We started after breakfast one fine morning, “George,” the footman, turned into groom8 and courier, riding after the gig. I considered this a disappointingly tame proceeding9. I had been up myself considerably10 before daylight, and considered that, looking to the arduous11 nature of the journey before us (we were to sleep at Dorking that night), we ought at least to have been on the road while the less adventurous12 part of the world were still asleep.
We had not proceeded many miles before an amari aliquid disclosed itself of a very distressing13 kind. I was seated on a little box placed on the floor of the gig between the knees of my father and mother, and was “as happy as a prince,” or probably much happier than any contemporaneous prince then in Christendom, when my father produced from out of the driving seat beneath him a Delphin Virgil, and intimated to me that our journey must by no means entail14 an entire interruption of my education; that our travelling was not at all incompatible15 with a little study; and that he was ready to hear me construe16. It may be readily imagined how much such “study” was likely to profit me. Every incident of the road, every waggon17, every stage coach we met, every village church seen across the fields, every milestone18 even, was a matter of intense interest to me. Had I been Argus-eyed every eye{83} would have been busy. I remember that my mother remonstrated19, but in vain. And an hour or two of otherwise intense delight was turned into something which it is scarcely an exaggeration to call torture. I think, however, that my mother must have subsequently renewed her pleadings, for on the second day’s journey the Virgil was not brought out. It was reserved for the days when we were stationary20, but no longer poisoned our absolute travel.
If I never became a distinguished21 scholar it was assuredly from no want of urgency in season and out of season on the part of my poor father. But not even Virgil himself, backed by an Eton Latin Grammar and a small travelling dictionary, could altogether destroy the manifold delights of that journey. I must not inflict22 on my reader all or a tithe23 of my topographical reminiscences: but I will relate one little adventure which went near to saving him not only from this volume but from all that half a century, and more, of subsequent pen-work may have inflicted24 on him. It was at Gloucester. My parents and I had gone to the cathedral about a quarter of an hour before the time for service on a Sunday morning. The great bell was being rung—an operation which was at that time performed by seven bell-ringers down in the body of the church. One large rope, descending25 from an aperture26 in the vault27, was, at some dozen or so of feet from the pavement, divided into seven—one for each of the bell-ringers. Now it so happened that on that day one of the men was absent from his post, and one rope{84} hung loose and unoccupied. No sooner had I espied28 this state of things than I rushed forward and seized the vacant rope, intending to add my efforts to those of the six men at work. But it so happened that at the moment when I thus clutched the rope the men had raised the bell, and of course at the end of their pull allowed the ropes to fly upwards29 through their hands. But I, knowing nothing of bell-ringing, clung tightly to my rope, and was of course swung up from the pavement with terrific speed. Fortunately the height of the vault was so great as to allow the full swing of the bell to complete itself without bringing me into contact with the roof. The men cried out to me to hold on tight. I did so, and descended30 safely—so unharmed that I was very desirous of repeating the experiment, which, as may be supposed, was not allowed. I can pull a bell more knowingly now.
The charming old church at Gloucester was not kept and cared for in those days as it is now—a remark which is applicable, as recent visits have shown me, to nearly all the cathedral churches in England. I may observe also, since one object of these pages is to mark the social changes in English life since my young days, that the improvement in the tone and manner of performing the choral service in our cathedrals is as striking as the increased care for the fabrics31. It used for the most part to be a careless, perfunctory, and not very reverent32 or decorous performance when George the Third was king. Those were the days when one minor34 canon could{85} be backed to give another to “Pontius Pilate” in the Creed35, and beat him! Other times, other manners!
I think that the points in that still well-remembered tour, that most of all delighted me, were, first of all, Lynton and Lynmouth, on the north coast of Devon; then the banks of the Wye from Chepstow to Ross; and thirdly, Raglan Castle. I had already read the Mysteries of Udolpho, with more enjoyment36 probably than any other reading has ever afforded me. It was an ecstasy of delight, tempered only by the impossibility of gratifying my intense longing37 to start forthwith to see the places and countries described. And when I did in long after years see them! Oh, Mrs. Ratcliffe, how could you tell such tales! What! this the lovely Provence of my dreams? But I was fresh from The Mysteries, and full of faith when I went to Raglan, and strove to apply, at least as a matter of possibility, the incidents of the romance to the localities of the delightful38 ruin.
Nor was Raglan in those days cared for with the loving care now bestowed39 on it by the Duke of Somerset. I have heard people complain of the restrictions40, and of the small entrance fee now demanded for admittance to the ruins, and regret the days when the traveller could, as in my time, wander over every part of it at will. All that was very charming, but the place was not as beautiful as it is now. The necessary expense for the due conservation of the ruins must be very considerable.{86} And when one hears, as I did recently at Raglan, that steam and bank-holidays have brought as many as fifteen hundred (!) visitors to the spot in one day, it may be easily imagined what the condition of the place would shortly become if careful restrictions were not enforced. Of lovely—ever lovely—Tintern, the same remarks may be made. Certainly there was a charm in wandering there, as I did when a boy, almost justified41 by the solitude42 in feeling myself to be the discoverer of the spot. Now there is a fine hotel, with waiters in black-tailed coats, and dinners à la carte! And huge vans pouring in “tourists” by the thousand. Between four and five thousand persons, I was told, visited Tintern in one August day! Scott tells those who would “view fair Melrose aright” to “visit it by the pale moonlight.” But I fear me that no such precaution could secure solitude, though it might beauty, at Tintern in August. But the care bestowed upon it makes the place more beautiful than ever. The guardians43 by dint44 of locked gates prevent the lovely sward from being defiled45 by sandwich papers and empty bottles, as the neighbouring woods are. But he who would view fair Tintern aright, had better not visit it on a bank holiday.
A similarly striking change between the England of sixty years since and the England of to-day may be observed at beautiful Lynmouth and Lynton. The place was a solitude when my parents and I visited it in, I think, 1818. We had a narrow escape in driving down from Lynton to the mouth{87} of the little stream. A low wall of unmortared stones alone protected the road from the edge of a very formidable precipice47; and just at the worst point the horse my father was driving took fright at something, and becoming unmanageable, dashed at the low wall, and absolutely got his fore-feet over it! “George,” riding the other horse behind, was at an hundred yards or so distance. But my father, with one bound to the horse’s head, caught him by the bridle48, and, by the sheer strength of his remarkably49 powerful frame, forced him back into the road. It was not a mauvais quart d’heure, but a very mauvais quart de minute—for it was, I take it, all over in that time. Now the road is excellent, and traversed daily in the summer season by some half dozen huge vans carrying “tourists” from Ilfracombe to Lynton.
At the latter place, too, there is a large and extremely prettily50 situated51 hotel, where, on the occasion of my first visit, I remember that we obtained a modicum52 of bread and cheese at a lone46 cottage. Even the Valley of Rocks is not altogether what it was, for the celebrated53 “Castle Rock” has now well contrived54 paths to the top of it. I wrote a few months ago in the book kept at the hotel, ad hoc that I had climbed the Castle Rock more than sixty years ago, and had now repeated the feat55. But in truth, the “climb” was in those days a different affair. I remember my mother had a story of some old friend of hers having been accompanied by her maid during a ramble through the{88} Valley of Rocks, and having been told, when she asked the maid what she thought of it, that she considered it was kept very untidy! And truly the criticism might be repeated at the present day not altogether unreasonably56, for the whole place is defiled by the traces of feeding.
Truly England, whether for better or worse, “non è più come era prima!”
That was my first journey! Has any one of the very many others which I have undertaken since equalled it in enjoyment? Ah! how sad was the return to Harrow and lessons and pupil-room! And how I wished that the old gig, with me on the little box between my parents’ knees, could have been bound on an expedition round the world!
A leading feature, perhaps I should say the leading feature, of the social life of Harrow in those days consisted in a certain antagonism57 between the vicar, the Rev33. Mr. Cunningham, and the clerical element of the school world, or perhaps it would be more correct to say, the Drury element. Mr. Cunningham was in those days rather a man of mark among the Low Church party. He was an ally of the Venns, of Daniel Wilson, and that school, and was well known in his day as “Velvet-Cushion Cunningham,” from a little book with that title which he had published. He was of course an “evangelical” of the evangelicals; and among the seven masters of the school there was not the slightest—I must not say taint58, but—savour of any{89}thing of the kind. Dr. Butler probably would have found no difficulty in living in perfect harmony with the vicar; but the latter—he and his ways and his doctrines—were especially abhorrent59 to the Drurys. Of course they were not High Churchmen in the sense which the term has acquired in these latter days, for nothing of the kind was then known. They were of the old-fashioned sort, which had come to be somewhat depreciatingly spoken of as “high and dry”!—though in truth it is difficult to see with what justice the latter epithet60 could be applied61 to many of them.
Harry62 Drury, who was perhaps foremost in his feeling of antagonism to the vicar, was a man of decidedly literary tastes, though they shared his devotion with those of a bon vivant. He was a ripe scholar, and undoubtedly63 the vicar’s superior in talent and intellect. But he was essentially64 a coarse man, coarse in manner and coarse in feeling. Cunningham was the reverse of all this. He was, I believe, the son of a London hatter, but in external manner and appearance he was a more gentlemanlike man than any of the Harrow masters of that day, save Dr. Butler. He had the advantage, too, of a handsome person and good presence. But there was a something too suave65 and too soft, carrying with it a certain suspicion of insincerity which prevented him from presenting a genuine specimen66 of the real article. I believe his father purchased the living for him under circumstances which were not altogether free from suspicion of simony. I know{90} nothing, however, of these circumstances, and my impressions on the subject are doubtless derived67 from the flouts68 and skits69 of his avowed70 enemies the Drurys. There was, I remember, a story of his having, soon after coming to Harrow, in conversation with some of his new parishioners, attributed with much self-complacency his presentation to the living to his having upon some occasion preached before Lord Northwick!—a result which no Harrow inhabitant, clerk or layman71, would have believed in the case of his lordship, then often a resident on his property there, if the preacher had been St. Paul. But again, Audi alteram partem! which I had no chance of doing, for we, though living on terms of neighbourly intercourse72 with the vicar, were of the Drury faction73.
I remember well an incident which may serve to illustrate74 the condition of “tension” which prevailed during those years in the little Harrow world. Mark Drury had two remarkably pretty daughters. They were in all respects as thoroughly75 good and charming girls as they were pretty, and were universal favourites in the society. Now Mark Drury’s pew in the parish church, where of course he never appeared himself, for the reason assigned on a former page, was situated immediately below the pulpit. And on one occasion the vicar saw, or thought he saw, the two young ladies in question laughing during his sermon, and so far forgot himself, and was sufficiently76 ill-judged, indiscreet, wrong-headed, and wrong-hearted to stop in his{91} discourse77, and, leaning over the pulpit cushion to say aloud that he would resume it when his hearers could listen to it with decency78! The amount of ill-feeling and heart-burning which the incident gave rise to may be imagined. Harry Drury, the cousin of the young ladies, and, as I have said, Cunningham’s principal antagonist79, never for a long time afterwards came within speaking distance of the vicar without growling80 “Brawler!” in a perfectly81 audible voice.
I well remember, though I suppose it must be mainly from subsequent hearing of it, the storm that was raised in the tea-cup of the Harrow world by the incident of Byron’s natural daughter, Allegra, having been sent home to be buried in Harrow Church. A solemn meeting was held in the vestry, at which the vicar, all the masters (except poor old Mark), and sundry82 of the leading parishioners were present, and at which it was decided that no stone should be placed to commemorate83 the poor infant’s name or mark the spot where her remains84 rested, the principal reason assigned being that such a memorial might be injurious to the morals of the Harrow schoolboys! Amid all this Cunningham’s innate85 and invincible86 flunkeyism asserted itself, to the immense amusement of the non-evangelical part of the society of the place, by his attempts to send a message to Lord Byron through Harry Drury, Byron’s old tutor and continued friend, to the effect that he, Cunningham, had, on reading Cain, which was then scandalising the world, “felt a profound{92} admiration87 for the genius of the author”! “Did you indeed,” said Harry Drury; “I think it the most blasphemous88 publication that ever came from the pen.”
The whole circumstances, object, and upshot of this singular vestry meeting were too tempting89 a subject to escape my mother’s satirical vein90. She described the whole affair in some five hundred verses, now before me, in which the curiously91 contrasted characteristics of the debaters at the meeting were very cleverly hit off. This was afterwards shown to Harry Drury, who, though he himself was not altogether spared, was so delighted with it, that he rewarded it by the present of a very remarkable92 autograph of Lord Byron, now in my possession. It consists of a quarto page, on which is copied the little poem, “Weep, daughters of a royal line,” beginning with a stanza93 which was suppressed in the publication. And all round the edges of the MS. is an inscription94 stating that the verses were “copied for my friend, the Rev. Harry Drury.”
Of course all this did not tend much to harmonise the conflicting partisans95 of High and Low Church in the Harrow world of that day.
I may add here another “reminiscence” of those days, which is not without significance as an illustration of manners.
Among the neighbours at Harrow was a Mr. —— (well, I won’t print the name, though all the parties in question must long since, I suppose, have joined the majority) who had a family of daughters, the{93} second of whom was exceedingly pretty. One day this girl of some eighteen years or so, came to my mother, who was always a special friend of all the young girls, with a long eulogistic96 defence of the vicar. She was describing at much length the delight of the assurances of grace which he had given her, when my mother suddenly looking her straight in the eyes, said, “Did he kiss you, Carrie?”
“Yes, Mrs. Trollope. He did give me the kiss of peace. I am sure there was no harm in that!”
“None at all, Carrie! For I am sure you meant none!” returned my mother. “Honi soit qui mal y pense! But remember, Carrie, that the kiss of peace is apt to change its quality if repeated!”
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1
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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wilts
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tandem
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| n.同时发生；配合；adv.一个跟着一个地；纵排地；adj.（两匹马）前后纵列的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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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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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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descended
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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flouts
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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skits
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| n.讽刺文( skit的名词复数 )；小喜剧；若干；一群 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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75
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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81
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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82
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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83
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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84
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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94
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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eulogistic
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| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
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