An American Four-In-Hand in Britain Part 8

"No benefice she ever sold, Nor did dispence with sins for gold; She hardly is a sev'nnight old, And yet she is a Pope.

"No King her feet did ever kisse, Or had from her worse look than this: Nor did she ever hope To saint one with a rope; And yet she is a Pope.

A female Pope, you'll say, a second Joan; No sure--she is Pope Innocent or none."

[Sidenote: _Edgehill._]

We lunched off deal tables and drank home-brewed ale in the tap-room of the Holcroft Inn, a queer old place, but we had a jolly time amid every kind of thing that carried us back to the England of past centuries.

Beyond Holcroft we came suddenly upon the grandest and most extensive view by far that had yet rejoiced us. We were rolling along absorbed in deep admiration of the fertile land that spread out before us on both sides of the road, and extolling the never-ceasing peacefulness and quiet charm of England, when, on pa.s.sing through a cut, a wide and varied panorama lay stretched at our feet. A dozen picturesque villages and hamlets were in sight, and by the aid of our field-gla.s.s a dozen more were brought within range. The spires of the churches, the poplars, the hedgerows, the woods, the gently undulating land apparently giving forth its luxuriant harvest with such ease and pleasure, all these made up such a picture as we could not leave. We ordered the coach to go on and wait at the foot of the hill until we had feasted ourselves with the view. We lay upon the face of the hill and gazed on Arcadia smiling below. Very soon some of the neighboring residents came, for one is never long without human company in crowded England; and we found that we were indeed upon sacred ground. This was Edgehill! As st.u.r.dy republicans we lingered long upon the spot, gazing on the scene of that b.l.o.o.d.y fight between king and people which, however, was almost without immediate result--for it was a drawn battle--but which eventually led to so much. Charles's army lay at Banbury, whence we had just come, that of the Parliament at Kineton yonder, and spread out before us was the plain where they met. The ground is now occupied by two farms called the Battle Farms, distinguished as Battleton and Thistleton. Between the farm-houses, on the latter place, are the places where the slain were buried, appropriately called the Grave Fields. A copse of fir trees in one place is said to mark the site of a pit into which five hundred were thrown.

Some of the royalist writers have tried to prove that Cromwell was not present at Edgehill, and one has even countenanced an idle tale that he witnessed the battle from a steeple on one of the neighboring hills, and that he incontinently took to his heels, or rather to his horses' legs, when he thought the meeting had resulted disastrously to the forces of the Parliament. But Carlyle characterizes this story as it deserves, for Lord Nugent expressly mentions Cromwell's troop of dragoons as among those that charged at the close of the battle. No, no, stern old Oliver was not the man to stand aloof when he once had scent of a battle; and we may be sure, although he was then but a captain of horse, that he did good service at Edgehill.

There were good men on both sides that day, and not the least among them was brave Sir Jacob Astley, who commanded Charles's foot. He was withal a man of piety, for the Parliamentarians did not have a monopoly in that line, however much their chroniclers may claim it; and I have always regarded his prayer on that momentous Sunday morning as a model which many clergymen might study with profit to themselves and to their congregations. "O Lord!" said he, as he settled himself firmly in the saddle, "Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me. March on, boys!" Is not that to the purpose?

Let such as are at their appointed work have no fear that they will ever be forgotten--the performance of a duty ranks before the offering of a prayer, any day--nay, is of itself the best prayer. There's plenty of time for lip service when we have served the Lord by hard work in a good cause. When people have nothing better to do let them pray, but don't let them be too greedy and ask much for themselves.

[Sidenote: _Warwick Castle._]

Our route lay through Warwick and Leamington. The view of the castle from the bridge is, I believe, the best of its kind in England. "From turret to foundation stone" it is all perfect. The very entrance tells of the good old days. As we pa.s.s beneath the archway, over the drawbridge, and under the portcullis, it all comes back to us.

"Up drawbridge, grooms. What, Warder, ho!

Let the portcullis fall!

To pa.s.s there was such scanty room The bars descending razed his plume."

Warwick, the king-maker! This was his castle. His quarrel with the king was one of our most taking recitations. The Scribe was considered heavy in this:

"Know this, the man who injured Warwick Never pa.s.sed uninjured yet."

He found that out, did he not, my lord of the ragged staff!

The view from the great hall looking on the river below is fixed in my mind. Don't miss it; and surely he who will climb to the top of Guy's Tower will have cause for thankfulness for many a year thereafter. You get a look at more of England there than is generally possible. I sympathize with Ruskin in his rage at the attempt to raise funds by subscription to mend the ravages of a recent fire in the castle. A Warwick in the role of a Belisarius begging for an obolus! If the king-maker could look upon this! But historical names are now often trailed in the dust in England; and it must be some consolation to him, wherever he may be, to know that the bearer of the t.i.tle, if responsible for this, is no scion of the old stock.

[Sidenote: _Guy of Warwick._]

The legend of Guy of Warwick, accepted as an historical fact by the early writers, has been relegated to the garret of monkish superst.i.tion, with the ribs of the dun cow and other once undoubted relics; but its romance will always lend an interest to the old castle and attract the traveller to the site of the hermitage on Guy's Cliff where the fabled hero died and was buried. You must not suppose that Guy's Tower had any connection with the original Guy, for the building dates only from the close of the fourteenth century, while the latter boasts an antiquity of nearly a thousand years. Indeed, we can place him to a dot, for the antiquary Rous is very precise in his statement. He says: "On the twelfth of June, 926, being the third year of the reign of Athelstan, a most terrible single combat took place between the champions of the kings of England and Denmark--Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Colebrand the Pagan, an African giant; through the mercy of G.o.d the Christian undertook the combat, being advised thereto by an angel; and the faithful servant of G.o.d and the Church fortunately vanquished the enemy of the whole realm of England."

Is it not dreadful to contemplate what might have been the consequences if Colebrand the African had got the upper hand of that faithful servant of G.o.d and the Church! But it was not to be. The Pagan had a lost fight from the start, for, though the chronicle does not expressly say so, it is very evident to the reflecting mind that Guy was backed throughout by the angel--a mean advantage which, but for the immensity of the stake, would have led any ordinary lover of fair play to side with the weaker party. But not so with the wily monks of those days. In their easy consciences the end justified the means, and so they glorified Guy as the champion of all that was good, and so sedulously trumpeted his fame that the Norman barons who succeeded to the ownership of the old Saxon stronghold saw their interest in adopting the victor as an ancestor. In time these Normans came to believe implicitly in the family tree with Guy at the root, just as some silly people pin their faith to the parchment evidences of the professional genealogists proving their descent from some fabulous hero who followed William and his crew from Normandy. They named their sons after Guy, called the tower his tower, and hung up his arms and armor in the great hall, while their wives and daughters worked his exploits in tapestry.

These proud descendants of a fabulous ancestor remind one of the general in the "Pirates of Penzance" who is found weeping at the tomb in the abbey belonging to the property he has purchased. When it is suggested to him that his tears are misplaced, he replies: "Sir, when I bought this property I bought this abbey and this tomb with its _contents_. I do not know whose ancestors these _were_, but I do know whose ancestors they _are_." And he falls to sobbing again, bound to have an ancestry of some kind, the more important the more to belittle himself by comparison. But the general is very English for all that. Tennyson's lines,

"Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent,"

are well known and repeated by the school children all over the land, but the grown men and women, entirely free from the weakness of trying to figure out a family tree of respectable antiquity, will be found unexpectedly small in this old land. Josh Billings settled the matter as far as Americans are concerned, for the malady is even more ridiculous in the New World. "We can't boast old family here," says he, "the country ain't _long_ enough, unless a feller has Injun in him." That is what the lawyers call an estoppel, I take it.

[Sidenote: _Kenilworth Castle._]

Driving through Leamington we reached Kenilworth Castle for luncheon, to which we had looked forward for several days. Alas! the keeper informed us that no picnic parties are admitted since the grounds have been put into such excellent order by the kind Earl Clarendon (for which thanks, good earl). But he was a man of some discrimination, this custodian of the ruins, and when he saw our four-in-hand and learned who we were--Americans! Brighton to Inverness!--he made us an exception to the rule, of which I trust his lordship will approve, if he ever hears. We had one of our happiest luncheons beneath the walls under a large hawthorn tree, which we decided was the very place where the enraged Queen Bess discovered dear Amy Robsart on that memorable night.

A thousand memories cl.u.s.ter round this ruin; but what should we have known of it had not the great magician touched with his wand this dead ma.s.s of stone and lime and conferred immortality upon the actors and their revels? In his pages we live over again the days of old, and take part with the Virgin Queen and her train of lords and ladies in the grand reception so lavishly prepared for her amus.e.m.e.nt by the then reigning favorite; ruined walls and towers and courts a.s.sume their ancient proportions and resound with music and revelry, and the n.o.ble park, now so quiet, is alive once more with huntsmen and gayly clad courtiers. But vivid as is Scott's picture, it is exceeded in quaint interest by the original account of the festivities from which the great romancer drew his facts, but which is as little known to the ordinary reader of "Kenilworth" as is the prototype of Hamlet to the common play-goer. Master Robert Laneham, the writer, was a sort of hanger-on of the court, and appears to have accompanied Leicester to Kenilworth. His account is in the form of a letter addressed to "my good friend, Master Humfrey Martin, Mercer," in London, and is written, says Scott, "in a style of the most intolerable affectation, both in point of composition and orthography."

After a brief account of the preliminary journey of the queen, this veracious chronicler informs us that she was "met in the Park, about a flight shoot from the Brayz and first gate of the castl" by a person representing "one of the ten Sibills, comely clad in a Pall of white Sylk, who p.r.o.nounced a proper Poezi in English Rime and meeter."...

"This her majestie benignly accepting, pa.s.sed foorth untoo the next gate of the Brayz, which, for the length, largenes, and use they call now the Tylt-yard; whear a Porter, tall of Person, big of lim and stearn of countinance, wrapt also all in Sylke, with a club and keiz of quant.i.tee according, had a rough speech full of Pa.s.sions, in meeter aptly made to the purpose."

[Sidenote: _A Giant's Portrait._]

Be it here recorded that the Charioteers had the pleasure while in London of looking upon the portrait of this giant porter, which hangs in the King's Guard Chamber at Hampton Court Palace. It is supposed to have been painted by the Italian artist Ferdinando Zucchero, who, it will be remembered, visited England. The fellow is truly called "big of lim,"

for the canvas is more than nine feet high and the figure, which is said to be of life size, measures eight and a half feet. His hand is seventeen inches long. He stands with his left hand on his hip and his right on a long rapier; is dressed in large balloon breeches, with black stockings, and a white quilted vest with a black waistcoat over it; and wears a cap with a feather in it and a small ruff. The picture was painted after the queen's visit to Kenilworth, for the date 1580 is plainly to be seen in one of the upper corners.

When the great porter had concluded, "six Trumpetoours, every one an eight foot hye in due proportion of Parson beside, all in long garments of Sylk suitabl," who stood upon the wall over the gate, sounded a "tune of welc.u.m." These "armonious blasterz mainteined their music very delectably," while the queen rode into the inner gate, "where the Ladye of the Lake (famous in King Arthurz Book) with two Nymphes waiting uppon her, arrayed all in Sylks, attended her highness' coming. From the midst of the Pool, whear uppon a moovable Iland bright blazing with Torches, she floating to land, met her majestie with a well-penned meeter,"

expressive of the "Anncientie of the castl" and the hereditary dignity of its owners.

"This Pageant was cloz'd up with a delectabl harmony of Hautboiz, Shalmz, Cornets, and such oother loord Muzik," that held on while her majesty crossed a bridge over a dry valley in front of the castle gate, the different posts of which were decorated with fruits, flowers, birds, and other decorations emblematic of the gifts of Sylva.n.u.s, Pomona, Ceres, Neptune, and other divinities. Having pa.s.sed this, the main gate of the castle was reached. Over it, on a "Tabl beautifully garnisht aboove with her Highness' Arms" was inscribed a Latin poem descriptive of the various tributes paid to her arrival by the G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses.

The verses were read to her by a poet "in a long ceruleoous garment, with a side and wide sleevz Venecian wize drawen up to his elboz, his dooblet sleevz under that Crimson, nothing but Sylk: a Bay garland on his head, and a skro in his hand."... "So pa.s.sing into the inner Coourt, her majesty (that never rides but alone), thear sat down from her palfrey, was conveied up to Chamber: When after did follo so great peal of gunz, and such lightning by fyrwork a long s.p.a.ce toagither, as Jupiter woold sheaw himself too be no furthur behind with his welcoom than the rest of his G.o.ds."

The chronicler then gives an account of the festivities, which lasted seventeen days and comprised nearly every amus.e.m.e.nt known to the period.

On Sunday, after "divine servis and preaching," the afternoon was spent in "excellent muzik of sundry swet Instruments and in dauncing of Lordes and Ladiez, and other woorshipfull degreez, uttered with such lively agilitee and commendable grace az whither it moought be more straunge too the eye, or pleazunt too the minde, for my part indeed I coold not discern."

[Sidenote: _Bearbaiting._]

One morning was devoted to a bearbaiting, in which thirteen bears and bandogs took part, "with such fending and prooving, with plucking and tugging, skratting and byting, by plain tooth and nayll a to side and toother, such expens of blood and leather waz thear between them, as a moonths licking I ween will not recoover."

Refined amus.e.m.e.nt, you say, for the Queen of England and her court only three hundred years ago. But not so fast, my dear lady; think what three hundred years hence will say of you and your amus.e.m.e.nts. Did you not give us a lively description the other evening of your riding after the hounds? Lady Gay Spanker herself, I thought, could not have done it better, and I am sure she was not more fascinating than you. But long before one hundred years shall pa.s.s, my friend, ladies in your station will be equally amazed that you could so torture a poor hare or fox and feel it to be not only not _unworthy of a lady_ but a source of enjoyment to you. I say your grandchild will blush for her grandma as she shows to her children the picture of your lovely face. What Queen Elizabeth is now in your eyes, what Roman emperors in the b.l.o.o.d.y Coliseum were in hers, you will be in the eyes of the third generation after you. Think of this. Remember what Cowper says:

"I would not rank among my list of friends, Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, That man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm."

Men will give up such sports after a time; but surely we may expect women to find even in this day not only no pleasure but even positive pain in such sports and leave them to coa.r.s.er natures.

[Sidenote: _Sunday Amus.e.m.e.nts._]

Another day was marked by the exhibition of an Italian tumbler, who displayed "such feats of agilitee, in goinges, turninges, tumblinges, castings, hops, jumps, leaps, skips, springs, gambaud, soomersauts, caprettiez, and flights; forward, backward, sydewize, a doownward, upward, and with sundry windings, gyrings and circ.u.mflexions; allso lightly and with such eaziness, as by me in feaw words it is not expressibl by pen or speech I tell yoo plain." On the second Sunday, after a "frutefull Sermon," a "solemn Brydeale of a proper Coopl was appointed in the tylt-yard," attended by all the country folk in holiday costume. This was followed by Morris dances, a Coventry play, and other games. "By my troth, Master Martyn, 'twaz a lively pastime; I beleeve it woold have mooved sum man to a right meerry mood, though had it be toold him hiz wife lay a dying." And all this on the Holy Sawbath--for shame, Queen Bess!

Nearly every hour had its appointed sport, one amus.e.m.e.nt following another in endless variety, and the park was peopled with mimic G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses who surprised the queen with complimentary dialogues and addresses at every turn. Dancing and feasting were kept up all day long and far into the night, for no note was taken of time. "The clok bell sang not a note all the while her highness waz thear; the clok also stood still withall; the handz of both the tablz stood firm and fast, allwayz poynting at two a clok," the hour of banquet.

The day of our visit to Kenilworth was very warm, even for Americans, and after luncheon we became a lazy, sleepy party. I have a distinct recollection of an upward and then a downward movement which awoke me suddenly. One after another of the party, caught asleep on a rug, was treated to a tossing amid screams of laughter. We were all very drowsy, but a fresh breeze arose as the sun declined, and remounting the coach late in the afternoon we had a charming drive to Stratford-on-Avon.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON, June 23.

Our resting-place was the Red Horse Inn, of which Washington Irving has written so delightfully. One can hardly say that he comes into Shakespeare's country, for one is always there, so deeply and widely has his influence reached. We live in his land always; but, as we approached the quiet little village where he appeared on earth, we could not help speculating upon the causes which produced the prodigy. One almost expects nature herself to present a different aspect to enable us to account in some measure for the apparition of a being so far beyond all others; but it is not so--we see only the quiet beauty which characterizes almost every part of England. His sweet sonnets seem the natural outbirth of the land. Where met he the genius of tragedy, think you? Surely not on the cultivated banks of the gentle Avon, where all is so tame. But as Shakespeare resembled other burghers of Stratford so much, not showing upon the surface that he was that

"largest son of time Who wandering sang to a listening world,"

[Sidenote: _Shakespeare's Tomb._]

our search for external conditions as to his environment need not be continued. Ordinary laws are inapplicable--he was a law unto himself.

How or why Shakespeare was Shakespeare will be settled when there shall be few problems of the race left to settle. It is well that he lies on the banks of the Avon, for that requires us to make a special visit to his shrine to worship him. His mighty shade alone fills the mind. True monotheists are we all who make the pilgrimage to Stratford. I have been there often, but I am always awed into silence as I approach the church; and when I stand beside the ashes of Shakespeare I cannot repress stern, gloomy thoughts, and ask why so potent a force is now but a little dust.

The inexplicable waste of nature, a million born that one may live, seems nothing compared to this--the brain of a G.o.d doing its work one day and food for worms the next! No wonder, George Eliot, that this was ever the weight that lay upon your heart and troubled you so!