Chapter 2

I was on all the most celebrated and beautiful lakes. I was rowed in an open boat, by two Highland youths, from one end of Loch Katrine to the other, and through those beautiful, high, heathery, rocky banks at one end of the lake, called the Trosachs. These exquisite rocks are adorned, and every crevice fringed and festooned with harebells, heather, gorse, and here and there beautiful evergreen trees. We passed by "Ellen's Isle," as it is called, the most exquisite little island ever formed, a perfect oval, and all covered with the purple heather, the golden gorse, and all sorts of flowers and exquisitely beautiful trees. O, what a little paradise it is! A number of little row-boats, with fine-looking Highland rowers and gay companies of ladies and gentlemen, were visiting the island as we passed. They show the oak tree to which they say Ellen fastened her boat. It was beautiful to see the glancing of the sunlight on the oars of these boats, and the bright colors of the shawls and bonnets of the ladies in them, and to witness this homage to nature and genius which they were paying in their visit to Ellen's Isle. I was glad to join them, and do reverence too. The heather is usually not more than two feet high,--sometimes higher, but often shorter; but on Ellen's Isle it grows to the height of four and five feet.

Just before we came to Oban, we passed the estate of Lord Heigh, where we heard the following story. The origin of his name and rank is this: When King Kenneth ruled in Scotland, he was beaten in a great battle by the Danes, and his army scattered among the hills, while the enemy was marching home in triumph. A man in the Scottish army said that he knew a pass through which the victor must go, where one man might stop a thousand, and offered himself and his two sons to defend it. He came to the pass armed only with an ox-yoke, but made such use of his weapon that the Danes were kept at bay, till the Scots rallied and cut them to pieces. When Kenneth reached the pass, he found his brave subject lying in truth quite exhausted. He raised him up, and inquired his name; the fainting man could only gasp, "Heigh-ho, heigh!" From that moment he was called the Lord of Heigh, and the king gave him as much land as an eagle could fly over without alighting. The family arms are an eagle on the wing over an ox-yoke.

At Edinburgh, I went to see the Regalia, which are kept in a small room in the castle, in which they were found after being buried there for more than a century. It is a small room, not more than twelve feet square. On one side is the iron chest in which the Regalia were found; and in the middle of the room is a marble table, entirely white, surrounded by an iron grating, on which is the crown which Robert Bruce had made for himself, the sword of James the First, the signet ring of Charles the First, and other jewels that had belonged to some of the Scottish kings. Around these and the other insignia of their former royalty the lamps are always burning. This is an altar sacred to Auld Lang Syne.

I arrived in York at half past two o'clock at night. All was dark in the city, save the lights in the large station, where we were let out of our boxes with our luggage. We had contrived occasionally to lie down on the hard wooden seats, resting our heads on our carpet bags, and, by a little entreaty, had secured a box to ourselves, so that we were not quite so weary as we might have been, and were in good spirits for what was before us, which was to hunt up a lodging place for the remainder of the night, for all the inns were closed.

After a while, we got a porter to take the luggage. After some hard knocking we roused an innkeeper, and by three o'clock we were all in as good beds as mortals could desire.

At nine o'clock we breakfasted, and at ten my delighted eyes rested on the real, living York Minster; the dream of my youth was realized, and I stood in its majestic presence. I entered; the service had just begun; the organ was playing, they were chanting. You could not tell from whence the music came. It was every where; it enters your soul like a beautiful poetic thought, and you know not what possesses you. Only your whole soul is full of worship, peace, and joy. I could hardly keep from falling on my knees. Look at the fine engravings, and study it all out as well as you can; still you can form no adequate idea of the effect of those endless arches, of the exquisite carving in stone, of the flowers, strange figures, and in short every wild, every grotesque thing that you can or cannot imagine. Well has it been called a great poem in stone,--such grace, such aspiration, such power, such harmony. O, it was worth crossing the Atlantic, that first impression.

After the service, I took a guide and went all over this miracle of beauty and genius, and read the inscriptions and saw the curiosities.

During my second stay in Liverpool, my friend took me to Chester, that wonderful old city, just on the borders of Wales. If you can imagine the front rooms of the second story of a row of houses taken out, and in their place a floor put over the lower story and a ceiling under the upper story, and shops in the back rooms, you will form some idea of Chester. All the streets, nearly, are made in this way. The carts and horses go in the narrow streets between the houses, but foot passengers walk in this curious sort of piazzas, put into the houses instead of being added to them. The most elegant shops are here in these back rooms, and you walk for whole long streets under cover, with the dwellings of the inhabitants over your heads and under your feet. Often the upper story shelves over the third, so that you almost wonder why the house does not tumble over.

A friend, whom I had never seen, did me the honor to invite me to her hospitable mansion in Manchester. It was indeed a great privilege to be allowed to make a part of the family circle, and sit with them by their fireside, and be made to feel at home so far from one's native land; and this I experienced all the time I was in England.

I was prepared for the appearance of Manchester. So I was not astonished at the number of tall chimneys, nor at the quantity of smoke that issued from them. And I could quite enter into the feelings of the friend who told me that nothing was more melancholy than to see a clear atmosphere over the town; the blacker it looked the more prosperity was indicated, and the more cause for rejoicing.

My kind friend took me to one of the great print factories. My principal wish for going was to see how the factory people looked, whether they seemed well and happy. I observed them; they were well dressed, and were cheerful in their appearance. There were a few children employed, who looked healthy and happy. There was at this factory a reading room, nicely warmed and perfectly comfortable, where the workman, by subscribing a penny or two a week, could obtain the right to spend his leisure hours and see the periodicals and newspapers. Each one had a vote in deciding what these papers should be, as they were paid for by the subscription money of the laborers. The proprietors paid a certain sum towards the support of the reading room.

Of course, seeing one prosperous factory and the fortunate workmen in it, in Manchester, cannot enable one to form any adequate judgment of the condition of the working people.

I visited the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, which appeared to me to have an admirable teacher. One of his best aids is a young man who was his pupil. The teacher desired me to ask of this young man the meaning of some word that had an abstract meaning. I asked him what he understood by intelligence. He put his hand to his head, and thought for some time, before he attempted to reply; then he nearly covered the slate with his definition. He evidently saw the difference between intelligence and learning or knowledge, but had to use many words to express his idea; but I thought he had as clear a thought as any of us. After he had given the best definition he could, he added, "There is another meaning to the word: it means news, sometimes."

There was, at this Asylum, a little girl, about twelve years old, who was blind, as well as deaf and dumb. She was a very interesting child from her countenance and manner, apart from her infirmity. Her face was far more beautiful than Laura Bridgman's; her head good, but not so fine at present, not so well developed. Her eyes were closed, and her long, dark lashes rested on her cheeks with a mournful expression. The teacher was just getting into communication with her, but had to make many efforts, such as pressing her head, her heart, and shoulders, as well as her hands. When he tried to tell her that Laura Bridgman, in America, was in the same state that she was, and that she had learned a great deal, and had sent her love to all the deaf and dumb, by a lady who had come to see her, she raised her head, and looked as if trying to see or hear, and then put out her hand. I took it, and then told the teacher how Dr. Howe and others communicated with Laura Bridgman by moving their fingers, and making certain impressions on the palm of her hand. As I told him, I imitated the motions with my fingers on the palm of her hand. She gave one of those peculiar screams which Laura Bridgman does, at times, when she is excited, and her white face glowed with pleasure and strong emotion.

Her teacher told me I had put myself into communication with her; but my heart ached to think I could do no more.

In a few moments we left her. She told her teacher to tell me to give her love to Laura Bridgman, and sat down again upon her little bench, in the solitude of her perpetual silence and blindness.

When I had been over the institution, and seen the admirable work of the inmates, and was about leaving, I had to pass near this lovely child again. When I was within three or four feet of her, she put out her hand and took hold of me. It seemed as if she knew me from the rest of the party, after I had thus by chance spoken to her imprisoned soul. No one will wonder that I could not keep the tears out of my eyes.

I visited another collection of children, who might have been still more unfortunate than these but for the wise charity of the people of Manchester. The Swinton Union School is a large, noble building, in the outskirts of Manchester. The school is a fine looking place, surrounded by nice gardens and grounds. It can contain one thousand children; there were then in it six hundred and fifty. They have a fine, large, well-ventilated school room. They have a large place to wash themselves, with a sufficient number of separate, fixed basins, arranged to admit and let off water, a towel and piece of soap for each child; and they are obliged to wash their faces and hands three times a day. There are great tanks where they are all bathed twice a week.

They have a fine infant school for the little ones, most admirably managed. The large girls are taught to wash, and iron, and do housework. The boys are, some of them, taught the tailor's trade, and some the shoemaker's, and others the baker's. It was a pretty sight to see the little fellows sitting on their legs, making their own jackets and trousers, and laughing together, and looking as happy as boys can look; and just so with the little shoemakers. They work only four hours, and then another set take their place. The room was large and airy, and perfectly comfortable. I saw the clothes they had made, all nicely pressed and put away in their storerooms, ready for wear. So with the shoes; they mended their old shoes and their old clothes themselves.

I saw those of the children who were not at work, at play; for the school hours were past. I saw their happy faces, their clean, tidy clothes, and their long rows of nice, clean beds, for I went into every part of the house, and a beautiful sight it all was. In the kitchen some girls were making up the bread, and most excellent bread it was, and a good, large, thick slice there was for every one. I saw the dining hall, and all that belonged to that part of the concern, and all was just what it ought to be.

Now, you must know that these are, all, the children of paupers--children who have no earthly parents, children that the public must take care of, or they would live or die in the streets. All the different parishes have erected this building, and put in the best teachers, and furnished it as I have related to you, and there placed these poor children, who were growing up in vice and misery. Here they are taught habits of order, industry, and obedience, and learn a way of supporting themselves honestly, and are kept till they are old enough to be put apprentice to some good person who will treat them well. So, instead of six hundred and fifty ignorant, reckless vagrants, the community receives that number of well-instructed, well-brought-up individuals, who can support themselves decently and respectably.

An English country home, where education, high breeding, easy circumstances, old trees, room enough, and a merry family circle, make life beautiful--this had always been one of my dreams of earthly happiness. All this was realized at Mrs. C--'s, at Chobham, where I stopped for a visit on my way to London.

Every day my kind friends devised some little plan for my amusement, beyond the constant pleasure of the every-day life. One day they took me to Windsor, which, you know, is one of the queen's country palaces. We approached it through the famous avenue of elms in the park. The effect of the castle, seen through that long, long vista, is very fine. The English elm, though not so graceful as ours, is more grand and stately, and better for architectural effects. There were many deer in the park, which added much to its beauty. At last we were at the castle; it is a fine building, but would be far more picturesque in ruins than in its present perfect state. We went first into the chapel; this is exquisitely beautiful. The Gothic clusters of pillars springing up from the floor rise unbroken to the roof, and spread out like palm trees. The emblazoned coats of arms of the knights of the garter hanging all around on the pillars of the chapel, the beautiful carved ornaments like lace-work, and many other rare and lovely objects, make the royal chapel very magnificent. There was a horrible old woman who went screeching about the room, showing the pictures, &c. She was particularly apropos in calling us, when she found we were Americans, into a corner of the chapel to show us the tomb of Lord Harcourt, who is there represented receiving the sword of some unfortunate American general, and shrieked out with her cracked voice, "I thought this might interest you."

After feasting my eyes long enough upon the chapel, I went into the castle, and joined one of those batches of human beings which are driven through the state apartments by the guide. The rooms are magnificent. One contains a beautiful collection of pictures by Vandyke. We saw the grand malachite vase, presented to Victoria by the Emperor of Russia, large enough to hold one or two men. After seeing the rooms, we ascended the tower, whence is a fine view. We then walked on the terrace, and went to join the rest of our party, who had gone before us to the hotel.

We then went to get a look at the famous Eton school, about a mile distant. The Eton boys amused me much. They go there very young, and remain there a long while, till they are ready to enter the universities. Their dress indicates their advancement in age and standing. First comes a jacket, then a little suspicion of a tail, which gradually lengthens and widens as maturity comes on, till, at last, it is a perfect tail coat. I saw specimens in these various stages of growth.

After one of the happiest weeks that ever mortals passed, I said a reluctant farewell, and departed for London, where more kind friends, whom I had never seen, were expecting my arrival. I can now, in my mind's eye, see all the dear family on the steps or in the hall door, giving us their parting blessing, and the old comfortable-looking gentlemanly butler arranging my luggage. One of the dear family accompanied me to the railroad, and saw me fairly on my way to London.

In London we again enjoyed the great pleasure of being received like old friends, not heard there truly divine music. There is no describing and no forgetting the effect of one of those sublime religious strains that seem to burst forth from you know not where, and swell and grow fuller and louder, and then more and more distant, and fainter and fainter, till you think it dying in the distance, and then gush out with an overwhelming fulness of harmony and beauty. One feels as if he would hear such strains at the hour of death.

Our next object was St. Paul's. How different! how very different! In a Gothic building, you think that the artist, who designed it, had in mind the idea of the solemn forest where the crossing branches produce all those beautiful lines and forms, which so delight your eye, and where the dim, mysterious light awakens and accords with the religious sentiment; but the effect of the great dome, which suggests the open sky, is entirely opposite. The effect upon your mind of standing in the middle of St. Paul's is very impressive; but what moved me most was the sound of the people without the walls. No one of our party spoke, and the noise of the busy multitude without was like the waves of the ocean. I had heard the voice of many waters while coming over the Atlantic, and there is no exaggeration; it is just such a sound, such an ebbing and flowing, and yet such a full and constant roar, as the waves make after continued high winds. It was truly sublime, this concentrated sound of this living multitude of human beings, these breathings and heavings of the heart of the mighty monster, London.

We were shown all over the cathedral; we first ascended to the inside gallery, and walked around, looking down upon the whole interior; we then visited the clock, and we heard and felt the quiver of its tremendous voice. We next entered the famous whispering gallery, which is made around the base of the dome inside. The faintest whisper is heard at the point opposite that whence it comes. Then we went outside, and walked some time around the dome, gazing about with great delight. Then we ascended to the Golden Gallery, as it is called from the fact that the balustrade is gilded. It runs around the top of the dome. From here, you see London all spread out like a map before you,--its towers, its spires, all its multitudinous abodes, lie beneath your eye. One little thing remained. The ball was yet above us. The gentlemen of our party went up various perpendicular ladders, and at last pulled themselves through a small hole into the ball. There is room, I think, there for a dozen people, if well packed, not to stand, walk, or sit, however; these things the nature of the place forbids. It is a strange feeling, they say, to crouch in this little apartment and hear the wind roaring and shaking the golden cross above. The whole ball shakes somewhat, and by a sudden movement one can produce quite a perceptible motion.

We descended the infinity of stairs, and entered the crypt, as it is called, under the church. There were many grand tombs there. Nelson's occupies the centre, and is a fine work. But what impressed me most was the tomb of Sir Christopher Wren himself; a simple tablet marks his tomb, with this inscription, which is repeated above in the nave:--

Subtus conditur Hujus Ecclesias et Urbis Conditor, CHRISTOPHERUS WREN; Qui vixit annos ultra nonaginta, Non sibi, sed bono publico. Lector, si monumentum requiris, Circumspice. Obiit 25 Feb. MDCCXXIII., aetat. XCI.

We subjoin a translation of this inscription for our young friends:--

"Underneath lies buried Christopher Wren, the builder of this church and city; who lived beyond the age of ninety years, not for himself, but for the public good.--Reader, if you ask for his monument, look around you.--He died on the 25th of February, 1723, aged 91."

He is called the builder of the city, as well as of the church; for Sir Christopher Wren was the architect of more than fifty of the churches in London.

One morning, our friend, Miss S., was kind enough to accompany us to Greenwich, where, you know, is the Hospital for disabled sailors of the British navy. The day was warm and lovely, like what we call the Indian summer in America. We took an omnibus to London Bridge; from thence we proceeded by railway, and in a few minutes were in Greenwich. We entered the magnificent old Park, and wandered about for a long time, to our hearts' content, among the venerable old trees, admiring the graceful deer that were enjoying themselves all around us. At last we came to the top of a charming hill, where we sat down to rest and look at the river. Several of the sailors had arranged spy glasses of various sizes for the accommodation of visitors, and for the good to themselves of a few pence. We patronized one of these, and then descended to the Hospital, which is the main object of interest. It was just time for the old sailors' dinner, and we went into one of their dining rooms, where there were about three hundred seated at an excellent meal, plain, but wholesome and plentiful. A very pleasant sight it was; they were chatting, telling good old stories, and laughing merrily, and evidently enjoying themselves highly. There were, at that time, more than seven hundred of these veterans in the building. Those who chose carried their dinners to their rooms.

The place for the sailors' sleeping rooms was a long hall, with small rooms on one side and large windows on the other. The rooms were just large enough for a bed, a bureau, a little table, and, I think, two chairs. There were shelves around the room, except on the side that looked into the Hall, where was the door and a window. On these shelves were ranged little keepsakes, books and various articles of taste, often beautiful shells; there were hanging up around the rooms profiles of friends, perhaps the dearest that this life can give us. I could not help thinking that many a touching story might be told by those silent but eloquent memorials. We were much amused with looking at a card put in one of the windows of these little comfortable state rooms, on which was written these words: "Anti-poke-your-nose-into-other-folks'-business Society. 5000 Pounds reward annually to any one who will really mind his own business; with the prospect of an increase of 100 Pounds, if he shall abstain from poking his nose into other folks' business." We returned to London in a steamer.