpse came at the Upper Falls, where the Yellowstone
River suddenly drops one hundred and twelve feet, suggesting the
American Fall at Niagara, though the volume of water is not so great. It
is more beautiful, however, because of the wildness of the scenery.
Lower down, the river takes another drop, falling to the very bottom of
the cañon. Here the cataract is more than twice the height of Niagara,
and though lacking the width of the stream that makes the latter so
impressive, is in every respect far more beautiful.

One must stand near the edge of the rocks at Inspiration Point to grasp
the full majesty of the scene. We are now three miles below the Great
Falls. The Upper Fall, which at close range is a great, beautiful white
sheet of water, rolling with imperial force over a rocky precipice,
seems only a trifling detail in the vast picture--a mere touch of
dazzling white where all else is in color. At the bottom is the blue of
the river, broken here and there into foamy white waves. Pines and
mosses contribute touches of green. The rocky cliffs are yellow and
gold, deepening into orange. In the distance a great rock of crimson
stands like a fortress, with arched doorway, through which is seen a
vista of green fields. But this is an optical illusion, as a strong
glass will reveal. The doorway is only a pointed fir, which the distance
has softened into the shadow of a pointed arch. Mediæval castles rear
their buttressed fronts on inaccessible slopes. Cathedral spires, as
majestic as those of Cologne, and numerous as the minarets of Milan,
stand out in bold relief. Away down below is an eagle's nest, into which
we can look and see the birds, yet it is perched upon a pinnacle so high
that if one were to stand at the level of the river and look up, it
would tower above him higher than the tallest building in the world.

[Illustration: THE CAÑON OF THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER]

Not a sign of the handiwork of man appears in any direction. The
gorgeous spectacle, reveling in all the hues of the rainbow, is just as
Nature made it--let the geologist say, if he can, how many thousands of
years ago. And above all this splendid panorama, unequaled save by the
glory of the sunset sky, is that same rich blue which Nature employs to
add the final touch of loveliness to all her greatest works, and yet
reserves enough to beautify the more familiar scenes at home.




X

THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA




X

THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA


I arrived at the cañon on a cold night in January, 1903, alone. There
were few guests at the hotel, which was a capacious log cabin, with
long, single-storied frame structures projecting in various directions,
to serve the purposes of sleeping-rooms and kitchens. It had a primitive
look, far more in keeping with the solitude of its surroundings than the
present comfortable hotel. An old guide (I hoped he might be John Hance)
sat by the fire talking with a group of loungers, and I sauntered near
enough to hear the conversation, expecting to listen to some good tale
of the cañon. But the talk was commonplace. Presently an Indian came in
accompanied by a young squaw. He was said to be a hundred years old--a
fact no doubt easily proved by the layers of dirt on his face and hands,
if one could count them like the rings on a tree. He proved to be only a
lazy old beggar and quite unromantic. The hotel management did not
provide Indian dances and other forms of amusement then as now and I was
obliged to spend a dull evening. I read the guidebooks and reached the
conclusion that the cañon was not worth visiting if one did not go
"down the trail" to the bottom of it. So I inquired at the desk when the
party would start in the morning, and was dismayed to be told that there
would be none unless somebody wanted to go. I was told to put my name on
the "list" and no doubt others would see it and we might "get up" a
party. I therefore boldly signed my name at the top of a white sheet of
paper, feeling much like a decoy, and awaited results. Again and again
during the lonesome evening I sauntered over to the desk, but not one of
the few guests had shown the slightest interest. At ten o'clock my
autograph still headed an invisible list, as lonely as the man for whom
it stood, and I went to bed, vowing to myself that if I could get only
one companion, besides the guide, I would go down the trail.

It was still dark when I heard the strident voice of a Japanese porter
calling through the corridor, "Brek-foos! Brek-foos"! and I rose
quickly. The dawn was just breaking as I stepped out into the chill air
and walked to the edge of the great chasm. Before me rolled a sea of
vapor. It was as though a massive curtain of clouds had been let down
from the sky to protect the cañon in the night. The spectacle was not to
be exhibited until the proper hour arrived. The great white ocean
stretched away to the north as far as the eye could reach, filling every
nook and corner of the vast depression. In the east the rosy tints of
the morning brightened the sky. Suddenly a ray of light illumined what
appeared to be a rock, far out in the filmy ocean, and the black mass
blazed with the ruddy hue. The tip of another great butte suddenly
projected itself and caught another ray of light. One by one the rugged
domes of the great rock temples of Brahma and Buddha and Zoroaster and
Isis, as they are called, peeped into view as the mists gradually
disappeared, catching the morning sunbeams at a thousand different
angles, and throwing back a kaleidoscope of purples, blues, reds, and
yellows, until at last the whole superb cañon was revealed in a burst of
color, over which the amethyst reigned supreme.

How long I should have stood enraptured before this scene of superlative
grandeur, so marvelously unfolded to the sight, I do not know, had not
the more prosaic call of "Brek-foos!" long since forgotten, again
resounded to bring me back to human levels. I returned to the hotel and
entered the breakfast-room, with an appetite well sharpened by the crisp
wintry air, first taking a furtive glance at the "list," where my name
still presided in solitary dignity. It was still early and I was seated
at the head of a long table, where there were as yet only two or three
other guests. I felt sure that the day would be a busy one, particularly
if I should find that one companion with whom I was determined to
attempt the trail. It would be well to lay in a good supply of fuel, and
accordingly I asked the waiter to get me a good beefsteak and a cup of
coffee. He suggested griddle cakes in addition, as appropriate for a
cold morning, and I assented. Then suddenly remembering that country
hotels have a way of serving microscopic portions in what a
distinguished author has described as "bird bathtubs," I called over my
shoulder to bring me some ham and eggs also. "George" disappeared with a
grin. When he returned, holding aloft a huge and well-loaded tray, that
darky's face was a vision of delight. His eyes sparkled and his thick
lips had expanded into an upturned crescent, wherein two rows of
gleaming ivory stood in military array, every one determined to be seen.
He laid before me a porter-house steak, large enough for my entire
family, an immense elliptical piece of ham sliced from rim to rim off
the thigh of a huge porker, three fried eggs, a small mountain of
buckwheat cakes, and a pot of coffee, remarking, as he made room for the
generous repast, "Ah reckon you-all's powerful hungry dis mawnin',
boss!"

By this time the table was well filled. There is no formality at such
places and we were soon chatting together like old acquaintances. I
resolved to open up the subject of the trail and asked my neighbor at
the right whether he intended to make the trip. He said "No," rather
indifferently, I thought, and I expressed my surprise. I had read the
guidebooks to good purpose and was soon expatiating on the wonders of
the trail, declaring that I could not understand why people should come
from all parts of the world to see the cañon and miss the finest sight
of all, the view from below. (Somebody said that in the guidebook.) They
were all listening now. Some one asked if it was not dangerous. "Not in
the least," I replied; "no lives have ever been lost and there has never
been an accident" (the guidebook said that, too)--"and, besides," I
continued, knowingly, "it's lots of fun." Just here a maiden lady of
uncertain age, cadaverous cheeks, and a high, squeaky voice, piped
out,--"I believe I'll go." I remembered my vow about the one companion
and suddenly felt a strange, sickly feeling of irresolution. But it was
only for a moment. A little girl of twelve was tugging at her father's
coat-tails--"Papa, can't I go?" Papa conferred with Mamma, who agreed
that Bessie might go if Papa went too. I was making progress. A
masculine voice from the other end of the table then broke in with a few
more questions, and its owner, a man from Minnesota, whom we afterward
called the "Major," was the next recruit. I had suddenly gained an
unwonted influence. The guests were evidently inspired with a feeling of
respect for a man who would order such a regal breakfast! After the
meal was over, a lady approached and prefacing her request with the
flattering remark that I "looked respectable," said that her daughter, a
young lady of twenty, was anxious to go down the trail; she would
consent if I would agree to see that no harm befell her. I thought I
might as well be a chaperon as a cicerone, since I had had no experience
as either, and promptly assured the mother of my willingness to accept
the charge. It was a vain promise. The young lady was the first to mount
her mule and fell into line behind the guide; before I could secure my
animal others had taken their places and I found myself three mules
astern, with no possibility of passing to the front or of exchanging a
word with my "charge." I fancied a slight gleam of mischievous triumph
in her eyes as she looked back, seeming to say, "I can take care of
myself, quite well, thank you, Mr. Chaperon!" After a slight delay, I
secured my mule and taking the bridle firmly in hand said, "Get up,
Sam." The animal deliberately turned his head and looked back at me with
a sardonic smile in his mulish eye that said clearly--"You imagine that
_you_ are guiding me, don't you? Just wait and see!"

[Illustration: THE TRAIL, GRAND CAÑON]

There were seven of us, including the guide, as we started down the long
and crooked path. The guide rode a white horse, but the rest of the
party were mounted, like myself, on big, sturdy mules--none of your
little, lazy burros, as most people imagine. At first the trail seemed
to descend at a frightful angle, and the path seemed--oh, so narrow! I
could put out my left hand against a perpendicular wall of rock and look
down on the right into what seemed to be the bottomless pit. I noticed
that the trail was covered with snow and ice. Suppose any of the mules
should slip? Had we not embarked upon a foolhardy undertaking? And if
there should be an accident, all the blame would justly fall upon my
head. How silly of me to be so anxious to go! And how reckless to urge
all these other poor innocents into such a trap!

Fortunately such notions lasted only a few minutes. The mules were
sharp-shod and did not slip. They went down every day, nearly, and knew
their business. They were born in the cañon. They would have been
terribly frightened in Broadway, but here they were at home and followed
the familiar path with a firm tread. I threw the bridle over the pommel
of the saddle and gave Sam my implicit trust. He knew a great deal more
about the job than I did. From that moment I had no further thought of
danger.

I came to have a high respect for that mule. Most people respect a mule
only because of the possibility that his hind legs may suddenly fly out
at a tangent and hit something. I respected Sam because I knew his legs
would do nothing of the kind. He needed all of them under him and he
knew it. He never swerved a hair's breadth nearer the outer edge of the
path than was absolutely necessary. The trail descends in a series of
zigzag lines and sharp angles like the teeth of a saw. Sam would march
straight down to one of these angles; then, with the precipice yawning
thousands of feet below, he would slowly squirm around until his head
was pointed down the next segment and then with great deliberation
resume his journey. The guide thought him too deliberate and once came
back to give me a small willow switch. I was riding on a narrow shelf of
rock, less than a yard wide, where I could look down into a chasm
thousands of feet deep. "That mule is too slow," he said; "you must whip
him up." I took the switch and thanked him. But I wouldn't have used it
then for a million dollars!

It was a glorious ride. The trail itself was the only sign of human
handiwork. Everything else in sight was as Nature made it--a wild,
untouched ruggedness near at hand and a softer, gentler aspect in the
distance, where the exposed strata of all the geologic ages caught the
sunshine at millions of angles, each reflecting its own particular hue
and all blending together in a rich harmony of color; where the bright
blue sky and the fleecy clouds came down to join their earthly brethren
in a revelry of rainbow tints, and the sun overhead, despite the snow
about the rim, was smiling his happiest summer benison upon the deep
valley.

We came, presently, to a place called Jacob's Ladder, where the path
ceased to be an inclined plane and became a series of huge steps, each
about as high as an ordinary table. Here we all dismounted, for the
mules could not safely descend with such burdens. It was comical to
watch them. My Sam would stand on each step for several minutes, gazing
about as though enjoying the scenery. Then, as if struck by a sudden
notion, he would drop his fore legs to the next step, and with hind legs
still at the higher elevation, pause in further contemplation. At length
it would occur to this deliberate animal that his hind legs, after all,
really belonged on the same level with the other two, and he would
suddenly drop them down and again become rapt in thought. This
performance was repeated on every step for the entire descent of more
than one hundred feet.

After traveling about three hours, during which we had descended three
thousand feet below the rim, we came to Indian Garden, where an Indian
family once found a fertile spot on which they could practice farming in
their own crude way. Here we came to some tents belonging to a
camping-party, and I found the solution of a problem that had puzzled me
earlier in the day. Standing on the rim and looking across the cañon I
had seen what appeared to be a newspaper lying on the grass. I knew it
must be three or four miles from where I stood, and that a newspaper
would be invisible at that distance, yet I could not imagine how any
natural object could appear white and rectangular so far away. Presently
I saw some tiny objects moving slowly like a string of black ants, and
realized that these must be some early trail party. We met them at
Indian Garden. They proved to be prospectors and the "newspaper" was in
reality the group of tents.

We had now left the steep zigzag path, and riding straight forward over
a great plateau, we came to the brink of some granite cliffs, where we
could at last see the Colorado River, thundering through the gorge
thirteen hundred feet below. And what a river it is! From the rim we
could only catch an occasional glimpse, looking like a narrow silver
ribbon, threading in and out among a multitude of strangely fashioned
domes and turrets. Here we saw something of its true character, though
still too far away to feel its real power--a boiling, turbulent, angry,
and useless stream dashing wildly through a barren valley of rock and
sand, its waters capable of generating millions of horse-power, but too
inaccessible to be harnessed, and its surface violently resisting the
slightest attempt at navigation; a veritable anarchist of a river! For
more than a thousand miles it rushes through a deep cañon toward the
sea, falling forty-two hundred feet between its source and mouth and for
five hundred miles of its course tumbling in a series of five hundred
and twenty cataracts and rapids--an average of slightly more than one to
every mile.

Think of the courage of brave Major Powell and his men, who descended
this terrible river for the first time, and you have a subject for
contemplation as sublime as the cañon itself. In the spring of 1869,
when John W. Powell started on his famous expedition, the Grand Cañon
was totally unknown. Hunters and prospectors had seen enough to bring
back wonderful stories. Parties had ventured into the gorge in boats and
had never been heard of again. The Indians warned him that the cañon was
sacred to the gods, who would consider any attempt to enter it an act of
disobedience to their wishes and contempt for their authority, and
vengeance would surely follow. The incessant roar of the waters told of
many cataracts and it was currently reported that the river was lost
underground for several hundred miles. Undaunted by these fearful tales,
Major Powell, who had seen service in the Civil War, leaving an arm on
the battlefield of Shiloh, determined, nevertheless, to descend the
river. He had long been a student of botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy
and had devoted two years to a study of the geology of the region.

With nine other men as his companions, he started from Green River City,
Wyoming, on the 24th of May, with one light boat of pine and three heavy
ones built of oak. Nothing could be more modest than his report to the
Government, yet it is an account of thrilling adventures and
hair-breadth escapes, day by day, almost too marvelous for belief. Yet
there is not the slightest doubt of its authenticity in every detail. At
times the swift current carried them along with the speed of an express
train, the waves breaking and rolling over the boats, which, but for the
water-tight compartments, must have been swamped at the outset.

When a threatening roar gave warning of another cataract they would pull
for the shore and prepare to make a portage. The boats were unloaded and
the stores of provisions, instruments, etc., carried down to some
convenient point below the falls. Then the boats were let down, one by
one. The bow line would be taken below and made fast. Then with five or
six men holding back on the stern line with all their strength, the boat
would be allowed to go down as far as they could hold it, when the line
would be cast off, the boat would leap over the falls, and be caught by
the lower rope. Again and again, day after day throughout the entire
summer, this hard work was continued. In the early evenings and
mornings Major Powell, with a companion or two, would climb to the top
of the high cliffs, towering to a height of perhaps two thousand or
three thousand feet above the river, to make his observations,
frequently getting into dangerous positions where a man with two arms
would have difficulty in clinging to the rocks, and where any one but a
man of iron nerve would have met instant death.

Day by day they faced what seemed certain destruction, dashing through
rapids, spinning about in whirlpools, capsizing in the breakers, and
clinging to the upturned boats until rescued or thrown up on some rocky
islet, breaking their oars, losing or spoiling their rations until they
were nearly gone, and toiling incessantly every waking hour. One of the
boats was completely wrecked before they had crossed the Arizona line,
and one man, who barely escaped death in this accident, left the party
on July 5, declaring that he had seen danger enough. The remaining
eight, whether from loyalty to their chief or because it seemed
impossible to climb to the top of the chasm, continued to brave the
perils of the river until August 27, when they had reached a point well
below the mouth of the Bright Angel River. Here the danger seemed more
appalling than at any previous time. Lateral streams had washed great
boulders into the river, forming a dam over which the water fell
eighteen or twenty feet; then appeared a rapid for two or three hundred
yards on one side, the walls of the cañon projecting sharply into the
river on the other; then a second fall so great that its height could
not be determined, and beyond this more rapids, filled with huge rocks
for one or two hundred yards, and at the bottom a great rock jutting
halfway across the river, having a sloping side up which the tumbling
waters dashed in huge breakers. After spending the afternoon clambering
among the rocks to survey the river and coolly calculating his chances,
the dauntless Powell announced his intention to proceed. But there were
three men whose courage was not equal to this latest demand, and they
firmly declined the risk.

On the morning of the 28th, after a breakfast that seemed like a
funeral, the three deserters--one can scarcely find the heart to blame
them--climbed a crag to see their former comrades depart. One boat is
left behind. The other two push out into the stream and in less than a
minute have safely run the dangerous rapids, which seemed bad enough
from above, but were in reality less difficult than many others
previously experienced. A succession of rapids and falls are safely run,
but after dinner they find themselves in another bad place. The river is
tumbling down over the rocks in whirlpools and great waves and the
angry waters are lashed into white foam. There is no possibility of a
portage and both boats must go over the falls. Away they go, dashing and
plunging, striking the rocks and rolling over and over until they reach
the calmer waters below, when as if by miracle it is found that every
man in the party is uninjured and both the boats are safe. By noon of
the next day they have emerged from the Grand Cañon into a valley where
low mountains can be seen in the distance. The river flows in silent
majesty, the sky is bright overhead, the birds pour forth the music of a
joyous welcome, the toil and pain are over, the gloomy shadows have
disappeared, and their joy is exquisite as they realize that the first
passage of the long and terrible river has been safely accomplished and
all are alive and well.

But what of the three who left them? If only they could have known that
safety and joy were little more than a day ahead! They successfully
climbed the steep cañon walls, only to encounter a band of Indians who
were looking for cattle thieves or other plunderers. They could give no
other account of their presence except to say they had come down the
river. This, to the Indian mind, was so obviously an impossibility that
the truth seemed an audacious lie and the three unfortunate men were
murdered.

We were obliged to content ourselves with a view of the river from this
height, though I had expected to descend to the river's edge and felt
correspondingly disappointed. We had started too late for so long a trip
and now it was time to turn back. Looking back at the solid and
apparently perpendicular rock, nearly a mile high, it seemed impossible
that any one could ascend to the top. It is only when one looks out from
the bottom of this vast chasm at the huge walls on every side that he
begins to realize its awfulness. We are mere specks in the bottom of a
gigantic mould wherein some great mountain range might have been cast.
There are great mountains all about us and yet we are not on a mountain
but in a vast hole. The surface of the earth is above us. A great gash
has been cut into it, two hundred miles long, twelve to fifteen miles
wide, and a mile deep, and we are in the depths of that frightful abyss
with--to all appearance--no possible means of escape. Perpendicular
cliffs of enormous height, which not even a mountain sheep could climb,
hem us in on every side. The shadows are growing deep and it seems that
the day must be nearly done. Yet we remount our mules and slowly retrace
our steps over the steep ascent. It seems as though the strain would
break the backs of the animals. As we approached the summit of the path
some one remarked, "I should think these mules would be so tired they
would be ready to drop." "Wait and see," said the guide. A few minutes
later we reached the top and dismounted, feeling pretty stiff from the
exertion. The mules were unsaddled and turned loose. Away they scampered
like a lot of schoolboys at recess, kicking their heels high in the air
and racing madly across the field. "I guess they're not as tired as we
are," said the Major, as he painfully tried to straighten up. Just then
the little girl of twelve came up to me. "There is one thing," she said,
"that has been puzzling me all day. How in the world did you find out so
quickly that your mule's name was Sam?" "Name ain't Sam," interrupted
the guide, bluntly. "Name's Teddy--Teddy Roosevelt."

Some years ago I had occasion to attend a stereopticon lecture on the
Grand Cañon. The speaker was enthusiastic and his pictures excellent.
But he fired off all his ammunition of adjectives with the first slide.
For an hour and a half we sat listening to an endless repetition of
"grand," "magnificent," "sublime," "awe-inspiring," etc. As we walked
home a young lad in our party, who was evidently studying rhetoric in
school, was heard to inquire, "Mother, wouldn't you call that an example
of tautology?" I fear I should merit the same criticism if I were to
undertake a description of the cañon. Yet we may profitably stand, for a
few moments, on Hopi Point, a promontory that projects far out from the
rim, and try to measure it with our eyes.

That great wall on the opposite side is just thirteen miles away. The
strip of white at its upper edge, which in my photograph measures less
than a quarter of an inch, is a stratum of limestone five hundred feet
thick. Here and there we catch glimpses of the river. It is five miles
away, and forty-six hundred feet--nearly a perpendicular mile--below the
level upon which we are standing. We look to the east and then to the
west, but we see only a small part of the chasm. It melts away in the
distance like a ship at sea. From end to end it is two hundred and
seventeen miles. It is not one cañon, but thousands. Every river that
runs into the Colorado has cut out its own cañon, and each of these has
its countless tributaries. It has been estimated that if all the cañons
were placed end to end in a straight line they would stretch twenty
thousand miles.

[Illustration: THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA]

If this mighty gash in the earth's surface were only a great valley with
gently sloping sides and a level floor, it would still be impressive and
inspiring, though not so picturesque. But its floor is filled with a
multitude of temples and castles and amphitheaters of stupendous size,
all sculptured into strange shapes by the erosion of the waters. Any one
of these, if it could be transported to the level plains of the Middle
West or set up on the Atlantic Coast, would be an object of wonder which
hundreds of thousands would visit. Away off in the distance is the
Temple of Shiva, towering seventy-six hundred and fifty feet above
the sea and fifty-two hundred and fourteen feet (nearly a mile) above
the river. Take it to the White Mountains and set it down in the
Crawford Notch. From its summit you would look down upon the old Tip-Top
house of Mount Washington, eight hundred feet below. Much nearer, and a
little to the right, is the "Pyramid of Cheops," a much smaller butte
but rising fifty-three hundred and fifty feet above the sea-level. If
the "Great Pyramid of Cheops" in Egypt were to be placed by its side it
would scarcely be visible from where we stand, for it would be lost in
the mass of rocky formations. Mr. G. Wharton James, who has spent many
years of his life in the study of the cañon, says that he gazed upon it
from a certain point every year for twenty years and often daily for
weeks at a time. He continues, "Such is the marvelousness of distance
that never until two days ago did I discover that a giant detached
mountain fully eight thousand feet high and with a base ten miles square
... stood in the direct line of my sight, and as it were, immediately
before me." He discovered it only because of a peculiarity of the light.
It had always appeared as a part of the great north wall, though
separated from it by a cañon fully eight miles wide.

How are we to realize these enormous depths? Those isolated peaks and
mountains, of which there are hundreds, are really only details in the
vast stretch of the cañon. Not one of them reaches above the level of
the plain on the north side. Tourists who have traveled much are
familiar with the great cathedrals of Europe. Let us drop a few of them
into the cañon. First, St. Peter's, the greatest cathedral in the world.
We lower it to the level of the river, and it disappears behind the
granite cliff. Let the stately Duomo of Milan follow. Its beautiful
minarets and multitude of statues are lost in the distance, and though
we place it on the top of St. Peter's, it, too, is out of sight behind
the cliffs. We must have something larger, so we place on top of Milan
the great cathedral of Cologne, five hundred and one feet high, and the
tips of its two great spires barely appear above the point from which we
watched the swiftly rolling river. Now let us poise on the top of
Cologne's spires, two great Gothic cathedrals of France, Notre Dame and
Amiens, one above the other, then add St. Paul's of London, the three
great towers of Lincoln, the triple spires of Lichfield, Canterbury with
its great central tower, and the single spire, four hundred and four
feet high, of Salisbury. We are still far from the top. These units of
measurement are too small. Let us add the tallest office building in the
world, seven hundred and fifty feet high, and then the Eiffel Tower, of
nine hundred and eighty-six feet. We shall still need the Washington
Monument, and if my calculations are correct, an extension ladder
seventy-five feet long on top of that, to enable us to reach the top of
the northern wall. One might amuse himself indefinitely with such
comparisons. Perhaps they are futile, but it is only by some such method
that one can form the faintest conception of the colossal dimensions of
this, the greatest chasm in the world.

Still more bewildering is the attempt to measure the cañon in periods of
time. There were two great periods in its history--first, the period of
upheaval, and second, that of erosion. When the geologic movement was in
process which created the continent, with the Rocky Mountains for its
backbone, this entire region became a plateau, vastly higher than at
present, with its greatest elevation far to the north. Then the rivers
began to carry the rains and snows to the sea, carving channels for
themselves through the rocky surface. The steep decline caused the
waters to flow with swiftness. The little streamlets united to form
larger ones, and these in turn joined their waters in still greater
streams. The larger the stream and the swifter the flow, the faster the
channel would be carved. The softer rocks gave slight resistance, but
when the granite or harder formations were encountered, the streams
would eddy and whirl about in search of new channels, the hard rocks
forming a temporary dam. In this way the hundreds of buttes were
formed. The Green River and the Grand unite to form the Colorado, the
entire course of this great waterway stretching for two thousand miles.
The two streams carry down a mighty flood--in former ages it was far
mightier than now--which in its swift descent has ground the rocks into
sand and silt and with resistless force carried them down to the sea.
Those great buttes and strangely sculptured temples, each a formidable
mountain, were not thrown up by volcanic forces, but have been carved
out of the solid earth by the erosion of the waters. That river five
miles away, of which we see only glimpses here and there, was the tool
with which the Great Sculptor carved all this wondrous chasm. Major
Powell has calculated that the amount of rock thus ground to pieces and
carried away would be equivalent to a mass two hundred thousand square
miles in area and a full mile in thickness. Think of excavating a mile
deep the entire territory of New England, New York, New Jersey,
Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and West Virginia, and dumping it all
into the Atlantic. Then think that this is the task the Colorado River
and other geologic forces have accomplished, and pause to wonder how
long it took to complete the process! If the Egyptian kings who built
the pyramids had come here for material they would have seen the chasm
substantially as we see it!

The geologic story of the cañon's origin is too far beyond our
comprehension. Let us turn to the Indian account. A great chief lost his
wife and refused to be comforted. An Indian God, Ta-vwoats, came to him
and offered to conduct him to a happier land where he might see her, if
he would promise to cease mourning. Then Ta-vwoats made a trail through
the mountains to the happy land and there the chief saw his wife. This
trail was the cañon of the Colorado. The deity made the chief promise
that he would reveal the path to no man, lest all might wish to go at
once to heaven, and in order to block the way still more effectually he
rolled a mad surging river through the gorges so swift and strong that
it would destroy any one who dared attempt to enter heaven by that
route.

I have often been asked which is the greater wonder, the Grand Cañon of
the Colorado River or the Yellowstone National Park. The question is
unanswerable. One might as well attempt to say whether the sea is more
beautiful than the sky. If mere size is meant, the Grand Cañon is vastly
greater. If all the geysers of the Yellowstone were placed down in the
bottom of the Grand Cañon at the level of the river, and all were to
play at once, the effect would be unnoticed from Hopi Point. The cañon
of the Yellowstone River, impressive as it is, would be lost in one of
the side cañons of the Colorado.

The Grand Cañon and the Yellowstone are creations of a totally different
kind.

The Yellowstone is a garden of wonders. The Grand Cañon is a sublime
spectacle.

The Yellowstone is a variety of interesting units. The Grand Cañon is a
unit of infinite variety.

The Yellowstone contains a collection of individual marvels, each
wondrous in structure and many of them exquisite in beauty. The Grand
Cañon is one vast masterpiece of unimagined architecture, limitless
grandeur, and ever-changing but splendidly harmonious brilliancy of
color.

The Yellowstone fills the mind with wonder and amazement at all the
varied resources of Nature. The Grand Cañon fills the soul with awe and
reverence as one stands in silence upon the brink and humbly reflects
upon the infinite power of God.


THE END




INDEX




INDEX


  Alcott, A. Bronson, 192, 193.

  Alcott, Louisa M., 193.

  Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 207-20.

  Amiel, Henri Frédéric, 118; 124-27.

  Anderson, Mary, 110, 112, 113.

  Appledore, 222, 223, 232.

  Arbury Hall, 20-28.

  ARIZONA, THE GRAND CAÑON OF, 271-96.

  Arnold, Thomas, 52, 98, 99.

  Arona, 156.

  Authari, the Long-haired, 164.

  Ayrshire, 46-48.


  Bashkirtseff, Marie, 132, 133.

  Bastien-Lepage, 133.

  Battlefield of Concord, 186, 187.

  Belgirate, 155-56.

  Bellagio, 168.

  Borromeo, Carlo, 156, 161.

  Borromeo, Count Vitaliano, 154.

  Bruce, Robert, 85, 90, 91.

  Burns, Robert, 43-48.

  BURROUGHS, JOHN, A DAY WITH, 233-50.

  Burroughs, John, 227, 228.

  Byron, Lord, 143, 144.


  Cadenabbia, 158, 159.

  Cañon of the Yellowstone, the, 267-69.

  Carlyle, Thomas, 41, 44, 66.

  Caroline, Queen, 168.

  Catskill Mountains, 237, 238, 239, 242, 243, 246.

  Channing, Ellery, 186.

  Coleridge, Hartley, 62.

  Coleridge, Samuel T., 51, 61, 62.

  Colorado River, the, 282-88; 293-95.

  Colvin, Sir Sidney, 19-21.

  Como, City of, 165, 168.

  Como, Lake, 95-98; 137; 138; 150; 158-68.

  Concord, Massachusetts, 179-95.


  Deffand, Marquise du, 140.

  De Quincey, Thomas, 52, 59, 63, 64.

  Drummond, William, 77-84.


  Ecclefechan, 41-44.

  Eliot George, 20-35.

  Ellastone, original of "Hayslope," 31.

  Emerson, Lidian, 188, 190.

  Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 17; 181-92; 249.

  Esk, Vale of the, 75-92.

  Esthwaite, Lake, 56.

  Evans, Rev. Frederick R., 28-29.


  Fields, James T., 199, 200.


  Gaeta vase, 170.

  Gallio, Cardinal, 168.

  Gould, Jay, 236, 237.

  GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA, THE, 271-96.

  Grant, Gen. U. S., 244.

  Grasmere, 59, 60, 61, 65, 66.

  Gravedona, palace of Cardinal Gallio, 168.

  GREAT BRITAIN, LITERARY RAMBLES IN, 15-48.

  Green, Thomas H., 117, 118, 122, 123, 124, 127.


  Haines, George, 170-74.

  Hawthorne, Elizabeth, 198, 199.

  Hawthorne, Madam, 198, 200.

  Hawthorne, Nathaniel; in Concord, 179-95; in Salem, 196-206.

  Hawthorne, Sophia Peabody, 180, 185; 198; 199.

  HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN, FROM, 73-92.

  Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 17.

  "House of the Seven Gables, The," 196, 202-06.


  Il Medeghino, 160-63.

  Iron Crown of Lombardy, 165.

  Isles of Shoals, the, 222-32.

  Isola Bella, 152-55.

  Isola dei Pescatori, 155.

  Isola Madre, 155.

  ITALIAN LAKES, A TOUR OF THE, 147-74.


  Jonson, Ben, 81-84.


  Lacus Larius. _See_ Como.

  Lacus Verbanus. _See_ Maggiore.

  "Lady Wentworth," scenes of, 220, 221.

  Laighton, Oscar, 229.

  Lamb, William and Caroline, 141-44.

  Lasswade, 75-76.

  Lecco, Lake, 95, 96.

  Lespinasse, Julie de, 139-41.

  Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 17; 159; 220; 221.

  Lowell, James Russell, 17; 55; 232.

  Lugano, Lake, 96, 151, 157, 159.

  Luino, 156, 157.


  Maggiore, Lake, 96, 149, 150, 152-56, 159.

  Mammoth Hot Springs, 255-57.

  Medici, Gian Giacomo de (Il Medeghino), 160-63.

  Melbourne, Lord, 141-44.

  Menaggio, 160.

  Minute-Man, the, Concord, 186, 187.

  Monument, the, on battlefield of Concord, 186, 187.

  Musketaquid, river at Concord, 185.


  NEW ENGLAND, LITERARY LANDMARKS OF, 175-232.

  Nuneaton, 20, 22, 29, 30.

  Nutter House, the, 207-16.


  Old Faithful, 254; 262-65.

  Old Manse, the, 179-86.

  Oxford, 99-100.


  Passmore Edwards Settlement, London, 103-09, 127.

  Pattison, Mark, 100; 117-21; 126, 127.

  Peabody, Elizabeth Palmer, 198.

  Peabody, Mary (Mrs. Horace Mann), 198.

  Peabody, Dr. Nathaniel, 197.

  Peabody, Sophia. _See_ Hawthorne, Sophia Peabody.

  Pliny, the Elder, 160, 166.

  Pliny, the Younger, 166, 167.

  Pogliaghi, Lombard decorator, 170, 171.

  Portsmouth, N.H., 207-21.

  Powell, Major John W., 283-87.


  Ripley, Rev. Ezra, 182.

  Ripley, Rev. Samuel, 182.

  "Robert Elsmere," 102, 109, 110-27.

  Roslin Castle, 86-88.

  Roslin Chapel, 88, 90.

  Roslin Glen, 75-92.


  St. Clair family, of Roslin, 87, 88, 91, 92.

  Salem, Massachusetts, 196-206.

  Salpion, Greek sculptor, 170.

  "Scarlet Letter, The," 201-02.

  Scott, Sir Walter, 37, 38, 39, 45, 46, 75, 76, 89, 90, 239.

  Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, 187-89.

  Southey, Robert, 51.


  Thaxter, Celia, 221, 223-32.

  Theodelinda, Queen of the Lombards, 163-65.

  Thoreau, Henry D., 182-91; 228.

  Tower of London, 18.

  Tremezzo, 168.


  Varenna, 163.

  Victoria Monument, London, 40.

  Villa Bonaventura, 169.

  Villa Carlotta, 168, 169.

  Villa d'Este, 168.

  Villa Maria, 169-74.

  Villa Pliniana, 167, 168.


  Walden Pond, 191.

  WARD, MRS. HUMPHRY, THE COUNTRY OF, 93-146.

  Ward, Mrs. Humphry, scenes of novels, 36, 37, 111-17; 128-31; 134-38;
  145; 169.

  Washburn, Gen. Henry D., 253.

  Wayside, the, Hawthorne's house in Concord, 193, 194.

  Wentworth House, 220-21.

  Westmoreland, 51-72; 98; 131; 134; 135; 136; 239; 241.

  White, Gilbert, 228.

  Wilson, John (Christopher North), 52.

  Windermere, Lake, 54; 68; 70; 98.

  Windermere village, 51.

  WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY, A DAY IN, 49-72.

  Wordsworth, Dorothy, 41, 63, 64, 65.

  Wordsworth, Mrs., 63.

  Wordsworth, William, 41; 51-72; 98; 158; 239-43.


  YELLOWSTONE, GLIMPSES OF THE, 251-69.

  Yellowstone Lake, the, 261; 267.

  Yellowstone National Park, the, 295, 296.

  Yellowstone River, the, 267, 268.




  The Riverside Press
  CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
  U. S. A.







End of Project Gutenberg's The Lure of the Camera, by Charles S. Olcott