Till moons shall wax and wane no more.’
Of this cathedral you have read many descriptions, and yet one can have but little idea of it without seeing it. As I sat in the chancel, and looked about me, I felt as if I belonged to the past. There seemed to be a spirit of antique rest and repose pervading the whole interior. After service, we peeped into the nooks and corners of the old church, and then out into the rich balmy air of this perfect day in June, and walked on the old wall which was built to protect the town. We looked from the windows of the tower, where Charles I. stood and saw his army defeated by Cromwell. How many reminiscences of our lessons in history at school these old towns bring up! An open carriage stood near us, into which we jumped, and were driven through the grounds and to the home of the Duke of Westminster, who is, I believe, the richest man in England. As it was Sunday, we could not be admitted to the palace, but enjoyed the drive through the perfect grounds immensely. The town contains a beautiful park, in which is a fine statue of the father of the present duke. The narrow streets and the odd-looking old houses in the oldest part of the town were intensely attractive to me, so, leaving the rest of my party to wander in the park, I strolled off alone. I pulled the latch-string of a little house, and a kindly faced old lady appeared. I asked for some water, and she urged me to come in and rest, and I lingered a long time, so interesting to me were her tales of Chester, where she had all her life lived, not even having been so far away as ‘Lunnon town.’ The custom of ringing what used to be the ‘curfew bell’ is still kept up. A bell rings at nine P.M., and if maids are out alone after that hour they may be arrested. ‘A good custom it is,’ said the old lady; ‘God made the night to sleep, and not for gadding.’ Back to Liverpool, and good-by to E. He remains here, and we go to-morrow to Leamington Spa.
June 18.—At seven A.M. we left Liverpool. The morning was a perfect one, and our train ran slowly, perhaps purposely that we might see beautiful old England. And beautiful it is! Such green fields, such magnificent trees, such hedges, ivy, hawthorn, and a tangled mass of sweetbrier and wild rose. Houses covered with ivy and roses. Roses in bloom everywhere, little plots of ground around the stations filled with roses—red, white, and yellow, their sweet fragrance pouring into the windows of our car. The flocks of sheep, the herds of cattle in the fields and meadows, resting, or cooling their feet in silver streams. O how beautiful this all is! The blue sky of to-day seems so near us. Glimpses of cathedrals and palatial homes greet us. The fields of wild poppies and wheat add brilliancy to it all. Surely we must be in the highly cultivated, most beautiful part of England! But no, it is all the same. There are no rough spots in England, no stony pastures, no broken fences: it is all a beautiful garden from one end to the other. F. says almost too ‘spick and span;’ but to me, perfection. Our first stop was at Rugby. Ascertaining that we must remain there two or three hours, and remembering ‘Tom Brown,’ we set out to see the world-renowned school. Its buildings are large and castle-like. Any man who has resided in the county two years is entitled to send his sons to the school, to be educated free of expense. There is a pretty chapel here, and in the transept a monument to the revered Dr. Thomas Arnold. One of the stained-glass windows is also in memory of him, and the words beneath it seemed to me particularly touching and appropriate:—
‘And Jesus said unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me thou hast believed: blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have believed.’
The name of Arnold seems to be revered by every one in Rugby, and his best monument is the school for which he did so much. He buried creeds and lived by the Golden Rule.
Our next halt was at Leamington, and here we are, feeling quite like citizens. The town is crowded with visitors, and we were most fortunate in finding rooms at a small hotel which had just been vacated by Americans. This town is a health resort and a fashionable and popular one. There are four medicinal springs, each one different from the others in remedial properties. The streets of the town are broad, shaded by grand old trees that form perfect arches for long distances. The residences are immense and very handsome, some quite palatial; but seeing ‘To Let’ on many of them, we came to the conclusion that they were too expensive for the owners to live in, but were afterwards told that the richest and most cultivated people of the place rent their houses for almost fabulous sums, for the months of May and June, and take that time to travel themselves, on the Continent. Near the royal pump-room, at the beautiful Jephson Gardens, on the banks of the river Leam, in the little parks, in the streets, and everywhere else here, we see bath-chairs on wheels—people of all ages, from infants to aged men and women, being drawn in them by their servants. I thought at first they must all be invalids from some cause, but it seems not: many are being trolled about in this manner for enjoyment. The drives in the town and about its suburbs are of unrivalled beauty. We stood under the shade of a large oak tree, said to be in the very centre of England. From here we made an excursion to Stratford, which town has, if possible, an older look than Chester. We asked a little girl to direct us to the church where Shakespeare was buried. She looked somewhat frightened, and answered, ‘He is not buried; he keeps store down that way.’ It was evident the little tot was not Stratford-born. We sauntered along, and soon met a gentleman who gave us the desired information. Walking through a beautiful avenue of lime trees, we soon reached the church. In the chancel is the tomb of Shakespeare. A bust of the great poet is on the wall, and there is a flagstone bearing the inscription familiar to all:—
‘Good friend, for Jesvs sake forbeare
To digg the dvst encloased heare:
Bleste be ye man that spares thes stones.
And curst be he that moves my bones.’
The church is very old—a cruciform, with central tower and spire; and some portions of the old carvings attracted our attention. I was much disappointed with the expression of the face of the bust: it looked as if the great man felt nauseated, and the atmosphere of the church made me feel intensely so, so close and musty was it; so out into the air we gladly went. We strolled about in the churchyard for a while, looking at the old stones and reading the queer epitaphs. On one were these words, after the name of a wife, her age, and time of decease: ‘The Lord has done great things for us, whereof we are exceeding glad.’ I doubt that widowed husband being able to win wife number two. The house where the poet was born is a little old structure of wood and plaster, but well preserved. The walls of several of the rooms are entirely covered with names written by the sight-seers who have visited them. How strange but how true it is, that real genius nearly always springs from homes of poverty! Everything in the town has a Shakespearian flavor. The fine fountain presented by our own countryman, George W. Childs, is a beautiful offering. The Shakespeare Memorial Buildings, in the form of a theatre, are very elegant, and contain some fine pictures. F. left me to enjoy the interior of this new edifice, saying to ‘look for her on the banks of the Avon,’ and when I did so, found her sleeping in a boat, on the immortalized waters, with the willow trees on the banks throwing their shadows over her. One can scarcely help feeling tinges of romance and sentiment here, this river has been so sweetly sung of; and yet it is a very unpretentious, quiet, narrow stream; but memories of the Bard of Avon linger in every spot.
We were shown, at the Red Horse Hotel, the rooms which were occupied by our own Washington Irving during his visit here, and in the parlor was the ‘Sexton’s Clock’ which he refers to in the ‘Sketch Book.’ We have seen the oddest names in England, for inns and boarding-houses, imaginable, such as the Pied Bull, The Elephant and the Castle, The Turtle and the Lamb, The Pig and the Whistle, The Hole in the Wall, and The Struggling Man. Now the English are not wise in the selection of such names. For my part, I should look farther for a stopping place. I would not care to try to rest in The Hole in the Wall, or to be protected by The Struggling Man.
We visited New Place, Shakespeare’s home, and the Guild Chapel close by, and ended the day by taking a short drive through some of the quaint streets and the green lanes of this reposeful, historical, and beautifully situated Stratford, whose whole atmosphere seems to be that conducive to pure, high thoughts, spiritual exaltation, rest, and peace. We returned to Leamington in time for a pleasant evening
