Part 1

Chapter 13,422 wordsPublic domain

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ENGLISH HOURS

BY HENRY JAMES

ENGLISH HOURS

BY HENRY JAMES

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOSEPH PENNELL

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge

_Published October 1905_

NOTE

The papers gathered into this series, originally published in various periodicals, have already been reprinted—the earliest in date more than thirty years ago; the others, with the exception of two, more recently, in a volume entitled “Portraits of Places.” They have been here once more placed together, for the great advantage they will be felt to derive from the company and support of Mr. Pennell’s illustrations. Each article is marked with its date, and it is obvious that the impressions and observations they for the most part embody had sprung from an early stage of acquaintance with their general subject-matter. They represent a good many wonderments and judgments and emotions, whether felicities or mistakes, the fine freshness of which the author has—to his misfortune, no doubt—sufficiently outlived. But they may perhaps on that very account present something of a curious interest. I may add that I have again attentively looked them over, with a view to any possible amendment of their form or enhancement of their meaning, and that I have nowhere scrupled to rewrite a sentence or a passage on judging it susceptible of a better turn.

1905. H. J.

CONTENTS

LONDON 1

BROWNING IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 51

CHESTER 61

LICHFIELD AND WARWICK 77

NORTH DEVON 93

WELLS AND SALISBURY 107

AN ENGLISH EASTER 121

LONDON AT MIDSUMMER 153

TWO EXCURSIONS 175

IN WARWICKSHIRE 197

ABBEYS AND CASTLES 225

ENGLISH VIGNETTES 245

AN ENGLISH NEW YEAR 269

AN ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE 277

WINCHELSEA, RYE AND “DENIS DUVAL” 287

OLD SUFFOLK 317

⁂ _The chapters on “London” and “Browning in Westminster Abbey” are reprinted by permission of Messrs. Harper and Brothers from Mr. James’s “Essays in London and Elsewhere.” The chapter on “Winchelsea, Rye, and ‘Denis Duval,’” originally appeared in “Scribner’s Magazine.”_

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

_A Tower on the Walls, Chester_ _Half-title_

_Magdalen Tower, Oxford_ (_see p. 189_) _Frontispiece_

_The Gate-House, Cambridge_ _Title_

_The Senate House, Oxford_ v

_Peterhouse Quad, Cambridge_ vii

_The Medway and Rochester Keep_ ix

_Richmond, from the Thames_ 1

_St. Paul’s, from Ludgate Hill_ 6

_Entrance to St. James’s Park, Duke of York’s Column_ 16

_In the Green Park_ 22

_St. Paul’s, from the Water_ 40

_The Terrace, Richmond_ 42

_North Door of the Abbey_ 51

_The Abbey, from Victoria Street_ 54

_Eaton Hall_ 61

_Chester High Street_ 64

_The Rows, Chester_ 68

_Chester Cathedral, West Front_ 72

_Shrewsbury_ 76

_Haddon Hall_ 77

_Lichfield Cathedral_ 80

_The Three Spires of Lichfield_ 82

_Warwick Castle_ 88

_Haddon Hall, from the Road_ 91

_Lynmouth_ 93

_A Devonshire Lane_ 94

_The Norman Towers of Exeter_ 98

_Porlock Church, Exmoor_ 105

_The West Front, Wells_ 107

_The Market-Place, Wells_ 112

_Salisbury Cathedral_ 116

_Stonehenge_ 118

_Glastonbury_ 120

_The Abbey and Victoria Tower, from St. James’s Park_ 121

_Dark Mysterious London. Near Queen Anne’s Gate, Westminster_ 126

_In St. James’s Park_ 130

_Baker Street_ 134

_Canterbury, from the Meadows_ 140

_Rochester Castle_ 144

_The Cathedral Close, Canterbury_ 148

_The Nave, Canterbury_ 150

_The Great Tower, Canterbury_ 152

_Greenwich Observatory_ 153

_Piccadilly, near Devonshire House_ 156

_The Ship, Greenwich_ 162

_Kensington Gardens_ 166

_Greenwich Park_ 173

_Epsom Heath, Derby Day_ 175

_The Start for the Derby_ 180

_The Finish of the Derby_ 184

_On the Downs, Derby Day_ 196

_Kenilworth_ 197

_Stratford-on-Avon Church_ 208

_Charlecote Park_ 214

_The Hospital, Warwick_ 223

_Ludlow Castle_ 225

_Ludlow Castle, from the Moat_ 234

_Stokesay Castle_ 240

_Ludlow Tower_ 243

_Portsmouth Harbor, and “The Victory”_ 245

_Shanklin_ 254

_Chichester Cross_ 260

_Abbey Gateway, Bury St. Edmunds_ 264

_Trinity Gate, Cambridge_ 267

_The Workhouse_ 269

_A Factory Town at Night_ 272

_A Factory Town_ 275

_The Parade, Hastings_ 277

_The Front, Brighton_ 280

_A Crescent, Hastings_ 286

_Winchelsea High Street_ 287

_Rye, from Winchelsea Gate_ 290

_Rye, from the Winchelsea Road_ 296

_Rye, from the Marshes_ 300

_The Sandgate, Rye_ 308

_A Street in Rye_ 315

_FitzGerald’s House_ 317

_In Old Suffolk_ 326

_A Suffolk Common_ 330

ENGLISH HOURS

LONDON

There is a certain evening that I count as virtually a first impression,—the end of a wet, black Sunday, twenty years ago, about the first of March. There had been an earlier vision, but it had turned to grey, like faded ink, and the occasion I speak of was a fresh beginning. No doubt I had mystic prescience of how fond of the murky modern Babylon I was one day to become; certain it is that as I look back I find every small circumstance of those hours of approach and arrival still as vivid as if the solemnity of an opening era had breathed upon it. The sense of approach was already almost intolerably strong at Liverpool, where, as I remember, the perception of the English character of everything was as acute as a surprise, though it could only be a surprise without a shock. It was expectation exquisitely gratified, superabundantly confirmed. There was a kind of wonder indeed that England should be as English as, for my entertainment, she took the trouble to be; but the wonder would have been greater, and all the pleasure absent, if the sensation had not been violent. It seems to sit there again like a visiting presence, as it sat opposite to me at breakfast at a small table in a window of the old coffee-room of the Adelphi Hotel—the unextended (as it then was), the unimproved, the unblushingly local Adelphi. Liverpool is not a romantic city, but that smoky Saturday returns to me as a supreme success, measured by its association with the kind of emotion in the hope of which, for the most part, we betake ourselves to far countries.

It assumed this character at an early hour—or rather, indeed, twenty-four hours before—with the sight, as one looked across the wintry ocean, of the strange, dark, lonely freshness of the coast of Ireland. Better still, before we could come up to the city, were the black steamers knocking about in the yellow Mersey, under a sky so low that they seemed to touch it with their funnels, and in the thickest, windiest light. Spring was already in the air, in the town; there was no rain, but there was still less sun—one wondered what had become, on this side of the world, of the big white splotch in the heavens; and the grey mildness, shading away into black at every pretext, appeared in itself a promise. This was how it hung about me, between the window and the fire, in the coffee-room of the hotel—late in the morning for breakfast, as we had been long disembarking. The other passengers had dispersed, knowingly catching trains for London (we had only been a handful); I had the place to myself, and I felt as if I had an exclusive property in the impression. I prolonged it, I sacrificed to it, and it is perfectly recoverable now, with the very taste of the national muffin, the creak of the waiter’s shoes as he came and went (could anything be so English as his intensely professional back? it revealed a country of tradition), and the rustle of the newspaper I was too excited to read.

I continued to sacrifice for the rest of the day; it didn’t seem to me a sentient thing, as yet, to enquire into the means of getting away. My curiosity must indeed have languished, for I found myself on the morrow in the slowest of Sunday trains, pottering up to London with an interruptedness which might have been tedious without the conversation of an old gentleman who shared the carriage with me and to whom my alien as well as comparatively youthful character had betrayed itself. He instructed me as to the sights of London and impressed upon me that nothing was more worthy of my attention than the great cathedral of St. Paul. “Have you seen St. Peter’s in Rome? St. Peter’s is more highly embellished, you know; but you may depend upon it that St. Paul’s is the better building of the two.” The impression I began with speaking of was, strictly, that of the drive from Euston, after dark, to Morley’s Hotel in Trafalgar Square. It was not lovely—it was in fact rather horrible; but as I move again through dusky, tortuous miles, in the greasy four-wheeler to which my luggage had compelled me to commit myself, I recognise the first step in an initiation of which the subsequent stages were to abound in pleasant things. It is a kind of humiliation in a great city not to know where you are going, and Morley’s Hotel was then, to my imagination, only a vague ruddy spot in the general immensity. The immensity was the great fact, and that was a charm; the miles of housetops and viaducts, the complication of junctions and signals through which the train made its way to the station had already given me the scale. The weather had turned to wet, and we went deeper and deeper into the Sunday night. The sheep in the fields, on the way from Liverpool, had shown in their demeanour a certain consciousness of the day; but this momentous cab-drive was an introduction to the rigidities of custom. The low black houses were as inanimate as so many rows of coal-scuttles, save where at frequent corners, from a gin-shop, there was a flare of light more brutal still than the darkness. The custom of gin—that was equally rigid, and in this first impression the public-houses counted for much.

Morley’s Hotel proved indeed to be a ruddy spot; brilliant, in my recollection, is the coffee-room fire, the hospitable mahogany, the sense that in the stupendous city this, at any rate for the hour, was a shelter and a point of view. My remembrance of the rest of the evening—I was probably very tired—is mainly a remembrance of a vast four-poster. My little bedroom-candle, set in its deep basin, caused this monument to project a huge shadow and to make me think, I scarce knew why, of “The Ingoldsby Legends.” If at a tolerably early hour the next day I found myself approaching St. Paul’s, it was not wholly in obedience to the old gentleman in the railway-carriage: I had an errand in the City, and the City was doubtless prodigious. But what I mainly recall is the romantic consciousness of passing under the Temple Bar, and the way two lines of “Henry Esmond” repeated themselves in my mind as I drew near the masterpiece of Sir Christopher Wren. “The stout, red-faced woman” whom Esmond had seen tearing after the staghounds over the slopes at Windsor was not a bit like the effigy “which turns its stony back upon St. Paul’s and faces the coaches struggling up Ludgate Hill.” As I looked at Queen Anne over the apron of my hansom—she struck me as very small and dirty, and the vehicle ascended the mild incline without an effort—it was a thrilling thought that the statue had been familiar to the hero of the incomparable novel. All history appeared to live again, and the continuity of things to vibrate through my mind.

To this hour, as I pass along the Strand, I take again the walk I took there that afternoon. I love the place to-day, and that was the commencement of my passion. It appeared to me to present phenomena, and to contain objects of every kind, of an inexhaustible interest; in particular it struck me as desirable and even indispensable that I should purchase most of the articles in most of the shops. My eyes rest with a certain tenderness on the places where I resisted and on those where I succumbed. The fragrance of Mr. Rimmel’s establishment is again in my nostrils; I see the slim young lady (I hear her pronunciation) who waited upon me there. Sacred to me to-day is the particular aroma of the hair-wash that I bought of her. I pause before the granite portico of Exeter Hall (it was unexpectedly narrow and wedge-like), and it evokes a cloud of associations which are none the less impressive because they are vague; coming from I don’t know where—from “Punch,” from Thackeray, from volumes of the “Illustrated London News” turned over in childhood; seeming connected with Mrs. Beecher Stowe and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Memorable is a rush I made into a glover’s at Charing Cross—the one you pass, going eastward, just before you turn into the station; that, however, now that I think of it, must have been in the morning, as soon as I issued from the hotel. Keen within me was a sense of the importance of deflowering, of despoiling the shop.

A day or two later, in the afternoon, I found myself staring at my fire, in a lodging of which I had taken possession on foreseeing that I should spend some weeks in London. I had just come in, and, having attended to the distribution of my luggage, sat down to consider my habitation. It was on the ground floor, and the fading daylight reached it in a sadly damaged condition. It struck me as stuffy and unsocial, with its mouldy smell and its decoration of lithographs and wax-flowers—an impersonal black hole in the huge general blackness. The uproar of Piccadilly hummed away at the end of the street, and the rattle of a heartless hansom passed close to my ears. A sudden horror of the whole place came over me, like a tiger-pounce of homesickness which had been watching its moment. London was hideous, vicious, cruel, and above all overwhelming; whether or no she was “careful of the type,” she was as indifferent as Nature herself to the single life. In the course of an hour I should have to go out to my dinner, which was not supplied on the premises, and that effort assumed the form of a desperate and dangerous quest. It appeared to me that I would rather remain dinnerless, would rather even starve, than sally forth into the infernal town, where the natural fate of an obscure stranger would be to be trampled to death in Piccadilly and have his carcass thrown into the Thames. I did not starve, however, and I eventually attached myself by a hundred human links to the dreadful, delightful city. That momentary vision of its smeared face and stony heart has remained memorable to me, but I am happy to say that I can easily summon up others.

It is, no doubt, not the taste of every one, but for the real London-lover the mere immensity of the place is a large part of its savour. A small London would be an abomination, as it fortunately is an impossibility, for the idea and the name are beyond everything an expression of extent and number. Practically, of course, one lives in a quarter, in a plot; but in imagination and by a constant mental act of reference the accommodated haunter enjoys the whole—and it is only of him that I deem it worth while to speak. He fancies himself, as they say, for being a particle in so unequalled an aggregation; and its immeasurable circumference, even though unvisited and lost in smoke, gives him the sense of a social, an intellectual margin. There is a luxury in the knowledge that he may come and go without being noticed, even when his comings and goings have no nefarious end. I don’t mean by this that the tongue of London is not a very active member; the tongue of London would indeed be worthy of a chapter by itself. But the eyes which at least in some measure feed its activity are fortunately for the common advantage solicited at any moment by a thousand different objects. If the place is big, everything it contains is certainly not so; but this may at least be said—that if small questions play a part there, they play it without illusions about its importance. There are too many questions, small or great; and each day, as it arrives, leads its children, like a kind of mendicant mother, by the hand. Therefore perhaps the most general characteristic is the absence of insistence. Habits and inclinations flourish and fall, but intensity is never one of them. The spirit of the great city is not analytic, and, as they come up, subjects rarely receive at its hands a treatment drearily earnest or tastelessly thorough. There are not many—of those of which London disposes with the assurance begotten of its large experience—that wouldn’t lend themselves to a tenderer manipulation elsewhere. It takes a very great affair, a turn of the Irish screw or a divorce case lasting many days, to be fully threshed out. The mind of Mayfair, when it aspires to show what it really can do, lives in the hope of a new divorce case, and an indulgent providence—London is positively in certain ways the spoiled child of the world—abundantly recognises this particular aptitude and humours the whim.

The compensation is that material does arise; that there is a great variety, if not morbid subtlety; and that the whole of the procession of events and topics passes across your stage. For the moment I am speaking of the inspiration there may be in the sense of far frontiers; the London-lover loses himself in this swelling consciousness, delights in the idea that the town which encloses him is after all only a paved country, a state by itself. This is his condition of mind quite as much if he be an adoptive as if he be a matter-of-course son. I am by no means sure even that he need be of Anglo-Saxon race and have inherited the birthright of English speech; though, on the other hand, I make no doubt that these advantages minister greatly to closeness of allegiance. The great city spreads her dusky mantle over innumerable races and creeds, and I believe there is scarcely a known form of worship that has not some temple there (have I not attended at the Church of Humanity, in Lamb’s Conduit, in company with an American lady, a vague old gentleman, and several seamstresses?) or any communion of men that has not some club or guild. London is indeed an epitome of the round world, and just as it is a commonplace to say that there is nothing one can’t “get” there, so it is equally true that there is nothing one may not study at first hand.

One doesn’t test these truths every day, but they form part of the air one breathes (and welcome, says the London-hater,—for there be such perverse reasoners,—to the pestilent compound). They colour the thick, dim distances which in my opinion are the most romantic town-vistas in the world; they mingle with the troubled light to which the straight, ungarnished aperture in one’s dull, undistinctive house-front affords a passage and which makes an interior of friendly corners, mysterious tones, and unbetrayed ingenuities, as well as with the low, magnificent medium of the sky, where the smoke and fog and the weather in general, the strangely undefined hour of the day and season of the year, the emanations of industries and the reflection of furnaces, the red gleams and blurs that may or may not be of sunset—as you never see any _source_ of radiance, you can’t in the least tell—all hang together in a confusion, a complication, a shifting but irremoveable canopy. They form the undertone of the deep, perpetual voice of the place. One remembers them when one’s loyalty is on the defensive; when it is a question of introducing as many striking features as possible into the list of fine reasons one has sometimes to draw up, that eloquent catalogue with which one confronts the hostile indictment—the array of _other_ reasons which may easily be as long as one’s arm. According to these other reasons it plausibly and conclusively stands that, as a place to be happy in, London will never do. I don’t say it is necessary to meet so absurd an allegation except for one’s personal complacency. If indifference, in so gorged an organism, is still livelier than curiosity, you may avail yourself of your own share in it simply to feel that since such and such a person doesn’t care for real richness, so much the worse for such and such a person. But once in a while the best believer recognises the impulse to set his religion in order, to sweep the temple of his thoughts and trim the sacred lamp. It is at such hours as this that he reflects with elation that the British capital is the particular spot in the world which communicates the greatest sense of life.

III