Part 2
Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for the purpose of taking the animal's picture than they would get if they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes--and in this class I include myself--can find all the sport they want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out the attractive scenes,--the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook; the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of some noteworthy historical event,--but the art of photography itself presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select the right point of view; to secure an artistic "balance" in all parts of the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired transparency in the shadows,--these and a hundred other considerations give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the never-ending fascination of the game.
I have noticed that the camera does not lure one into the beaten tracks which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many people are around, especially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always felt a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable jargon of the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not only with a sense of complete satisfaction, but with a new friendship to add to the pleasure of future memories.
To visit the places made famous by their associations with literature and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and awe-inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast depths of the Grand Canon, or restful in their sweet simplicity like the quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people in their homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages; to find new beauty daily, whether at home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds; to gain that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the picturesque and beautiful,--these are the possibilities offered by amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera.
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
II
LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN
I
Emerson said of the English people, "Every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable," and that "It is almost an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced." Holmes, on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were "received with nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate kindness." Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as "the only real thing in a wilderness of shams," and thought his patronage "divertingly insufferable." On the other hand, he praised the genuineness of the better men of England, as "so manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than water." Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days what he called "the two opposite poles of English character." One of them was "taciturn, reserved, fastidious" and without "power of enjoyment"; the other was "expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laughing loud and long." All of this suggests that in attempting to write one's impressions of the English or any other people, one must remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great emphasis--"some people are not all alike!"
I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland, manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to another, until, continuing to pass "higher up," I was at last photographing everything of interest, including the "Beef-Eater" who obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should not be disappointed.
An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot's writings, and on the day of our arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully preserved.
Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial smile, calling me by name and saying, "I have something I want to show you, if you would care to see it." Considerably surprised, I saw him touch a button as he resumed,--"It's a picture of George Eliot,--at least we think it is, but we are not sure,--we bought it from the executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist." Here the attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to be a large painting in water-colors of a woman's face, with remarkably strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say, "If any woman in the world can do a man's thinking, I'm that person." A letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered portrait was a "study" for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true womanliness of George Eliot's character, for he certainly softened the expression of those determined-looking eyes.
After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot's novels and to photograph all the various places of interest. "Of course you'll go to Nuneaton?" he asked. "Yes," I replied, in a tone of assurance; "I expect to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor." "I suppose, then, you are acquainted with Mr. Newdegate," said he, inquiringly. I had to confess that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise. "Why, you can't get in if you don't know him. Arbury is a private estate." This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I could go anywhere. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very beginning appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. Of course, I could not expect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs, and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. "I happen to know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I'll give you a letter of introduction.--No, I'll do better. I'll write and tell him you're coming."
This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and added, "Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture"; and the interview ended with his promise to have the official photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and the next morning received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall cordially inviting us to visit him.
Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging side by side in the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I was, therefore, eager to find them.
We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster's conviviality. Readers of "Janet's Repentance" will recall that the great "man of deeds" addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of the "Red Lion," protesting against the "temptation to vice" involved in the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He brought the meeting to a close by calling for "Three cheers for True Religion"; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the inn, he caused "the most capacious punch-bowl" to be brought out and continued the festivities until after midnight, "when several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter."
The old tavern, one of the few which still retain the old-fashioned arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change horses, boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept since Shakespeare's time.
In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the private grounds of which make a beautifully wooded park of three hundred acres. The mansion is seen to the best advantage from the opposite side of a little pool, where the surrounding trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are waving gently in the summer air, and the pond-lilies spread their round green leaves to make a richer, deeper background for their blossoms of purest white. On a green knoll behind this charming foreground stands a gray stone mansion of rectangular shape, its sharp corners softened with ivy and by the foliage at either end. Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each with a double-storied oriel, and a multitude of pinnacles surmounting the walls on every side, give a distinguished air to the building, as though it were a part of some great cathedral. This Gothic aspect was imparted to the mansion something over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdigate, who was the prototype of George Eliot's Sir Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist describes the place as if in the process of remodeling.
We were cordially welcomed by the present owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose hospitality doubly confirmed our first impressions of British courtesy. After some preliminary conversation we rose to begin a tour of inspection. Our host threw open a door and instantly we were face to face with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel, which for so long had stood in my mind as the only known objects of interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the way, not of Sir Joshua Reynolds, but of George Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory, probably a full score of years after her last visit to the place, and this is one of several slight mistakes. These fine portraits, really representing Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the end of a large and sumptuously furnished room, with high vaulted ceiling in the richest Gothic style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster Abbey. The saloon, as the apartment is called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window, the very one through which Sir Christopher stepped into the room and found various members of his household "examining the progress of the unfinished ceiling."
Looking out through these windows, our host noticed some gathering clouds and suggested a drive through the park before the shower. Soon his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty little horse appropriately named "Lightheart," for no animal with so fond a master could possibly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few minutes at Astley Castle, the "Knebley Abbey" of George Eliot, an old but picturesque mansion, once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour and his ill-fated protegee, Lady Jane Grey. Then, after a brief pause at the parson's cottage, we proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building with a square tower such as one sees throughout England.
A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure suggested George Eliot's bucolic parson, the Reverend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the farmers and talked of "short-horns" and "sharrags" and "yowes" during the week, and on Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old sermons to the ever-increasing satisfaction of his parishioners. We photographed this ancient temple on the inside as well as outside, for it contains some curious frescoes representing the saints holding ribbons with mottoes from which one is expected to obtain excellent moral lessons.
Our next objective was the birthplace of George Eliot, a small cottage standing in one corner of the park. We were driving rapidly along one of the smooth roads leading to the place, when the pony made a sudden turn to the right. I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, camera and tripod in hand. The cart went down a steep embankment, then up again, and the next instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the ground, while near by lay the tripod, broken into a hundred splinters. Scrambling to my feet, I saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on the seat, and nobody the worse for the accident except poor Lightheart, who was almost overcome with excitement. He had encountered some men on the road leading a bull, and quickly resolved not to face what, to one of his gentle breeding, seemed a deadly peril.
Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked back to the house, and in due season sat down to luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought "looked less like a place to dine in than a piece of space inclosed simply for the sake of beautiful outline." A cathedral-like aspect is given to the room by the great Gothic windows which form the distinguishing architectural feature of the building. These open into an alcove, large enough in itself, but small when compared with the main part of the room. The ecclesiastical effect is heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of the canopies built over various niches in the walls, or rather it would be, were it not for the fact that the latter are filled with life-size statues in white marble, of a distinctly classical character. Opposite the windows is a mantel of generous proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations of which would not be inappropriate for some fine altar-piece; but Cupid and Psyche, standing in a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any churchly thoughts, though they seem to be having a heavenly time.
After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, in the left wing of the building, examining a first folio Shakespeare, while our host busied himself with various notes of introduction and other memoranda for our benefit. As we sat in the oriel window of this room,--the same in which Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp,--we noticed what appeared to be magazines, fans, and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It is related that Sir Roger Newdigate--"Sir Christopher Cheverel," it will be remembered--used to remonstrate with his lady for leaving her belongings scattered over his library. She--good woman--was not only obedient, but possessed a sense of humor as well, for she promptly removed the articles, but later took advantage of her lord's absence to leave their "counterfeit presentment" in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a century.
The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that in the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel "standing with one arm akimbo," exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember that "arm akimbo," if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for more than twenty years?
It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played--her name was Sally Shilton--is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only that interesting instrument, but also the "queer old family portraits ... of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly developed head-dresses--of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards."
Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness that we had met in his friend Mr. Colvin, informed us that he had invited the Reverend Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were invited, however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, and later did so, receiving a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various mementoes of her husband's distinguished relative, including a lace cap worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess Czerlaski of "The Sad Fortune of the Reverend Amos Barton." I can still hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, "And here is Aunt Glegg!" There she was, sure enough, with the "fuzzy front of curls" which were always "economized" by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this point the canon suddenly asked, "Have you seen the stone table?" I had been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically told in "Middlemarch." I had expected to find it at Griff House, near Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot's girlhood, but the arbor at the end of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident.
Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing, while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr. N----, who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in the neighborhood. We accordingly stopped our little coupe at the doctor's door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify nearly all the localities of "Amos Barton" and "Janet's Repentance." He also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made no objection.
On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice. The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known George Eliot's father and mother, and had been interested to paint various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call, because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when, upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear people seemed determined to make our quest a success.
We now turned our attention to "Adam Bede," traveling into Staffordshire and Derbyshire, where Robert Evans, the novelist's father and the prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera, and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some surprise at the pile of luggage.