mr. spiers tried to get us admittance to the bodleian library; but this is just the moment when it is closed for the purpose of being cleaned; so we missed seeing the principal halls of this library, and were only admitted into what was called the picture gallery. this, however, satisfied all my desires, so far as the backs of books are concerned, for they extend through a gallery, running round three sides of a quadrangle, making an aggregate length of more than four hundred feet,—a solid array of bookcases, full of books, within a protection of open iron-work. up and down the gallery there are models of classic temples; and about midway in its extent stands a brass statue of earl pembroke, who was chancellor of the university in james i's time; not in scholarly garb, however, but in plate and mail, looking indeed like a thunderbolt of war. i rapped him with my knuckles, and he seemed to be solid metal, though, i should imagine, hollow at heart. a thing which interested me very much was the lantern of guy fawkes. it was once tinned, no doubt, but is now nothing but rusty iron, partly broken. as this is called the picture gallery, i must not forget the pictures, which are ranged in long succession over the bookcases, and include almost all englishmen whom the world has ever heard of, whether in statesmanship or literature, i saw a canvas on which had once been a lovely and unique portrait of mary of scotland; but it was consigned to a picture-cleaner to be cleansed, and, discovering that it was painted over another picture, he had the curiosity to clean poor mary quite away, thus revealing a wishy-washy woman's face, which now hangs in the gallery. i am so tired of seeing notable things that i almost wish that whatever else is remarkable in oxford could be obliterated in some similar manner.
from the bodleian we went to
the taylor institute,
which was likewise closed; but the woman who had it in charge had formerly been a servant of mr. spiers, and he so overpersuaded her that she finally smiled and admitted us. it would truly have been a pity to miss it; for here, on the basement floor, are the original models of chantrey's busts and statues, great and small; and in the rooms above are a far richer treasure,—a large collection of original drawings by raphael and michael angelo. these are far better for my purpose than their finished pictures,—that is to say, they bring me much closer to the hands that drew them and the minds that imagined them. it is like looking into their brains, and seeing the first conception before it took shape outwardly (i have somewhere else said about the same thing of such sketches). i noticed one of raphael's drawings, representing the effect of eloquence; it was a man speaking in the centre of a group, between whose ears and the orator's mouth connecting lines were drawn. raphael's idea must have been to compose his picture in such a way that their auricular organs should not fail to be in a proper relation with the eloquent voice; and though this relation would not have been individually traceable in the finished picture, yet the general effect—that of deep and entranced attention—would have been produced.
in another room there are some copies of raphael's cartoons, and some queer mediaeval pictures, as stiff and ugly as can well be conceived, yet successful in telling their own story. we looked a little while at these, and then, thank heaven! went home and dressed for dinner. i can write no more to-day. indeed, what a mockery it is to write at all!
[here follows the drive to cumnor place, stanton harcourt, nuneham courtney, godstowe, etc.,—already published in our old home.—ed.]
september 9th.—the morning after our excursion on the thames was as bright and beautiful as many preceding ones had been. after breakfast s——- and i walked a little about the town, and bought thomas a kempis, in both french and english, for u——. . . . mr. de la motte, the photographer, had breakfasted with us, and mr. spiers wished him to take a photograph of our whole party. so, in the first place, before the rest were assembled, he made an experimental group of such as were there; and i did not like my own aspect very much. afterwards, when we were all come, he arranged us under a tree in the garden,—mr. and mrs. spiers, with their eldest son, mr. and mrs. hall and fanny, mr. addison, my wife and me,—and stained the glass with our figures and faces in the twinkling of an eye; not s——-'s face, however, for she turned it away, and left only a portion of her bonnet and dress,—and mrs. hall, too, refused to countenance the proceeding. but all the rest of us were caught to the life, and i was really a little startled at recognizing myself so apart from myself, and done so quickly too.
this was the last important incident of our visit to oxford, except that mr. spiers was again most hospitable at lunch. never did anybody attend more faithfully to the comfort of his friends than does this good gentleman. but he has shown himself most kind in every possible way, and i shall always feel truly grateful. no better way of showing our sense of his hospitality, and all the trouble he has taken for us (and our memory of him), has occurred to us, than to present him with a set of my tales and romances; so, by the next steamer, i shall write to ticknor and fields to send them, elegantly bound, and s——- will emblazon his coat of arms in each volume. he accompanied us and mr. and mrs. hall to the railway station, and we left oxford at two o'clock.
it had been a very pleasant visit, and all the persons whom we met were kind and agreeable, and disposed to look at one another in a sunny aspect. i saw a good deal of mr. hall. he is a thoroughly genuine man, of kind heart and true affections, a gentleman of taste and refinement, and full of humor.
on the saturday after our return to blackheath, we went to
hampton court,
about which, as i have already recorded a visit to it, i need say little here. but i was again impressed with the stately grandeur of wolsey's great hall, with its great window at each end, and one side window, descending almost to the floor, and a row of windows on each side, high towards the roof, and throwing down their many-colored light on the stone pavement, and on the gobelin tapestry, which must have been gorgeously rich when the walls were first clothed with it. i fancied, then, that no modern architect could produce so fine a room; but oddly enough, in the great entrance-hall of the euston station, yesterday, i could not see how this last fell very much short of wolsey's hall in grandeur. we were quite wearied in passing through the endless suites of rooms in hampton court, and gazing at the thousands of pictures; it is too much for one day,—almost enough for one life, in such measure as life can be bestowed on pictures. it would have refreshed us had we spent half the time in wandering about the grounds, which, as we glimpsed at them from the windows of the palace, seemed very beautiful, though laid out with an antique formality of straight lines and broad gravelled paths. before the central window there is a beautiful sheet of water, and a fountain upshooting itself and plashing into it, with a continuous and pleasant sound. how beautifully the royal robe of a monarchy is embroidered! palaces, pictures, parks! they do enrich life; and kings and aristocracies cannot keep these things to themselves, they merely take care of them for others. even a king, with all the glory that can be shed around him, is but the liveried and bedizened footman of his people, and the toy of their delight. i am very glad that i came to this country while the english are still playing with such a toy.
yesterday j——- and i left blackheath, and reached liverpool last night. the rest of my family will follow in a few days; and so finishes our residence in bennoch's house, where i, for my part, have spent some of the happiest hours that i have known since we left our american home. it is a strange, vagabond, gypsy sort of life,—this that we are leading; and i know not whether we shall finally be spoiled for any other, or shall enjoy our quiet wayside, as we never did before, when once we reach it again.
the evening set in misty and obscure; and it was dark almost when j——- and i arrived at the landing stage on our return. i was struck with the picturesque effect of the high tower and tall spire of st. nicholas, rising upward, with dim outline, into the duskiness; while midway of its height the dial-plates of an illuminated clock blazed out, like two great eyes of a giant.
september 13th.—on saturday my wife, with all her train, arrived at mrs. b———'s; and on tuesday—vagabonds as we are—we again struck our tent, and set out for
southport.
i do not know what sort of character it will form in the children,—this unsettled, shifting, vagrant life, with no central home to turn to, except what we carry in ourselves. it was a windy day, and, judging by the look of the trees, on the way to southport, it must be almost always windy, and with the blast in one prevailing direction; for invariably their branches, and the whole contour and attitude of the tree, turn from seaward, with a strangely forlorn aspect. reaching southport, we took an omnibus, and under the driver's guidance came to our tall stone house, fronting on the sands, and styled "brunswick terrace." . . . .
the english system of lodging-houses has its good points; but it is, nevertheless, a contrivance for bearing the domestic cares of home about with you whithersoever you go; and immediately you have to set about producing your own bread and cheese. however, fanny took most of this trouble off our hands, though there was inevitably the stiffness and discomfort of a new housekeeping on the first day of our arrival; besides that, it was cool, and the wind whistled and grumbled and eddied into the chinks of the house.
meanwhile, in all my experience of southport, i have never yet seen the sea, but only an interminable breadth of sands, looking pooly or plashy in some places, and barred across with drier reaches of sand, but no expanse of water. it must be miles and miles, at low water, to the veritable sea-shore. we are about twenty miles north of liverpool, on the border of the irish sea; and ireland and, i suppose, the isle of man intervene betwixt us and the ocean, not much to our benefit; for the air of the english coast, under ocean influences, is said to be milder than when it comes across the land,—milder, therefore, above or below ireland, because then the gulf stream ameliorates it.
betimes, the forenoon after our arrival, i had to take the rail to liverpool, but returned, a little after five, in the midst of a rain,— still low water and interminable sands; still a dreary, howling blast. we had a cheerful fireside, however, and should have had a pleasant evening, only that the wind on the sea made us excessively drowsy. this morning we awoke to hear the wind still blustering, and blowing up clouds, with fitful little showers, and soon blowing them away again, and letting the brightest of sunshine fall over the plashy waste of sand. we have already walked forth on the shore with j——- and r——-, who pick up shells, and dig wells in the sand with their little wooden spades; but soon we saw a rainbow on the western sky, and then a shower came spattering down upon us in good earnest. we first took refuge under the bridge that stretches between the two portions of the promenade; but as there was a chill draught there, we made the best of our way home. the sun has now again come out brightly, though the wind is still tumbling a great many clouds about the sky.
evening.—later, i walked out with u——, and, looking seaward, we saw the foam and spray of the advancing tide, tossed about on the verge of the horizon,—a long line, like the crests and gleaming helmets of an army. in about half an hour we found almost the whole waste of sand covered with water, and white waves breaking out all over it; but, the bottom being so nearly level, and the water so shallow, there was little of the spirit and exultation of the sea in a strong breeze. of the long line of bathing-machines, one after another was hitched to a horse, and trundled forth into the water, where, at a long distance from shore, the bathers found themselves hardly middle deep.
september 19th.—the wind grumbled and made itself miserable all last night, and this morning it is still howling as ill-naturedly as ever, and roaring and rumbling in the chimneys. the tide is far out, but, from an upper window, i fancied, at intervals, that i could see the plash of the surf-wave on the distant limit of the sand; perhaps, however, it was only a gleam on the sky. constantly there have been sharp spatters of rain, hissing and rattling against the windows, while a little before or after, or perhaps simultaneously, a rainbow, somewhat watery of texture, paints itself on the western clouds. gray, sullen clouds hang about the sky, or sometimes cover it with a uniform dulness; at other times, the portions towards the sun gleam almost lightsomely; now, there may be an airy glimpse of clear blue sky in a fissure of the clouds; now, the very brightest of sunshine comes out all of a sudden, and gladdens everything. the breadth of sands has a various aspect, according as there are pools, or moisture enough to glisten, or a drier tract; and where the light gleams along a yellow ridge or bar, it is like sunshine itself. certainly the temper of the day shifts; but the smiles come far the seldomest, and its frowns and angry tears are most reliable. by seven o'clock pedestrians began to walk along the promenade, close buttoned against the blast; later, a single bathing-machine got under way, by means of a horse, and travelled forth seaward; but within what distance it finds the invisible margin i cannot say,—at all events, it looks like a dreary journey. just now i saw a sea-gull, wheeling on the blast, close in towards the promenade.
september 21st.—yesterday morning was bright, sunny and windy, and cool and exhilarating. i went to liverpool at eleven, and, returning at five, found the weather still bright and cool. the temperature, methinks, must soon diminish the population of southport, which, judging from appearances, must be mainly made up of temporary visitors. there is a newspaper, the southport visitor, published weekly, and containing a register of all the visitants in the various hotels and lodging-houses. it covers more than two sides of the paper, to the amount of some hundreds. the guests come chiefly from liverpool, manchester, and the neighboring country-towns, and belong to the middle classes. it is not a fashionable watering-place. only one nobleman's name, and those of two or three baronets, now adorn the list. the people whom we see loitering along the beach and the promenade have, at best, a well-to-do, tradesmanlike air. i do not find that there are any public amusements; nothing but strolling on the sands, donkey-riding, or drives in donkey-carts; and solitary visitors must find it a dreary place. yet one or two of the streets are brisk and lively, and, being well thronged, have a holiday aspect. there are no carriages in town save donkey-carts; some of which are drawn by three donkeys abreast, and are large enough to hold a whole family. these conveyances will take you far out on the sands through wet and dry. the beach is haunted by the flying dutchman, —a sort of boat on wheels, schooner-rigged with sails, and which sometimes makes pretty good speed, with a fair wind.
this morning we have been walking with j——- and r——- out over the "ribbed sea sands," a good distance from shore. throughout the week, the tides will be so low as not to cover the shallow basin of this bay, if a bay it be. the weather was sullen, with now and then a faint gleam of sunshine, lazily tracing our shadows on the sand; the wind rather quieter than on preceding days. . . . in the sunshine the sands seem to be frequented by great numbers of gulls, who begin to find the northern climate too wintry. you see their white wings in the sunlight, but they become almost or quite invisible in the shade. we shall soon have an opportunity of seeing how a watering-place looks when the season is quite over; for we have concluded to remain here till december, and everybody else will take flight in a week or two.
a short time ago, in the evening, in a street of liverpool, i saw a decent man, of the lower orders, taken much aback by being roughly brushed against by a rowdy fellow. he looked after him, and exclaimed indignantly, "is that a yankee?" it shows the kind of character we have here.
october 7th.—on saturday evening, i gave a dinner to bennoch, at the adelphi hotel. the chief point or characteristic of english customs was, that mr. radley, our landlord, himself attended at table, and officiated as chief waiter. he has a fortune of 100,000 pounds,—half a million of dollars,—and is an elderly man of good address and appearance. in america, such a man would very probably be in congress; at any rate, he would never conceive the possibility of changing plates, or passing round the table with hock and champagne. some of his hock was a most rich and imperial wine, such as can hardly be had on the rhine itself. there were eight gentlemen besides bennoch.
a donkey, the other day, stubbornly refusing to come out of a boat which had brought him across the mersey; at last, after many kicks had been applied, and other persecutions of that kind, a man stepped forward, addressing him affectionately, "come along, brother,"—and the donkey obeyed at once.
october 26th.—on thursday, instead of taking the rail for liverpool, i set out, about eleven, for a long walk. it was an overcast morning, such as in new england would have boded rain; but english clouds are not nearly so portentous as american in that respect. accordingly, the sun soon began to peep through crevices, and i had not gone more than a mile or two when it shone a little too warmly for comfort, yet not more than i liked. it was very much like our pleasant october days at home; indeed, the climates of the two countries more nearly coincide during the present month than at any other season of the year. the air was almost perfectly still; but once in a while it stirred, and breathed coolly in my face; it is very delightful, this latent freshness, in a warm atmosphere.
the country about southport has as few charms as it is possible for any region to have. in the close neighborhood of the shore, it is nothing but sand-hillocks, covered with coarse grass; and this is the original nature of the whole site on which the town stands, although it is now paved, and has been covered with soil enough to make gardens, and to nourish here and there a few trees. a little farther inland the surface seems to have been marshy, but has been drained by ditches across the fields and along the roadside; and the fields are embanked on all sides with parapets of earth which appear as if intended to keep out inundations. in fact, holland itself cannot be more completely on a level with the sea. the only dwellings are the old, whitewashed stone cottages, with thatched roofs, on the brown straw of which grow various weeds and mosses, brightening it with green patches, and sprouting along the ridgepole,—the homeliest hovels that ever mortals lived in, and which they share with pigs and cows at one end. hens, too, run in and out of the door. one or two of these hovels bore signs, "licensed to sell beer, ale, and tobacco," and generally there were an old woman and some children visible. in all cases there was a ditch, full of water, close at hand, stagnant, and often quite covered with a growth of water-weeds,—very unwholesome, one would think, in the neighborhood of a dwelling; and, in truth, the children and grown people did look pale.
in the fields, along the roadside, men and women were harvesting their carrots and other root-crops, especially digging potatoes,—the pleasantest of all farm labor, in my opinion, there being such a continual interest in opening the treasures of each hill. as i went on, the country began to get almost imperceptibly less flat, and there was some little appearance of trees. i had determined to go to ormskirk, but soon got out of the way, and came to a little hamlet that looked antique and picturesque, with its small houses of stone and brick, built, with the one material and repaired with the other perhaps ages afterward. here i inquired my way of a woman, who told me, in broad lancashire dialect, "that i main go back, and turn to my left, till i came to a finger-post"; and so i did, and found another little hamlet, the principal object in which was a public-house, with a large sign, representing a dance round a maypole. it was now about one o'clock; so i entered, and, being ushered into what, i suppose, they called the coffee-room, i asked for some cold neat and ale. there was a jolly, round, rather comely woman for a hostess, with a free, hospitable, yet rather careless manner.
the coffee-room smelt rather disagreeably of bad tobacco-smoke, and was shabbily furnished with an old sofa and flag-bottomed chairs, and adorned with a print of "old billy," a horse famous for a longevity of about sixty years; and also with colored engravings of old-fashioned hunting-scenes, conspicuous with scarlet coats. there was a very small bust of milton on the mantel-piece. by and by the remains of an immense round of beef, three quarters cut away, were put on the table; then some smoking-hot potatoes; and finally the hostess told me that their own dinner was just ready, and so she had brought me in some hot chops, thinking i might prefer them to the cold meat. i did prefer them; and they were stewed or fried chops, instead of broiled, and were very savory. there was household bread too, and rich cheese, and a pint of ale, home brewed, not very mighty, but good to quench thirst, and, by way of condiment, some pickled cabbage; so, instead of a lunch, i made quite a comfortable dinner. moreover, there was a cold pudding on the table, and i called for a clean plate, and helped myself to some of it. it was of rice, and was strewn over, rather than intermixed, with some kinds of berries, the nature of which i could not exactly make out.
i then set forth again. it was still sunny and warm, and i walked more slowly than before dinner; in fact, i did little more than lounge along, sitting down, at last, on the stone parapet of a bridge.
the country grew more pleasant, more sylvan, and, though still of a level character, not so drearily flat. soon appeared the first symptom that i had seen of a gentleman's residence,—a lodge at a park gate, then a long stretch of wall, with a green lawn, and afterwards an extent of wooded land; then another gateway, with a neat lodge on each side of it, and, lastly, another extent of wood. the hall or mansion-house, however, was nowhere apparent, being, doubtless, secluded deep and far within its grounds. i inquired of a boy who was the owner of the estate, and he answered, "mr. scarisbrick"; and no doubt it is a family of local eminence.
along the road,—an old inn; some aged stone houses, built for merely respectable occupants; a canal, with two canal-boats, heaped up with a cargo of potatoes; two little girls, who were watching lest some cows should go astray, and had their two little chairs by the roadside, and their dolls and other playthings, and so followed the footsteps of the cows all day long. i met two boys, coming from ormskirk, mounted on donkeys, with empty panniers, on which they had carried vegetables to market. finally, between two and three o'clock, i saw the great tower of ormskirk church, with its spire, not rising out of the tower, but sprouting up close beside it; and, entering the town, i directed my steps first to this old church.
