Part 8

WARWICK CASTLE.--It were as well, perhaps, for me to say nothing of these places which a thousand and one tourists have already made familiar to you. As to this; Kenilworth, Stratford-on-Avon, and indeed the European tour, I know the subject has been pretty well used up, and scribblers must now be content to tell an old story as best they may. I might tell you how I went down to this famous castle, and knocked at the porter's lodge, and how he took me within it, to see the walking-stick of Guy, Earl of Warwick, nine feet high, and his 'porridge-pot' of iron, which would contain half a barrel!--how he sent me up a long circular path-way, cut through a solid rock, to the castle itself; how I marvelled at its vastness, and passed under the towers into the area; how I wandered about, bewildered with the number of entrances to the huge pile, on all sides, but finally ventured one, and got into a chapel, without being challenged; how they took me through a range of gorgeous apartments, extending three hundred and thirty-three feet in a line, on only one side of the castle; and all the princely furniture, the tables of inlaid brass and precious stones; the rare paintings and sculpture which fill these halls; the antique armory, cut out of the thickness of the castle walls; the earl's family, and how naughty he is; and sundry other matters, may be buried in oblivion. You are aware that this is much the finest, perhaps the _only_ one remaining entire, of the old English baronial castles. Its walls have been standing eight hundred years; and yet they seem imperishable. A novice like myself is 'taken aback' with the grandeur of these lordly abodes.

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THE change of the scene to the ruins of KENILWORTH, in the course of an hour, naturally led to instructive recollections of the past. Here was once a castle as extensive and impregnable as the one we had just left; but now the lofty towers are fast falling to decay; and the sheep are grazing in peace and quiet, where once all the magnificence of the Elizabethan age was concentrated. I passed the same portal that admitted the great Eliza and her train, when she came to honor the princely entertainments of her favorite Leicester. The ruins are extremely picturesque; and they prove that the castle was of prodigious extent. They forcibly remind one that

'The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Shall, like an unsubstantial pageant faded, Or like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a rack behind.'

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WELL--like all dutiful travellers, I of course added my name to the list of illustrious pilgrims in the Album at Stratford-on-Avon. The birth-place and the tomb of Shakspeare! Who would go to England, and pass them by without a visit? What a host of grandissimos, beside the multitude of humbler gentry, have deigned to worship at this intellectual shrine!--or, in other words, to follow the old cicerone up those narrow back stairs to the lowly apartment where the Bard of Nature was cradled, and there to scribble their names on the rude walls, or in the goodly quarto. There I saw the autographs of 'William Henry, Duke of Clarence,' 'Walter Scott,' 'Countess Guicciolli,' 'Coleridge,' 'Charles Lamb,' and scores of similar names, beside an army from the United States. I copied some of the many inscriptions in the 'Ollapod' of an album, which you may like to have:

'Of mighty Shakspeare's birth, the room we see, That where he died, in vain to find, we try; Useless the search; for all immortal He, And they who are immortal, never die.

WASHINGTON IRVING.'

'Shakspeare! Thy named rever'd is no less, By us, who often _reckon_, sometimes _guess_; Though England claims the glory of thy birth, None more appreciate thy page's worth, Nor more admire thy scenes well acted o'er, Than we of 'states unborn' in ancient lore.

JAMES H. HACKETT.'

The esteemed and lamented CARTER:

'1825, Nov. 18. N. H. CARTER, } H. J. ECKFORD.}

'Think not, Britannia, all the tears are thine, Which flow, a tribute to this hallowed shrine; Pilgrims from every land shall hither come, And fondly linger round the poet's tomb.'

Not being 'wise above what is written,' I shall spare you a rhapsody of my own on the occasion. To tell the truth, as ill-luck would have it, I could not get up a fit of enthusiasm. I was not inspired even by the _impressive_ little sign which is poked out over the door, and tells the heedless urchin of Stratford, as well as the eager pilgrim from foreign climes, that

'The immortal SHAKSPEARE Was born in this house.'

And then to be bowed up stairs and down,

'For only 'sixpence sterling!''

'T was cheap, to be sure; but there was something droll in the idea. Of course, I spent half a crown beside, for seeing the tomb in the church, which, by-the-way, is a fine old edifice of its kind; and mine host has also shown me, _gratis_, the mulberry tree in his garden, which was planted by the great bard himself. They are going to have a 'grand jubilee' here, shortly; and an oration is to be delivered by somebody whose name I have forgotten; but as he styles himself _the_ 'American Tragedian,' you will know, I suppose, to whom this title belongs.[4]

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LONDON IN MAY.--The 'fashionable season' is now in its prime. Parliament is sitting, and every body is in town. How strangely they arrange, or rather dis-arrange, the order of nature, here in England! Come to town in May, for the winter season, and go into the country in December, to spend Christmas! Yes, if you wish to see London in all its glory, come here in the blooming month of May. The queen of cities then puts on her gayest attire, and all her thousand attractions and amusements are ready to draw on your purse. First, if you like _paintings_, there is the Royal Academy exhibition in Somerset House, which, by the way, is soon to be removed to a part of the New National Gallery at Charing-Cross, which is now nearly completed, and is to receive the collection of old masters belonging to the nation, which have been exhibiting in Pall-Mall. Then there is the Society of British Artists, in the latter street, and two Societies of Painters, in water-colors; all of whose exhibitions are crowded with fashionables. They seem to pay special attention to this water-color department, and the present collections are really brilliant. In books, sculpture, natural curiosities, etc., there is that immense repository, the British Museum, freely open to all visitors. The Benevolent Society Anniversaries take place, this month, at Exeter Hall; and there is always a great musical treat at St. Paul's for the charity children, and also for the sons of the clergy. Speaking of music, I was thriftless enough to go to Exeter Hall, last evening, to the great musical festival, where six hundred performers, beside the organ and big drum, concerted together a 'concord of sweet sounds.' I wonder what a Connecticut singing-master, fortified, with a pine pitch-pipe and a 'Musica Sacra,' would have said to it! The Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria were to be there; and when they appeared in the front gallery-seat, the whole audience rose, and gave them three cheers, which were, of course, 'graciously acknowledged' by their highnesses, with sundry bows. The Princess is now seventeen, very unnecessarily pretty, and dresses with a neatness and simplicity which would be a pattern for New-York belles. She looks intelligent and dignified, without affectation, and is, no doubt, well educated, and highly accomplished. She is evidently the darling of the people, and, I hope, deservedly so; but she must be a _very_ fine girl, if she can wear all her honors, and sip all the flattery which is paid to her, and yet not be spoiled. Her mother, the Duchess, seemed to be a restless, bustling sort of person, and I set her down as being, at least, no more than a woman.

Among the singers, Philips stands highest. He has a rich and highly-cultivated bass voice. He sang some fine airs in Balfé's new opera of 'The Maid of Artois,' a few weeks after this. In this, I had the good fortune to hear that wonderful vocalist, MALIBRAN. Those who saw her when she visited New-York, some years since, would scarcely recognise the present brilliant tones, and great compass of her voice, so much has it improved: and not only does she astonish and delight you, by such singing as you never heard before, but her manners and acting are equally extraordinary and fascinating. She is rather small and short in figure, and her face, though not handsome, is peculiarly expressive and intelligent. I saw her several times in this opera, and also in 'La Somnambula,' and Beethoven's opera of Fidelio, which is her _chef d'oeuvre_.

The only female vocalist who is named in the same breath with Malibran, is JULIA GRISI, of the Italian Opera. Grisi is tall, very pretty, and lady-like, sings sweetly, and is evidently a great favorite. The queen attended her benefit the other evening, beside many a 'bright particular star.' I had a good chance to stare at her majesty, who is tall and slim, and looks very like a queen. The popular feeling seems to have changed in her favor; and I heard her styled 'an excellent and exemplary woman.' I saw her a few days since, with the king, riding out to Windsor, after the levee at St. James' Palace. But to the singers.

La Blache, a portly, good-looking personage, has the most tremendous bass voice I ever heard. Tamburini and Rubini are the tenors. The King's Theatre, or Opera-House, is one of the most extensive and elegant, certainly the most expensive, in Europe. * * *

I have had the good luck to hear BRAHAM, too, who yet looks youthful, although now about sixty, and whose singing seems as much prized as ever. But time fails me to tell you of Liston, Macready, Charles Matthews, Jr., and other lions of the day, who figure where the Siddons and Garricks have 'held the mirror up to nature.'

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WE have passed a leisure hour in finding out some of the antiquities and literary curiosities of the metropolis; such as Boar's Head Tavern, (Mrs. Quickly's), where Falstaff, Poins, and 'Hal' called for their cups of sack. In Buckingham-street, near us, is the house where Peter the Great lodged, when in London. 43 Lombard-street was the residence of Jane Shore. In the Old Bailey, Jonathan Wild and Oliver Goldsmith lodged. Chapter Coffee-House, where Dr. Johnson and his coterie frequented, is yet the resort of penny-a-liners and newspaper-readers. In Bolt Court, Fleet-street, we saw the literary leviathan's residence, and we found also those of Byron, Blackstone, Cowley, Hogarth, Pope, Lord Bacon, Garrick, Gibbon, Handel, Hans Holbein, Hume, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Sir Thomas Lawrence, West, Sheridan, Sterne, Spenser, etc.

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YORK MINSTER.--I did not repent varying my route a little to visit the ancient city of York, and its noble cathedral, unquestionably the finest Gothic structure in Great Britain, if not in the world. This grand edifice is five hundred and twenty-four feet in length, and, of course, exceeds St. Paul's on this score; but in other respects, they can scarcely be compared, as the style of architecture is entirely different. It stands in bold relief above all the rest of the town, albeit not on a rising ground. To use the words of the book, it is like 'a mountain starting out of a plain, and thus attracting all the attention of the spectator. The petty, humble dwellings of men appear to crouch at its feet, while its own vastness and beauty impress the observer with awe and sublimity.' It dates its origin as far back as A. D. 642;[5] but the present walls seem to have been erected in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The screen and the choir, particularly, are elaborate and exquisite specimens of the Gothic style. It seems strange to us, who make the most of our _room_, that they should only use so small a portion of these cathedrals for what one would suppose was their chief purpose--divine worship. Service can only be held in what is called the 'choir,' an enclosure near the centre of the church, which has seats for perhaps from one hundred to two hundred persons. I went in, during the evening prayers, and had an opportunity of hearing the gigantic organ, accompanied by the choir, in some fine anthems. The whole of the east wing of the cathedral was fired in 1829, by Martin, the lunatic, who secreted himself behind the organ, during service, and so thoroughly effected his purpose, that the whole interior, including the choir, was destroyed. The great painted glass window, seventy-five feet by thirty-two, (capable of admitting a large three-story house,) was saved as if by miracle. It is remarkable, that the whole of this wing has been restored, so precisely in the original form, as scarcely to be suspected for a modern work. The architect was Robert Smirke, Esq. It is asserted, by the knowing ones, that a work of equal magnitude to York Cathedral could not be performed, at the present day, for ten millions of dollars, nor in less time than fifty or even a hundred years.

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HOUSE OF LORDS.--There is no admittance for plebeians to this 'august assembly,' without a written order from a peer; but we were not to be daunted on this wise. We wrote a billet to some of the great 'uns, as follows:

'_To His Grace the Duke of Wellington_:

'MY LORD DUKE: The undersigned, a stranger from the United States, presumes to solicit your Grace's permission to visit the House of Lords this evening.

'I am, my Lord Duke, 'Your Grace's Humble Servant, ---- ----.'

This circular was addressed also to the Duke of Buccleugh, Viscount Melbourne, Marquis of Londonderry, etc., for the Lords; and to O'Connell, Hume, Spring Rice, and Sergeant Talfourd, for the Commons. To insure success, I took a cab, and called on their graces and lordships in person. At Whitehall-Gardens, the powdered and gold-laced footman, gracefully bowing for a sixpence 'to drink my health,' presented me with a note, neatly sealed with the duke's arms, which purported thus:

'The Duke of Buccleugh presents his compliments to Mr. ----, and has the honor to enclose an order for the House of Lords.'

* * * This for my friend. Now to the premier's for myself. The viscount's house is certainly not more ostentatious than his neighbors.

'On business?' asked the porter, as I presented my 'little affair.'

'Yes,' said I, stoutly.

'Then you must take it to the office, in Downing-street. His lordship transacts no business at home.'

'Oh! it is _private_ business--_very_ special, and requires an _immediate_ answer,' returned I, remembering the advantage of an air of consequence, with these 'gentlemen's gentlemen.'

The official disappeared, and soon brought me a roughly-folded note, addressed in true great men's hieroglyphics:

+---------------------------------------------+ | | | '---- ---- ESQ., | | | | '18 Norfolk-street, Strand.' | | | | 'MELBOURNE.' | | | +---------------------------------------------+

It enclosed the order. Next, to Apsley House: 'The duke will send an answer.' To Piccadilly: 'The Marquis not in town.' To Cavendish-Square: 'The duke will be at home shortly; an answer at two o'clock.' To Langham-Place: Answer written on back of request:

'Finding Mr. ---- is not a resident of a _slave-holding state_, Mr. O'Connell has the honor to comply with his request.'

'_Admit the bearer to the gallery._'

DANIEL O'CONNELL.'

To Guildhall: Mr. Talfourd, the author of 'Ion,' to whom I had a letter, is in court, examining a witness. Asked the constable to give him my note, when he was disengaged; but he pushed inside, before judge and jury, thinking I had something touching the case in hand. Luckily the sergeant was busy, and I escaped. A brace of orders came from him in season, so I supplied my friends; for no member can give an order for more than one person at a time.

We went to the House of Lords at five P. M. The room is about the same size as that of the Commons, but looks, of course, a little more 'genteel.' The throne is a large arm-chair, under a crimson canopy, not particularly splendid. The members' seats are elevated on each side, and covered with red moreen. The 'ministerial bench' is in front, near the woolsack and the bishops; and their party (at present whigs) all sit on the same side, while the opposition, or tories, occupy the other, facing their opponents. In _this_ house, the tories, or _conservatives_, of course predominate. The members were in plain citizen's dress, except the bishops, the chancellor, and the clerks, who all wear a black gown and big wigs. When we entered, a witness was being examined in an election-bribery case: Presently the house was called to order, and the chancellor (Lord Cottenham) took his seat on the _woolsack_, which is nothing more than a good-sized red ottoman. An ordinary-looking man, who it appeared was the Earl of Wicklow, then rose, and made a studied speech, in which there were far more words than ideas, against appropriations for a charity-school in Ireland, which he alleged was under Catholic influence. Some one at the door announced, 'My luds! a message from the House of Commons!' and on each repetition of this, the chancellor, poor man, had to leave his seat and come down the hall with a bag, which they call the _purse_, to receive the 'message.' One of the prelates (the Bishop of Exeter) rose and supported the Earl of Wicklow's motion; and then presented petitions from manufacturing districts, praying for interference in behalf of the children employed in factories, who were often required to work twenty hours out of the twenty-four, and were otherwise ill-treated. The bishop made some remarkable statements in the course of his appeal, which was manly and sensible; and I observed Melbourne, the minister, who is a full-sized, elderly man, leave his seat and whisper somebody, and then return with a point-blank contradiction to one of the bishop's assertions, which of course produced a rejoinder.

When I re-visited the house on the 17th, the Marquis of Londonderry had the floor. My object was to see Wellington. 'Pray is he here?' 'Yes; don't you see his nose?' Ah, there's no mistaking the duke. There he sits, between the dandy-exquisite-moustached-tory-Duke of Cumberland (the king's brother) and Lord Lyndhurst, the intellectual giant of the house, the ablest peer of them all, and the best orator, perhaps the only orator, among them. 'He is an extraordinary man, that,' said my neighbor. 'No doubt,' thought I. 'His father was a native of our own Boston.' 'That tall man, with a short neck, and black hair, is Lord Ellenborough, and he in the rear, the Earl of Devon, all tories--'birds of a feather.' 'Brougham is not here; he appears to have retired of late from public life. But hush! The duke is going to speak! Lo! the great captain, who is at once two dukes, (Spanish and English,) a prince, (of Belgium,) two marquisses, three generals, a 'field-marshal, four or five ex-premiers, knight of the garter, Chancellor of the University of Oxford, Constable of the Tower, and filling I know not how many other stations; the conqueror of Napoleon; the commander of three great armies; the leader at the ball of Brussels, when

'There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry;'

this famous great-little man rose to speak. And he spoke 'pretty well, considering.' He hesitates and stutters at times, but when he gets warm with his subject, as he is now, he waxes quite eloquent. He is evidently listened to with much deference and attention. They have not forgotten Waterloo.

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I USUALLY attend church on Sunday afternoons at Westminster Abbey. I love to go there. One can read sermons on the walls. The very tombs discourse history, poetry, and philosophy. The verbal preachers are usually sufficiently dull. Among others, I have heard the Bishops of Hereford, Chester, and Exeter; and (in his own church) the Rev. George Croly, the poet, author of 'Salathiel.' Croly is a man of fifty, or thereabout, a high tory, and distinguished for his eloquence; but according to my humble opinion, neither of these great guns will compare with our Dr. H---- as pulpit orators. But there is something impressive in the church service in such a place as this venerable abbey. Here you may sit within a few steps of the spot where sleep the mortal remains of the royal Edwards, Henrys, Richards, of old; the knights of chivalry repose at your feet; from the valiant deeds of the Black Prince, the bloody career of the monster Gloucester, the mad pranks of Falstaff's dearly beloved 'Hal,' the brilliant court of Elizabeth, and the woes of the unfortunate Mary Stuart, your thoughts turn, on a glance at other tablets, to the lofty strains of him who sung of

'Things invisible to mortal sight,'

and to the splendid creations of the Bard of Avon; the epitaphs of the time-honored Chaucer; 'O Rare Ben Johnson;' and the whole host of poets, statesmen, and philosophers--stars of the first magnitude in English literature--meet your eye on every side; and while you are so forcibly reminded that

'The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, Await alike the inevitable hour-- The paths of glory lead but to the grave;'

the rich, full notes of the organ, softened by the voices of the juvenile choir, are echoed through the lofty and venerable arches, as they chant in harmonious chorus:

'Glory be to God on high!--on earth peace, and good will toward men!'

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