CHAPTER V

THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH

August 21, 1888.--From Devizes the traveller naturally turns toward Bath, which is only a few miles distant. A beautiful city, marred somewhat by the feverish, disturbing spirit of the present day, this old place [so old that in it the Saxon King Edgar was crowned, A.D. 973] nevertheless retains many interesting characteristics of its former glory. More than a century has passed since the wigged, powdered, and jewelled days of Beau Nash. The Avon,--for there is another Avon here, distinct from that of Warwickshire and also from that of Yorkshire,--is spanned by bridges that Smollett never dreamt of and Sheridan never saw. The town has crept upward, along both the valley slopes, nearer and nearer to the hill-tops that used to look down upon it. Along the margins of the river many gray, stone structures are mouldering in neglect and decay; but a tramcar rattles through the principal street; the boot-black and the newsvender are active and vociferous; the causeways are crowded with a bustling throng, and carts and carriages dash and scramble over the pavement, while, where of old the horn used to sound a gay flourish and the coach to come spinning in from London, now is heard the shriek and clangour of the steam-engine dashing down the vale, with morning papers and with passengers, three hours from the town. This, indeed, is not "the season" and of late it has rained with zealous persistence, so that Bath is not in her splendour. Much however can be seen, and the essential fact that she is no longer the Gainsborough belle that she used to be is distinctly evident. You must yield your mind to fancy if you would conjure up, while walking in these modern streets, the gay and quaint things described in _Humphrey Clinker_ or indicated in _The Rivals_. The Bath chairs, sometimes pulled by donkeys, and sometimes trundled by men, are among the most representative relics now to be seen. Next to the theatre [where it was my privilege to enjoy and admire Mr. John L. Toole's quaint and richly humorous performance of _The Don_], stands a building, at the foot of Gascoigne place, before which the traveller pauses with interest, because upon its front he may read the legend, neatly engraved on a white marble slab, that "In this house lived the celebrated Beau Nash, and here he died, February 1761." It is an odd structure, consisting of two stories and an attic, the front being of the monotonous stucco that came in with the Regent. Earlier no doubt the building was timbered. There are eleven windows in the front, four of them being painted on the wall. The house is used now by an auctioneer. In the historic Pump Room, dating back to 1797, raised aloft in an alcove at the east end, still stands the effigy of the Beau, even as it stood in the days when he set the fashions, regulated the customs, and gave the laws, and was the King of Bath; but the busts of Newton and Pope that formerly stood on either side of this statue stand there no more, save in the fancy of those who recall the epigram which was suggested by that singular group:

"This statue placed these busts between Gives satire all its strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen, But Folly at full length."

Folly, though, is a word that carries a different meaning to different ears. Douglas Jerrold made a play on the subject of Beau Nash, an ingenious, effective, brilliantly written play, in which he is depicted as anything but foolish. Much always depends on the point of view.

Quin [1693-1766] was buried in Bath Abbey, and Bath is the scene of _The Rivals_. It would be pleasant to fancy the trim figure of the elegant Sir Lucius O'Trigger strolling along the parade; or bluff and choleric Sir Anthony Absolute gazing with imperious condescension upon the galaxy of the Pump Room; Acres in his absurd finery; Lydia with her sentimental novels; and Mrs. Malaprop, rigid with decorum, in her Bath chair. The Abbey, begun in 1405 and completed in 1606, has a noble west front and a magnificent door of carved oak, and certainly it is a superb church; but the eyes that have rested upon such cathedrals as those of Lincoln, Durham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, such a heavenly jewel as Roslin, and such an astounding and overwhelming edifice as York minster, can dwell calmly on Bath Abbey. A surprising feature in it is its mural record of the dead that are entombed beneath or around it. Sir Lucius might well declare that "There is snug lying in the Abbey." Almost every foot of the walls is covered with monumental slabs, and like Captain Cuttle, after the wedding of Mr. Dombey and Edith Granger, I "pervaded the body of the church" and read the epitaphs,--solicitous to discover that of the renowned actor James Quin. His tablet was formerly to be found in the chancel, but now it is obscurely placed in a porch, on the north corner of the building, on what may be termed the outer wall of the sanctuary. It presents the face of the famous comedian, carved in white marble and set against a black slab. Beneath is the date of his death, "Ob. MDCCLXVI. Ætat. LXXIII.," and his epitaph, written by David Garrick. At the base are dramatic emblems,--the mask and the dagger. As a portrait this medallion of Quin gives convincing evidence of scrupulous fidelity to nature, and certainly it is a fine work of art. The head is dressed as it was in life, with the full wig of the period. The features are delicately cut and are indicative of austere beauty of countenance, impressive if not attractive. The mouth is especially handsome, the upper lip being a perfect Cupid's bow. The face is serious, expressive, and fraught with intellect and power. This was the last great declaimer of the old school of acting, discomfited and almost obliterated by Garrick; and here are the words that Garrick wrote upon his tomb:

"That tongue which set the table on a roar And charmed the public ear is heard no more; Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ; Cold is that hand which, living, was stretched forth, At friendship's call, to succour modest worth. Here lies JAMES QUIN. Deign, reader, to be taught Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought, In nature's happiest mould however cast, To this complexion thou must come at last."

A printed reminder of mortality is superfluous in Bath, for you almost continually behold afflicted and deformed persons who have come here to "take the waters." For rheumatic sufferers this place is a paradise,--as, indeed, it is for all wealthy persons who love luxury. Walter Savage Landor said that the only two cities of Europe in which he could live were Bath and Florence; but that was long ago. When you have walked in Milsom street and Lansdowne Crescent, sailed upon the Avon, observed the Abbey, without and within,--for its dusky, weather-stained walls are extremely picturesque,--attended the theatre, climbed the hills for the view of the city and the Avon valley, and taken the baths, you will have had a satisfying experience of Bath. The greatest luxury in the place is a swimming-tank of mineral water, about forty feet long, by twenty broad, and five feet deep,--a tepid pool of most refreshing potency. And the chief curiosity is the ruin of a Roman bath which was discovered and laid bare in 1885. This is built in the form of a rectangular basin of stone, with steps around it, and originally it was environed with stone chambers that were used as dressing-rooms. The basin is nearly perfect. The work of restoration of this ancient bath is in progress, but the relic will be preserved only as an emblem of the past.

Thomas Haynes Bayly, the song-writer, 1797-1839, was born in Bath, and there he melodiously recorded that "She wore a wreath of roses," and there he dreamed of dwelling "in marble halls." But Bath is not nearly as rich in literary associations as its neighbour city of Bristol. Chatterton, Southey, Hannah More, and Mary Robinson,--the actress, the lovely and unfortunate "Perdita,"--were born in Bristol. Richard Savage, the poet, died there [1743], and so did John Hippesley, the comedian, manager, and farce-writer [1748]. St. Mary Redclyffe church, built in 1292, is still standing there, of which Chatterton's father was the sexton, and in the tower of which "the marvellous boy" discovered, according to his ingenious plan of literary imposture, the original Canynge and Rowley manuscripts. The ancient chests, which once were filled with black-letter parchments, remain in a loft in the church tower, but they are empty now. That famous preacher, the Rev. Robert Hall [1764-1831], had a church in Bristol. Southey and Coleridge married sisters, of the name of Fricker, who resided there, and a house called Myrtle Cottage, once occupied by Coleridge is still extant, in the contiguous village of Clevedon,--one of the loveliest places on the English coast. Jane Porter and Anna Maria Porter lived in Bristol, and Maria died at Montpelier, near by. These references indicate but a tithe of what may be seen, studied, and enjoyed in and about Bristol,--the city to which Chatterton left his curse; the region hallowed by the dust of Arthur Hallam,--inspiration of Tennyson's _In Memoriam_, the loftiest poem that has been created in the English language since the pen that wrote _Childe Harold_ fell from the magical hand of Byron.