The Conqueror7 meant to have a thorough summing up of his stolen property. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle says,--I quote it at second hand,--"So very straitly did he cause the survey to be made, that there was not a single hyde, nor a yardland of ground, nor--it is shameful8 to say what he thought no shame to do--was there an ox or a cow, or a pig passed by, and that was not down in the accounts, and then all these writings were brought to him." The "looting" of England by William and his "twenty thousand thieves," as Mr. Emerson calls his army, was a singularly methodical proceeding9, and Domesday Book is a searching inventory10 of their booty, movable and immovable.
From this reminder11 of the past we turned to the remembrances of home; A---- going to dine with a transplanted Boston friend and other ladies from that blessed centre of New England life, while I dined with a party of gentlemen at my friend Mr. James Russell Lowell's.
I had looked forward to this meeting with high expectations, and they were abundantly satisfied. I knew that Mr. Lowell must gather about him, wherever he might be, the choicest company, but what his selection would be I was curious to learn. I found with me at the table my own countrymen and his, Mr. Smalley and Mr. Henry James. Of the other guests, Mr. Leslie Stephen was my only old acquaintance in person; but Du Maurier and Tenniel I have met in my weekly "Punch" for many a year; Mr. Lang, Mr. Oliphant, Mr. Townsend, we all know through their writings; Mr. Burne-Jones and Mr. Alma Tadema, through the frequent reproductions of their works in engravings, as well as by their paintings. If I could report a dinner-table conversation, I might be tempted14 to say something of my talk with Mr. Oliphant. I like well enough conversation which floats safely over the shallows, touching15 bottom at intervals16 with a commonplace incident or truism to push it along; I like better to find a few fathoms17 of depth under the surface; there is a still higher pleasure in the philosophical18 discourse19 which calls for the deep sea line to reach bottom; but best of all, when one is in the right mood, is the contact of intelligences when they are off soundings in the ocean of thought. Mr. Oliphant is what many of us call a mystic, and I found a singular pleasure in listening to him. This dinner at Mr. Lowell's was a very remarkable20 one for the men it brought together, and I remember it with peculiar21 interest. My entertainer holds a master-key to London society, and he opened the gate for me into one of its choicest preserves on that evening.
I did not undertake to renew my old acquaintance with hospitals and museums. I regretted that I could not be with my companion, who went through the Natural History Museum with the accomplished22 director, Professor W. H. Flower. One old acquaintance I did resuscitate23. For the second time I took the hand of Charles O'Byrne, the celebrated24 Irish giant of the last century. I met him, as in my first visit, at the Royal College of Surgeons, where I accompanied Mr. Jonathan Hutchinson. He was in the condition so longed for by Sydney Smith on a very hot day; namely, with his flesh taken off, and sitting, or rather standing25, in his bones. The skeleton measures eight feet, and the living man's height is stated as having been eight feet two, or four inches, by different authorities. His hand was the only one I took, either in England or Scotland, which had not a warm grasp and a hearty26 welcome in it.
A---- went with Boston friends to see "Faust" a second time, Mr. Irving having offered her the Royal box, and the polite Mr. Bram Stoker serving the party with tea in the little drawing-room behind the box; so that she had a good time while I was enjoying myself at a dinner at Sir Henry Thompson's, where I met Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Browning, and other distinguished27 gentlemen. These dinners of Sir Henry's are well known for the good company one meets at them, and I felt myself honored to be a guest on this occasion.
Among the pleasures I had promised myself was that of a visit to Tennyson, at the Isle28 of Wight. I feared, however, that this would be rendered impracticable by reason of the very recent death of his younger son, Lionel. But I learned from Mr. Locker29-Lampson, whose daughter Mr. Lionel Tennyson had married, that the poet would be pleased to see me at his place, Farringford; and by the kind intervention30 of Mr. Locker-Lampson, better known to the literary world as Frederick Locker, arrangements were made for my daughter and myself to visit him. I considered it a very great favor, for Lord Tennyson has a poet's fondness for the tranquillity31 of seclusion32, which many curious explorers of society fail to remember. Lady Tennyson is an invalid33, and though nothing could be more gracious than her reception of us both, I fear it may have cost her an effort which she would not allow to betray itself. Mr. Hallam Tennyson and his wife, both of most pleasing presence and manners, did everything to make our stay agreeable. I saw the poet to the best advantage, under his own trees and walking over his own domain34. He took delight in pointing out to me the finest and the rarest of his trees,--and there were many beauties among them. I recalled my morning's visit to Whittier at Oak Knoll35, in Danvers, a little more than a year ago, when he led me to one of his favorites, an aspiring36 evergreen37 which shot up like a flame. I thought of the graceful38 American elms in front of Longfellow's house and the sturdy English elms that stand in front of Lowell's. In this garden of England, the Isle of Wight, where everything grows with such a lavish39 extravagance of greenness that it seems as if it must bankrupt the soil before autumn, I felt as if weary eyes and overtasked brains might reach their happiest haven40 of rest. We all remember Shenstone's epigram on the pane41 of a tavern42 window. If we find our "warmest welcome at an inn," we find our most soothing43 companionship in the trees among which we have lived, some of which we may ourselves have planted. We lean against them, and they never betray our trust; they shield us from the sun and from the rain; their spring welcome is a new birth, which never loses its freshness; they lay their beautiful robes at our feet in autumn; in winter they "stand and wait," emblems44 of patience and of truth, for they hide nothing, not even the little leaf-buds which hint to us of hope, the last element in their triple symbolism.
This digression, suggested by the remembrance of the poet under his trees, breaks my narrative45, but gives me the opportunity of paying a debt of gratitude46. For I have owned many beautiful trees, and loved many more outside of my own leafy harem. Those who write verses have no special claim to be lovers of trees, but so far as one is of the poetical47 temperament48 he is likely to be a tree-lover. Poets have, as a rule, more than the average nervous sensibility and irritability49. Trees have no nerves. They live and die without suffering, without self-questioning or self-reproach. They have the divine gift of silence. They cannot obtrude50 upon the solitary51 moments when one is to himself the most agreeable of companions. The whole vegetable world, even "the meanest flower that blows," is lovely to contemplate52. What if creation had paused there, and you or I had been called upon to decide whether self-conscious life should be added in the form of the existing animal creation, and the hitherto peaceful universe should come under the rule of Nature as we now know her,
"red in tooth and claw"?
Are we not glad that the responsibility of the decision did not rest on us?
I am sorry that I did not ask Tennyson to read or repeat to me some lines of his own. Hardly any one perfectly53 understands a poem but the poet himself. One naturally loves his own poem as no one else can. It fits the mental mould in which it was cast, and it will not exactly fit any other. For this reason I had rather listen to a poet reading his own verses than hear the best elocutionist that ever spouted54 recite them. He may not have a good voice or enunciation55, but he puts his heart and his inter2-penetrative intelligence into every line, word, and syllable56. I should have liked to hear Tennyson read such lines as
"Laborious57 orient ivory, sphere in sphere;"
and in spite of my good friend Matthew Arnold's in terrorem, I should have liked to hear Macaulay read,
"And Aulus the Dictator
Stroked Auster's raven58 mane,"
and other good mouthable lines, from the "Lays of Ancient Rome." Not less should I like to hear Mr. Arnold himself read the passage beginning,--
"In his cool hall with haggard eyes
The Roman noble lay."
The next day Mrs. Hallam Tennyson took A---- in her pony59 cart to see Alum Bay, The Needles, and other objects of interest, while I wandered over the grounds with Tennyson. After lunch his carriage called for us, and we were driven across the island, through beautiful scenery, to Ventnor, where we took the train to Ryde, and there the steamer to Portsmouth, from which two hours and a half of travel carried us to London.
My first visit to Cambridge was at the invitation of Mr. Gosse, who asked me to spend Sunday, the 13th of June, with him. The rooms in Neville Court, Trinity College, occupied by Sir William Vernon Harcourt when lecturing at Cambridge, were placed at my disposal. The room I slept in was imposing60 with the ensigns armorial of the Harcourts and others which ornamented61 its walls. I had great delight in walking through the quadrangles, along the banks of the Cam, and beneath the beautiful trees which border it. Mr. Gosse says that I stopped in the second court of Clare, and looked around and smiled as if I were bestowing63 my benediction64. He was mistaken: I smiled as if I were receiving a benediction from my dear old grandmother; for Cambridge in New England is my mother town, and Harvard University in Cambridge is my Alma Mater. She is the daughter of Cambridge in Old England, and my relationship is thus made clear.
Mr. Gosse introduced me to many of the younger and some of the older men of the university. Among my visits was one never to be renewed and never to be forgotten. It was to the Master of Trinity, the Reverend William Hepworth Thompson. I hardly expected to have the privilege of meeting this very distinguished and greatly beloved personage, famous not alone for scholarship, or as the successor of Dr. Whewell in his high office, but also as having said some of the wittiest65 things which we have heard since Voltaire's pour encourager les autres. I saw him in his chamber66, a feeble old man, but noble to look upon in all "the monumental pomp of age." He came very near belonging to the little group I have mentioned as my coevals, but was a year after us. Gentle, dignified67, kindly68 in his address as if I had been his schoolmate, he left a very charming impression. He gave me several mementoes of my visit, among them a beautiful engraving13 of Sir Isaac Newton, representing him as one of the handsomest of men. Dr. Thompson looked as if he could not be very long for this world, but his death, a few weeks after my visit, was a painful surprise to me. I had been just in time to see "the last of the great men" at Cambridge, as my correspondent calls him, and I was very grateful that I could store this memory among the hoarded69 treasures I have been laying by for such possible extra stretch of time as may be allowed me.
My second visit to Cambridge will be spoken of in due season.
While I was visiting Mr. Gosse at Cambridge, A---- was not idle. On Saturday she went to Lambeth, where she had the pleasure and honor of shaking hands with the Archbishop of Canterbury in his study, and of looking about the palace with Mrs. Benson. On Sunday she went to the Abbey, and heard "a broad and liberal sermon" from Archdeacon Farrar. Our young lady-secretary stayed and dined with her, and after dinner sang to her. "A peaceful, happy Sunday," A---- says in her diary,--not less peaceful, I suspect, for my being away, as my callers must have got many a "not at 'ome" from young Robert of the multitudinous buttons.
On Monday, the 14th of June, after getting ready for our projected excursions, we had an appointment which promised us a great deal of pleasure. Mr. Augustus Harris, the enterprising and celebrated manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had sent us an invitation to occupy a box, having eight seats, at the representation of "Carmen." We invited the Priestleys and our Boston friends, the Shimminses, to take seats with us. The chief singer in the opera was Marie Roze, who looked well and sang well, and the evening went off very happily. After the performance we were invited by Mr. Harris to a supper of some thirty persons, where we were the special guests. The manager toasted me, and I said something,--I trust appropriate; but just what I said is as irrecoverable as the orations71 of Demosthenes on the seashore, or the sermons of St. Francis to the beasts and birds.
Of all the attentions I received in England, this was, perhaps, the least to be anticipated or dreamed of. To be fêted and toasted and to make a speech in Drury Lane Theatre would not have entered into my flightiest conceptions, if I had made out a programme beforehand. It is a singularly gratifying recollection. Drury Lane Theatre is so full of associations with literature, with the great actors and actresses of the past, with the famous beauties who have stood behind the footlights and the splendid audiences that have sat before them, that it is an admirable nucleus72 for remembrances to cluster around. It was but a vague spot in memory before, but now it is a bright centre for other images of the past. That one evening seems to make me the possessor of all its traditions from the time when it rose from its ashes, when Byron's poem was written and recited, and when the brothers Smith gave us the "Address without a Phoenix73," and all those exquisite74 parodies75 which make us feel towards their originals somewhat as our dearly remembered Tom Appleton did when he said, in praise of some real green turtle soup, that it was almost as good as mock.
With much regret we gave up an invitation we had accepted to go to Durdans to dine with Lord Rosebery. We must have felt very tired indeed to make so great a sacrifice, but we had to be up until one o'clock getting ready for the next day's journey; writing, packing, and attending to what we left behind us as well as what was in prospect76.
On the morning of Wednesday, June 16th, Dr. Donald Macalister called to attend us on our second visit to Cambridge, where we were to be the guests of his cousin, Alexander Macalister, Professor of Anatomy77, who, with Mrs. Macalister, received us most cordially. There was a large luncheon78-party at their house, to which we sat down in our travelling dresses. In the evening they had a dinner-party, at which were present, among others, Professor Stokes, President of the Royal Society, and Professor Wright. We had not heard much talk of political matters at the dinner-tables where we had been guests, but A---- sat near a lady who was very earnest in advocating the Irish side of the great impending79 question.
The 17th of June is memorable80 in the annals of my country. On that day of the year 1775 the battle of Bunker's Hill was fought on the height I see from the window of my library, where I am now writing. The monument raised in memory of our defeat, which was in truth a victory, is almost as much a part of the furniture of the room as its chairs and tables; outside, as they are inside, furniture. But the 17th of June, 1886, is memorable to me above all the other anniversaries of that day I have known. For on that day I received from the ancient University of Cambridge, England, the degree of Doctor of Letters, "Doctor Litt.," in its abbreviated81 academic form. The honor was an unexpected one; that is, until a short time before it was conferred.
Invested with the academic gown and cap, I repaired in due form at the appointed hour to the Senate Chamber. Every seat was filled, and among the audience were youthful faces in large numbers, looking as if they were ready for any kind of outbreak of enthusiasm or hilarity83.
The first degree conferred was that of LL.D., on Sir W. A. White, G.C.M., G.C.B., to whose long list of appended initials it seemed like throwing a perfume on the violet to add three more letters.
When I was called up to receive my honorary title, the young voices were true to the promise of the young faces. There was a great noise, not hostile nor unpleasant in its character, in answer to which I could hardly help smiling my acknowledgments. In presenting me for my degree the Public Orator84 made a Latin speech, from which I venture to give a short extract, which I would not do for the world if it were not disguised by being hidden in the mask of a dead language. But there will be here and there a Latin scholar who will be pleased with the way in which the speaker turned a compliment to the candidate before him, with a reference to one of his poems and to some of his prose works.
"Juvat nuper audivisse eum cujus carmen prope primum 'Folium ultimum' nominatum est, folia adhuc plura e scriniis suis esse prolaturum. Novimus quanta lepore descripserit colloquia illa antemeridiana, symposia85 illa sobria et severa, sed eadem festiva et faceta, in quibus totiens mutata persona, modo poeta, modo professor, modo princeps et arbiter86, loquendi, inter convivas suos regnat."
I had no sooner got through listening to the speech and receiving my formal sentence as Doctor of Letters than the young voices broke out in fresh clamor. There were cries of "A speech! a speech!" mingled87 with the title of a favorite poem by John Howard Payne, having a certain amount of coincidence with the sound of my name. The play upon the word was not absolutely a novelty to my ear, but it was good-natured, and I smiled again, and perhaps made a faint inclination88, as much as to say, "I hear you, young gentlemen, but I do not forget that I am standing on my dignity, especially now since a new degree has added a moral cubit to my stature89." Still the cries went on, and at last I saw nothing else to do than to edge back among the silk gowns, and so lose myself and be lost to the clamorous90 crowd in the mass of dignitaries. It was not indifference91 to the warmth of my welcome, but a feeling that I had no claim to address the audience because some of its younger members were too demonstrative. I have not forgotten my very cordial reception, which made me feel almost as much at home in the old Cambridge as in the new, where I was born and took my degrees, academic, professional, and honorary.
The university town left a very deep impression upon my mind, in which a few grand objects predominate over the rest, all being of a delightful92 character. I was fortunate enough to see the gathering93 of the boats, which was the last scene in their annual procession. The show was altogether lovely. The pretty river, about as wide as the Housatonic, I should judge, as that slender stream winds through "Canoe Meadow," my old Pittsfield residence, the gaily94 dressed people who crowded the banks, the flower-crowned boats, with the gallant95 young oarsmen who handled them so skilfully96, made a picture not often equalled. The walks, the bridges, the quadrangles, the historic college buildings, all conspired97 to make the place a delight and a fascination98. The library of Trinity College, with its rows of busts99 by Roubiliac and Woolner, is a truly noble hall. But beyond, above all the rest, the remembrance of King's College Chapel100, with its audacious and richly wrought101 roof and its wide and lofty windows, glowing with old devices in colors which are ever fresh, as if just from the furnace, holds the first place in my gallery of Cambridge recollections.
I cannot do justice to the hospitalities which were bestowed102 upon us in Cambridge. Professor and Mrs. Macalister, aided by Dr. Donald Macalister, did all that thoughtful hosts could do to make us feel at home. In the afternoon the ladies took tea at Mr. Oscar Browning's. In the evening we went to a large dinner at the invitation of the Vice-Chancellor103. Many little points which I should not have thought of are mentioned in A----'s diary. I take the following extract from it, toning down its vivacity104 more nearly to my own standard:--
"Twenty were there. The Master of St. John's took me in, and the Vice-Chancellor was on the other side.... The Vice-Chancellor rose and returned thanks after the meats and before the sweets, as usual. I have now got used to this proceeding, which strikes me as extraordinary. Everywhere here in Cambridge, and the same in Oxford105, I believe, they say grace and give thanks. A gilded106 ewer107 and flat basin were passed, with water in the basin to wash with, and we all took our turn at the bath! Next to this came the course with the finger-bowls!... Why two baths?"
On Friday, the 18th, I went to a breakfast at the Combination Room, at which about fifty gentlemen were present, Dr. Sandys taking the chair. After the more serious business of the morning's repast was over, Dr. Macalister, at the call of the chairman, arose, and proposed my welfare in a very complimentary108 way. I of course had to respond, and I did so in the words which came of their own accord to my lips. After my unpremeditated answer, which was kindly received, a young gentleman of the university, Mr. Heitland, read a short poem, of which the following is the title:--
LINES OF GREETING TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
AT BREAKFAST IN COMBINATION ROOM, ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND.
I wish I dared quote more than the last two verses of these lines, which seemed to me, not unused to giving and receiving complimentary tributes, singularly happy, and were so considered by all who heard them. I think I may venture to give the two verses referred to:--
"By all sweet memory of the saints and sages109
Who wrought among us in the days of yore;
By youths who, turning now life's early pages,
Ripen110 to match the worthies111 gone before:
"On us, O son of England's greatest daughter,
A kindly word from heart and tongue bestow62;
Then chase the sunsets o'er the western water,
And bear our blessing112 with you as you go."
I need not say that I left the English Cambridge with a heart full of all grateful and kindly emotions.
I must not forget that I found at Cambridge, very pleasantly established and successfully practising his profession, a former student in the dental department of our Harvard Medical School, Dr. George Cunningham, who used to attend my lectures on anatomy. In the garden behind the quaint12 old house in which he lives is a large medlar-tree,--the first I remember seeing.
On this same day we bade good-by to Cambridge, and took the two o'clock train to Oxford, where we arrived at half past five. At this first visit we were to be the guests of Professor Max Müller, at his fine residence in Norham Gardens. We met there, at dinner, Mr. Herkomer, whom we have recently had with us in Boston, and one or two others. In the evening we had music; the professor playing on the piano, his two daughters, Mrs. Conybeare and her unmarried sister, singing, and a young lady playing the violin. It was a very lovely family picture; a pretty house, surrounded by attractive scenery; scholarship, refinement113, simple elegance114, giving distinction to a home which to us seemed a pattern of all we could wish to see beneath an English roof. It all comes back to me very sweetly, but very tenderly and sadly, for the voice of the elder of the two sisters who sang to us is heard no more on earth, and a deep shadow has fallen over the household we found so bright and cheerful.
Everything was done to make me enjoy my visit to Oxford, but I was suffering from a severe cold, and was paying the penalty of too much occupation and excitement. I missed a great deal in consequence, and carried away a less distinct recollection of this magnificent seat of learning than of the sister university.
If one wishes to know the magic of names, let him visit the places made memorable by the lives of the illustrious men of the past in the Old World. As a boy I used to read the poetry of Pope, of Goldsmith, and of Johnson. How could I look at the Bodleian Library, or wander beneath its roof, without recalling the lines from "The Vanity of Human Wishes"?
"When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast115 quits his ease for fame;
Resistless burns the fever of renown116,
Caught from the strong contagion117 of the gown:
O'er Bodley's dome1 his future labors118 spread,
And Bacon's mansion119 trembles o'er his head."
The last line refers to Roger Bacon. "There is a tradition that the study of Friar Bacon, built on an arch over the bridge, will fall when a man greater than Bacon shall pass under it. To prevent so shocking an accident, it was pulled down many years since." We shall meet with a similar legend in another university city. Many persons have been shy of these localities, who were in no danger whatever of meeting the fate threatened by the prediction.
We passed through the Bodleian Library, only glancing at a few of its choicest treasures, among which the exquisitely120 illuminated121 missals were especially tempting122 objects of study. It was almost like a mockery to see them opened and closed, without having the time to study their wonderful miniature paintings. A walk through the grounds of Magdalen College, under the guidance of the president of that college, showed us some of the fine trees for which I was always looking. One of these, a wych-elm (Scotch elm of some books), was so large that I insisted on having it measured. A string was procured123 and carefully carried round the trunk, above the spread of the roots and below that of the branches, so as to give the smallest circumference124. I was curious to know how the size of the trunk of this tree would compare with that of the trunks of some of our largest New England elms. I have measured a good many of these. About sixteen feet is the measurement of a large elm, like that on Boston Common, which all middle-aged125 people remember. From twenty-two to twenty-three feet is the ordinary maximum of the very largest trees. I never found but one exceed it: that was the great Springfield elm, which looked as if it might have been formed by the coalescence126 from the earliest period of growth, of two young trees. When I measured this in 1837, it was twenty-four feet eight inches in circumference at five feet from the ground; growing larger above and below. I remembered this tree well, as we measured the string which was to tell the size of its English rival. As we came near the end of the string, I felt as I did when I was looking at the last dash of Ormonde and The Bard127 at Epsom.--Twenty feet, and a long piece of string left.--Twenty-one. --Twenty-two.--Twenty-three.--An extra heartbeat or two.--Twenty-four! --Twenty-five and six inches over!!--The Springfield elm may have grown a foot or more since I measured it, fifty years ago, but the tree at Magdalen stands ahead of all my old measurements. Many of the fine old trees, this in particular, may have been known in their younger days to Addison, whose favorite walk is still pointed82 out to the visitor.
I would not try to compare the two university towns, as one might who had to choose between them. They have a noble rivalry128, each honoring the other, and it would take a great deal of weighing one point of superiority against another to call either of them the first, except in its claim to antiquity129.
After a garden-party in the afternoon, a pleasant evening at home, when the professor played and his daughter Beatrice sang, and a garden-party the next day, I found myself in somewhat better condition, and ready for the next move.
Magdalen College
MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD
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At noon on the 23d of June we left for Edinburgh, stopping over night at York, where we found close by the station an excellent hotel, and where the next morning we got one of the best breakfasts we had in our whole travelling experience. At York we wandered to and through a flower-show, and did the cathedral, as people do all the sights they see under the lead of a paid exhibitor, who goes through his lesson like a sleepy old professor. I missed seeing the slab130 with the inscription131 miserrimus. There may be other stones bearing this sad superlative, but there is a story connected with this one, which sounds as if it might be true.
In the year 1834, I spent several weeks in Edinburgh. I was fascinated by the singular beauties of that "romantic town," which Scott called his own, and which holds his memory, with that of Burns, as a most precious part of its inheritance. The castle with the precipitous rocky wall out of which it grows, the deep ravines with their bridges, pleasant Calton Hill and memorable Holyrood Palace, the new town and the old town with their strange contrasts, and Arthur's Seat overlooking all,--these varied132 and enchanting133 objects account for the fondness with which all who have once seen Edinburgh will always regard it.
We were the guests of Professor Alexander Crum Brown, a near relative of the late beloved and admired Dr. John Brown. Professor and Mrs. Crum Brown did everything to make our visit a pleasant one. We met at their house many of the best known and most distinguished people of Scotland. The son of Dr. John Brown dined with us on the day of our arrival, and also a friend of the family, Mr. Barclay, to whom we made a visit on the Sunday following. Among the visits I paid, none was more gratifying to me than one which I made to Dr. John Brown's sister. No man could leave a sweeter memory than the author of "Rab and his Friends," of "Pet Marjorie," and other writings, all full of the same loving, human spirit. I have often exchanged letters with him, and I thought how much it would have added to the enjoyment134 of my visit if I could have taken his warm hand and listened to his friendly voice. I brought home with me a precious little manuscript, written expressly for me by one who had known Dr. John Brown from the days of her girlhood, in which his character appears in the same lovable and loving light as that which shines in every page he himself has written.
On Friday, the 25th, I went to the hall of the university, where I was to receive the degree of LL.D. The ceremony was not unlike that at Cambridge, but had one peculiar feature: the separate special investment of the candidate with the hood135, which Johnson defines as "an ornamental136 fold which hangs down the back of a graduate." There were great numbers of students present, and they showed the same exuberance137 of spirits as that which had forced me to withdraw from the urgent calls at Cambridge. The cries, if possible, were still louder and more persistent138; they must have a speech and they would have a speech, and what could I do about it? I saw but one way of pacifying139 a crowd as noisy and long-breathed as that which for about the space of two hours cried out, "Great is Diana of the Ephesians!" So I stepped to the front and made a brief speech, in which, of course, I spoke70 of the "perfervidum ingenium Scotorum." A speech without that would have been like that "Address without a Phoenix" before referred to. My few remarks were well received, and quieted the shouting Ephesians of the warm-brained and warm-hearted northern university. It gave me great pleasure to meet my friend Mr. Underwood, now American consul140 in Glasgow, where he has made himself highly esteemed141 and respected.
In my previous visit to Edinburgh in 1834, I was fond of rambling142 along under Salisbury Crags, and climbing the sides of Arthur's Seat. I had neither time nor impulse for such walks during this visit, but in driving out to dine at Nidrie, the fine old place now lived in by Mr. Barclay and his daughters, we passed under the crags and by the side of the great hill. I had never heard, or if I had I had forgotten, the name and the story of "Samson's Ribs143." These are the columnar masses of rock which form the face of Salisbury Crags. There is a legend that one day one of these pillars will fall and crush the greatest man that ever passes under them. It is said that a certain professor was always very shy of "Samson's Ribs," for fear the prophecy might be fulfilled in his person. We were most hospitably144 received at Mr. Barclay's, and the presence of his accomplished and pleasing daughters made the visit memorable to both of us. There was one picture on their walls, that of a lady, by Sir Joshua, which both of us found very captivating. This is what is often happening in the visits we make. Some painting by a master looks down upon us from its old canvas, and leaves a lasting145 copy of itself, to be stored in memory's picture gallery. These surprises are not so likely to happen in the New World as in the Old.
It seemed cruel to be forced to tear ourselves away from Edinburgh, where so much had been done to make us happy, where so much was left to see and enjoy, but we were due in Oxford, where I was to receive the last of the three degrees with which I was honored in Great Britain.
Our visit to Scotland gave us a mere146 glimpse of the land and its people, but I have a very vivid recollection of both as I saw them on my first visit, when I made an excursion into the Highlands to Stirling and to Glasgow, where I went to church, and wondered over the uncouth147 ancient psalmody, which I believe is still retained in use to this day. I was seasoned to that kind of poetry in my early days by the verses of Tate and Brady, which I used to hear "entuned in the nose ful swetely," accompanied by vigorous rasping of a huge bass-viol. No wonder that Scotland welcomed the song of Burns!
On our second visit to Oxford we were to be the guests of the Vice-Chancellor of the university, Dr. Jowett. This famous scholar and administrator148 lives in a very pleasant establishment, presided over by the Muses149, but without the aid of a Vice-Chancelloress. The hospitality of this classic mansion is well known, and we added a second pleasant chapter to our previous experience under the roof of Professor Max Müller. There was a little company there before us, including the Lord Chancellor and Lady Herschell, Lady Camilla Wallop, Mr. Browning, and Mr. Lowell. We were too late, in consequence of the bad arrangement of the trains, and had to dine by ourselves, as the whole party had gone out to a dinner, to which we should have accompanied them had we not been delayed. We sat up long enough to see them on their return, and were glad to get to bed, after our day's journey from Edinburgh to Oxford.
At eleven o'clock on the following day we who were to receive degrees met at Balliol College, whence we proceeded in solemn procession to the Sheldonian Theatre. Among my companions on this occasion were Mr. John Bright, the Lord Chancellor Herschell, and Mr. Aldis Wright. I have an instantaneous photograph, which was sent me, of this procession. I can identify Mr. Bright and myself, but hardly any of the others, though many better acquainted with their faces would no doubt recognize them. There is a certain sensation in finding one's self invested with the academic gown, conspicuous150 by its red facings, and the cap with its square top and depending tassel151, which is not without its accompanying satisfaction. One can walk the streets of any of the university towns in his academic robes without being jeered152 at, as I am afraid he would be in some of our own thoroughfares. There is a noticeable complacency in the members of our Phi Beta Kappa society when they get the pink and blue ribbons in their buttonholes, on the day of annual meeting. How much more when the scholar is wrapped in those flowing folds, with their flaming borders, and feels the dignity of the distinction of which they are the symbol! I do not know how Mr. John Bright felt, but I cannot avoid the impression that some in the ranks which moved from Balliol to the Sheldonian felt as if Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like the candidates for the degree of D.C.L.
After my experience at Cambridge and Edinburgh, I might have felt some apprehension153 about my reception at Oxford. I had always supposed the audience assembled there at the conferring of degrees was a more demonstrative one than that at any other of the universities, and I did not wish to be forced into a retreat by calls for a speech, as I was at Cambridge, nor to repeat my somewhat irregular proceeding of addressing the audience, as at Edinburgh. But when I found that Mr. John Bright was to be one of the recipients154 of the degree I felt safe, for if he made a speech I should be justified155 in saying a few words, if I thought it best; and if he, one of the most eloquent156 men in England, remained silent, I surely need not make myself heard on the occasion. It was a great triumph for him, a liberal leader, to receive the testimonial of a degree from the old conservative university. To myself it was a graceful and pleasing compliment; to him it was a grave and significant tribute. As we marched through the crowd on our way from Balliol, the people standing around recognized Mr. Bright, and cheered him vociferously157.
The exercises in the Sheldonian Theatre were more complex and lasted longer than those at the other two universities. The candidate stepped forward and listened to one sentence, then made another move forward and listened to other words, and at last was welcomed to all the privileges conferred by the degree of Doctor of Civil Law, which was announced as being bestowed upon him. Mr. Bright, of course, was received with immense enthusiasm. I had every reason to be gratified with my own reception. The only "chaffing" I heard was the question from one of the galleries, "Did he come in the One-Hoss Shay?"--at which there was a hearty laugh, joined in as heartily158 by myself. A part of the entertainment at this ceremony consisted in the listening to the reading of short extracts from the prize essays, some or all of them in the dead languages, which could not have been particularly intelligible159 to a large part of the audience. During these readings there were frequent interpellations, as the French call such interruptions, something like these: "That will do, sir!" or "You had better stop, sir!" --always, I noticed, with the sir at the end of the remark. With us it would have been "Dry up!" or "Hold on!" At last came forward the young poet of the occasion, who read an elaborate poem, "Savonarola," which was listened to in most respectful silence, and loudly applauded at its close, as I thought, deservedly. Prince and Princess Christian160 were among the audience. They were staying with Professor and Mrs. Max Müller, whose hospitalities I hope they enjoyed as much as we did. One or two short extracts from A----'s diary will enliven my record: "The Princess had a huge bouquet161, and going down the aisle162 had to bow both ways at once, it seemed to me: but then she has the Guelph spine163 and neck! Of course it is necessary that royalty164 should have more elasticity165 in the frame than we poor ordinary mortals. After all this we started for a luncheon at All Souls, but had to wait (impatiently) for H. R. H. to rest herself, while our resting was done standing."
It is a long while since I read Madame d'Arblay's Recollections, but if I remember right, standing while royalty rests its bones is one of the drawbacks to a maid of honor's felicity.
"Finally, at near three, we went into a great luncheon of some fifty. There were different tables, and I sat at the one with royalty. The Provost of Oriel took me in, and Mr. Browning was on my other side. Finally, we went home to rest, but the others started out again to go to a garden-party, but that was beyond us." After all this came a dinner-party of twenty at the Vice-Chancellor's, and after that a reception, where among others we met Lord and Lady Coleridge, the lady resplendent in jewels. Even after London, this could hardly be called a day of rest.
The Chinese have a punishment which consists simply in keeping the subject of it awake, by the constant teasing of a succession of individuals employed for the purpose. The best of our social pleasures, if carried beyond the natural power of physical and mental endurance, begin to approach the character of such a penance166. After this we got a little rest; did some mild sight-seeing, heard some good music, called on the Max Müllers, and bade them good-by with the warmest feeling to all the members of a household which it was a privilege to enter. There only remained the parting from our kind entertainer, the Vice-Chancellor, who added another to the list of places which in England and Scotland were made dear to us by hospitality, and are remembered as true homes to us while we were under their roofs.
On the second day of July we left the Vice-Chancellor's, and went to the Randolph Hotel to meet our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Willett, from Brighton, with whom we had an appointment of long standing. With them we left Oxford, to enter on the next stage of our pilgrimage.
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1
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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resuscitate
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| v.使复活，使苏醒 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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54
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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orations
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| n.（正式仪式中的）演说，演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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symposia
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| 座谈会，评论集； 讨论会( symposium的名词复数 )； 专题讨论会； 研讨会； 小型讨论会 | |
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arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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99
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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100
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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101
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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102
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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104
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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105
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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106
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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107
ewer
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| n.大口水罐 | |
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108
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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109
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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110
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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111
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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112
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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113
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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114
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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115
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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116
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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117
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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118
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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119
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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120
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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122
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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123
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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124
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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125
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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126
coalescence
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| n.合并，联合 | |
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127
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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128
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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129
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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130
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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133
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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134
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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135
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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136
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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137
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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138
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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139
pacifying
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的现在分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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140
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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141
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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142
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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143
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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144
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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145
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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146
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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147
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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148
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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149
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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150
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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151
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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152
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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154
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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155
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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156
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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157
vociferously
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| adv.喊叫地，吵闹地 | |
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158
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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159
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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160
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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161
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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162
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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163
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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164
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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165
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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166
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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