The barriers being now withdrawn16, we walked adown the length of the nave, which did not seem to me so dim and vast as the recollection which I have had of it since my visit of a year ago. But my pre-imaginations and my memories are both apt to play me false with all admirable things, and so create disappointments for me, while perhaps the thing itself is really far better than I imagine or remember it. We engaged an old man, one of the attendants pertaining19 to the cathedral, to be our guide, and he showed us first the stone screen in front of the choir, with its sculptured kings of England; and then the tombs in the north transept,— one of a modern archbishop, and one of an ancient one, behind which the insane person who set fire to the church a few years ago hid himself at nightfall. Then our guide unlocked a side door, and led us into the chapter-house,—an octagonal hall, with a vaulted20 roof, a tessellated floor, and seven arched windows of old painted glass, the richest that I ever saw or imagined, each looking like an inestimable treasury22 of precious stories, with a gleam and glow even in the sullen23 light of this gray morning. What would they be with the sun shining through them! With all their brilliancy, moreover, they were as soft as rose-leaves. I never saw any piece of human architecture so beautiful as this chapter-house; at least, I thought so while I was looking at it, and think so still; and it owed its beauty in very great measure to the painted windows: I remember looking at these windows from the outside yesterday, and seeing nothing but an opaque24 old crust of conglomerated panes25 of glass; but now that gloomy mystery was radiantly solved.
Returning into the body of the cathedral, we next entered the choir, where, instead of the crimson26 cushions and draperies which we had seen yesterday, we found everything folded in black. It was a token of mourning for one of the canons, who died on Saturday night. The great east window, seventy-five feet high, and full of old painted glass in many exquisitely27 wrought28 and imagined Scriptural designs, is considered the most splendid object in the Minster. It is a pity that it is partially29 hidden from view, even in the choir, by a screen before the high altar; but indeed, the Gothic architects seem first to imagine beautiful and noble things, and then to consider how they may best be partially screened from sight. A certain secrecy30 and twilight31 effect belong to their plan.
We next went round the side aisles of the choir, which contain many interesting monuments of prelates, and a specimen32 of the very common Elizabethan design of an old gentleman in a double ruff and trunk breeches, with one of his two wives on either side of him, all kneeling in prayer; and their conjoint children, in two rows, kneeling in the lower compartments33 of the tomb. We saw, too, a rich marble monument of one of the Strafford family, and the tombstone of the famous Earl himself,—a flat tombstone in the pavement of the aisle, covering the vault21 where he was buried, and with four iron rings fastened into the four corners of the stone whereby to lift it.
And now the guide led us into the vestry, where there was a good fire burning in the grate, and it really thawed34 my heart, which was congealed35 with the dismal6 chill of the cathedral. Here we saw a good many curious things,—for instance, two wooden figures in knightly37 armor, which had stood sentinels beside the ancient clock before it was replaced by a modern one; and, opening a closet, the guide produced an old iron helmet, which had been found in a tomb where a knight36 had been buried in his armor; and three gold rings and one brass one, taken out of the graves, and off the finger-bones of mediaeval archbishops,—one of them with a ruby38 set in it; and two silver-gilt chalices39, also treasures of the tombs; and a wooden head, carved in human likeness40, and painted to the life, likewise taken from a grave where an archbishop was supposed to have been buried. They found no veritable skull41 nor bones, but only this block-head, as if Death had betrayed the secret of what the poor prelate really was. We saw, too, a canopy42 of cloth, wrought with gold threads, which had been borne over the head of King James I., when he came to York, on his way to receive the English Crown. There were also some old brass dishes, In which pence used to be collected in monkish43 times. Over the door of this vestry were hung two banners of a Yorkshire regiment44, tattered45 in the Peninsular wars, and inscribed46 with the names of the battles through which they had been borne triumphantly47; and Waterloo was among them. The vestry, I think, occupies that excrescential edifice48 which I noticed yesterday as having grown out of the cathedral.
After looking at these things, we went down into the crypts, under the choir. These were very interesting, as far as we could see them; being more antique than anything above ground, but as dark as any cellar. There is here, in the midst of these sepulchral49 crypts, a spring of water, said to be very pure and delicious, owing to the limestone50 through which the rain that feeds its source is filtered. Near it is a stone trough, in which the monks51 used to wash their hands.
I do not remember anything more that we saw at the cathedral, and at noon we returned to the Black Swan. The rain still continued, so that S——- could not share in any more of my rambles52, but J——- and I went out again, and discovered the Guildhall. It is a very ancient edifice of Richard II.'s time, and has a statue over the entrance which looks time-gnawed enough to be of coeval53 antiquity54, although in reality it is only a representation of George II. in his royal robes. We went in, and found ourselves in a large and lofty hall, with an oaken roof and a stone pavement, and the farther end was partitioned off as a court of justice. In that portion of the hall the Judge was on the bench, and a trial was going forward; but in the hither portion a mob of people, with their hats on, were lounging and talking, and enjoying the warmth of the stoves. The window over the judgment-seat had painted glass in it, and so, I think, had some of the hall windows. At the end of the hall hung a great picture of Paul defending himself before Agrippa, where the Apostle looked like an athlete, and had a remarkably55 bushy black beard. Between two of the windows hung an Indian bell from Burmah, ponderously57 thick and massive. Both the picture and the bell had been presented to the city as tokens of affectionate remembrance by its children; and it is pleasant to think that such failings exist in these old stable communities, and that there are permanent localities where such gifts can be kept from generation to generation.
At four o'clock we left the city of York, still in a pouring rain. The Black Swan, where we had been staying, is a good specimen of the old English inn, sombre, quiet, with dark staircases, dingy58 rooms, curtained beds,—all the possibilities of a comfortable life and good English fare, in a fashion which cannot have been much altered for half a century. It is very homelike when one has one's family about him, but must be prodigiously59 stupid for a solitary60 man.
We took the train for Manchester, over pretty much the same route that I travelled last year. Many of the higher hills in Yorkshire were white with snow, which, in our lower region, softened61 into rain; but as we approached Manchester, the western sky reddened, and gave promise of better weather. We arrived at nearly eight o'clock, and put up at the Palatine Hotel. In the evening I scrawled62 away at my journal till past ten o'clock; for I have really made it a matter of conscience to keep a tolerably full record of my travels, though conscious that everything good escapes in the process. In the morning we went out and visited the
MANCHESTER CATHEDRAL,
a particularly black and grimy edifice, containing some genuine old wood carvings63 within the choir. We stayed a good while, in order to see some people married. One couple, with their groomsman and bride's-maid, were sitting within the choir; but when the clergyman was robed and ready, there entered five other couples, each attended by groomsman and bride's-maid. They all were of the lower orders; one or two respectably dressed, but most of them poverty-stricken,—the men in their ordinary loafer's or laborer's attire64, the women with their poor, shabby shawls drawn17 closely about them; faded untimely, wrinkled with penury65 and care; nothing fresh, virgin-like, or hopeful about them; joining themselves to their mates with the idea of making their own misery66 less intolerable by adding another's to it. All the six couple stood up in a row before the altar, with the groomsmen and bride's-maids in a row behind them; and the clergyman proceeded to marry them in such a way that it almost seemed to make every man and woman the husband and wife of every other. However, there were some small portions of the service directed towards each separate couple; and they appeared to assort themselves in their own fashion afterwards, each one saluting67 his bride with a kiss. The clergyman, the sexton, and the clerk all seemed to find something funny in this affair; and the woman who admitted us into the church smiled too, when she told us that a wedding-party was waiting to be married. But I think it was the saddest thing we have seen since leaving home; though funny enough if one likes to look at it from a ludicrous point of view. This mob of poor marriages was caused by the fact that no marriage fee is paid during Easter.
This ended the memorable68 things of our tour; for my wife and J——- left Manchester for Southport, and I for Liverpool, before noon.
April 19th.—On the 15th, having been invited to attend at the laying of the corner-stone of
MR. BROWNE'S FREE LIBRARY,
I went to the Town Hall, according to the programme, at eleven o'clock. There was already a large number of people (invited guests, members of the Historical Society, and other local associations) assembled in the great hall-room, and one of these was delivering an address to Mr. Browne as I entered. Approaching the outer edge of the circle, I was met and cordially greeted by Monckton Milnes, whom I like, and who always reminds me of Longfellow, though his physical man is more massive. While we were talking together, a young man approached him with a pretty little expression of surprise and pleasure at seeing him there. He had a slightly affected69 or made-up manner, and was rather a comely70 person. Mr. Milnes introduced him to me as Lord ———. Hereupon, of course, I observed him more closely; and I must say that I was not long in discovering a gentle dignity and half-imperceptible reserve in his manner; but still my first impression was quite as real as my second one. He occupies, I suppose, the foremost position among the young men of England, and has the fairest prospects71 of a high course before him; nevertheless, he did not impress me as possessing the native qualities that could entitle him to a high public career. He has adopted public life as his hereditary72 profession, and makes the very utmost of all his abilities, cultivating himself to a determined73 end, knowing that he shall have every advantage towards attaining74 his object. His natural disadvantages must have been, in some respects, unusually great; his voice, for instance, is not strong, and appeared to me to have a more positive defect than mere75 weakness. Doubtless he has struggled manfully against this defect; and it made me feel a certain sympathy, and, indeed, a friendliness77, for which he would not at all have thanked me, had he known it. I felt, in his person, what a burden it is upon human shoulders, the necessity of keeping up the fame and historical importance of an illustrious house; at least, when the heir to its honors has sufficient intellect and sensibility to feel the claim that his country and his ancestors and his posterity78 all have upon him. Lord ——— is fully76 capable of feeling these claims; but I would not care, methinks, to take his position, unless I could have considerably79 more than his strength.
In a little while we formed ourselves into a procession, four in a row, and set forth80 from the Town Hall, through James Street, Lord Street, Lime Street, all the way through a line of policemen and a throng81 of people; and all the windows were alive with heads, and I never before was so conscious of a great mass of humanity, though perhaps I may often have seen as great a crowd. But a procession is the best point of view from which to see the crowd that collects together. The day, too, was very fine, even sunshiny, and the streets dry,—a blessing82 which cannot be overestimated83; for we should have been in a strange trim for the banquet, had we been compelled to wade84 through the ordinary mud of Liverpool. The procession itself could not have been a very striking object. In America, it would have had a hundred picturesque85 and perhaps ludicrous features,—the symbols of the different trades, banners with strange devices, flower-shows, children, volunteer soldiers, cavalcades86, and every suitable and unsuitable contrivance; but we were merely a trail of ordinary-looking individuals, in great-coats, and with precautionary umbrellas. The only characteristic or professional costume, as far as I noticed, was that of the Bishop10 of Chester, in his flat cap and black-silk gown; and that of Sir Henry Smith, the General of the District, in full uniform, with a star and half a dozen medals on his breast. Mr. Browne himself, the hero of the day, was the plainest and simplest man of all,—an exceedingly unpretending gentleman in black; small, white-haired, pale, quiet, and respectable. I rather wondered why he chose to be the centre of all this ceremony; for he did not seem either particularly to enjoy it, or to be at all incommoded by it, as a more nervous and susceptible87 man might have been.
The site of the projected edifice is on one of the streets bordering on St. George's Hall; and when we came within the enclosure, the corner-stone, a large square of red freestone, was already suspended over its destined88 place. It has a brass plate let into it, with an inscription89, which will perhaps not be seen again till the present English type has grown as antique as black-letter is now. Two or three photographs were now taken of the site, the corner-stone, Mr. Browne, the distinguished90 guests, and the crowd at large; then ensued a prayer from the Bishop of Chester, and speeches from Mr. Holme, Mr. Browne, Lord ———, Sir John Pakington, Sir Henry Smith, and as many others as there was time for. Lord ——— acquitted91 himself very creditably, though brought out unexpectedly, and with evident reluctance92. I am convinced that men, liable to be called on to address the public, keep a constant supply of commonplaces in their minds, which, with little variation, can be adapted to one subject about as well as to another; and thus they are always ready to do well enough, though seldom to do particularly well.
From the scene of the corner-stone, we went to St. George's Hall, where a drawing-room and dressing-room had been prepared for the principal guests. Before the banquet, I had some conversation with Sir James Kay Shuttleworth, who had known Miss Bronte very intimately, and bore testimony93 to the wonderful fidelity94 of Mrs. Gaskell's life of her. He seemed to have had an affectionate regard for her, and said that her marriage promised to have been productive of great happiness; her husband being not a remarkable95 man, but with the merit of an exceeding love for her.
Mr. Browne now took me up into the gallery, which by this time was full of ladies; and thence we had a fine view of the noble hall, with the tables laid, in readiness for the banquet. I cannot conceive of anything finer than this hall: it needs nothing but painted windows to make it perfect, and those I hope it may have one day or another.
At two o'clock we sat down to the banquet, which hardly justified96 that name, being only a cold collation97, though sufficiently98 splendid in its way. In truth, it would have been impossible to provide a hot dinner for nine hundred people in a place remote from kitchens. The principal table extended lengthwise of the hall, and was a little elevated above the other tables, which stretched across, about twenty in all. Before each guest, besides the bill of fare, was laid a programme of the expected toasts, among which appeared my own name, to be proposed by Mr. Monckton Milnes. These things do not trouble me quite as much as they used, though still it sufficed to prevent much of the enjoyment99 which I might have had if I could have felt myself merely a spectator. My left-hand neighbor was Colonel Campbell of the Artillery100; my right-hand one was Mr. Picton, of the Library Committee; and I found them both companionable men, especially the Colonel, who had served in China and in the Crimea, and owned that he hated the French. We did not make a very long business of the eatables, and then came the usual toasts of ceremony, and afterwards those more peculiar101 to the occasion, one of the first of which was "The House of Stanley," to which Lord ——— responded. It was a noble subject, giving scope for as much eloquence102 as any man could have brought to bear upon it, and capable of being so wrought out as to develop and illustrate103 any sort of conservative or liberal tendencies which the speaker might entertain. There could not be a richer opportunity for reconciling and making friends betwixt the old system of society and the new; but Lord ——— did not seem to make anything of it. I remember nothing that he said excepting his statement that the family had been five hundred years connected with the town of Liverpool. I wish I could have responded to "The House of Stanley," and his Lordship could have spoken in my behalf. None of the speeches were remarkably good; the Bishop of Chester's perhaps the best, though he is but a little man in aspect, not at all filling up one's idea of a bishop, and the rest were on an indistinguishable level, though, being all practised speakers, they were less hum-y and ha-y than English orators104 ordinarily are.
I was really tired to death before my own turn came, sitting all that time, as it were, on the scaffold, with the rope round my neck. At last Monckton Milnes was called up and made a speech, of which, to my dismay, I could hardly hear a single word, owing to his being at a considerable distance, on the other side of the chairman, and flinging his voice, which is a bass105 one, across the hall, instead of adown it, in my direction. I could not distinguish one word of any allusions106 to my works, nor even when he came to the toast, did I hear the terms in which he put it, nor whether I was toasted on my own basis, or as representing American literature, or as Consul107 of the United States. At all events, there was a vast deal of clamor; and uprose peers and bishop, general, mayor, knights108 and gentlemen, everybody in the hall greeting me with all the honors. I had uprisen, too, to commence my speech; but had to sit down again till matters grew more quiet, and then I got up, and proceeded to deliver myself with as much composure as I ever felt at my own fireside. It is very strange, this self-possession and clear-sightedness which I have experienced when standing109 before an audience, showing me my way through all the difficulties resulting from my not having heard Monckton Milnes's speech; and on since reading the latter, I do not see how I could have answered it better. My speech certainly was better cheered than any other; especially one passage, where I made a colossus of Mr. Browne, at which the audience grew so tumultuous in their applause that they drowned my figure of speech before it was half out of my mouth.
After rising from table, Lord ——— and I talked about our respective oratorical110 performances; and he appeared to have a perception that he is not naturally gifted in this respect. I like Lord ———, and wish that it were possible that we might know one another better. If a nobleman has any true friend out of his own class, it ought to be a republican. Nothing further of interest happened at the banquet, and the next morning came out the newspapers with the reports of my speech, attributing to me a variety of forms of ragged111 nonsense, which, poor speaker as I am, I was quite incapable112 of uttering.
May 10th.—The winter is over, but as yet we scarcely have what ought to be called spring; nothing but cold east-winds, accompanied with sunshine, however, as east-winds generally are in this country. All milder winds seem to bring rain. The grass has been green for a month,—indeed, it has never been entirely113 brown,—and now the trees and hedges are beginning to be in foliage114. Weeks ago the daisies bloomed, even in the sandy grass-plot bordering on the promenade115 beneath our front windows; and in the progress of the daisy, and towards its consummation, I saw the propriety116 of Burns's epithet117, "wee, modest, crimson-nipped flower,"—its little white petals118 in the bud being fringed all round with crimson, which fades into pure white when the flower blooms. At the beginning of this month I saw fruit-trees in blossom, stretched out flat against stone walls, reminding me of a dead bird nailed against the side of a barn. But it has been a backward and dreary119 spring; and I think Southport, in the course of it, has lost its advantage over the rest of the Liverpool neighborhood in point of milder atmosphere. The east-wind feels even rawer here than in the city.
Nevertheless, the columns, of the Southport Visitor begin to be well replenished120 with the names of guests, and the town is assuming its aspect of summer life. To say the truth, except where cultivation121 has done its utmost, there is very little difference between winter and summer in the mere material aspect of Southport; there being nothing but a waste of sand intermixed with plashy pools to seaward, and a desert of sand-hillocks on the land side. But now the brown, weather-hardened donkey-women haunt people that stray along the reaches, and delicate persons face the cold, rasping, ill-tempered blast on the promenade, and children dig in the sands; and, for want of something better, it seems to be determined that this shall be considered spring.
Southport is as stupid a place as I ever lived in; and I cannot but bewail our ill fortune to have been compelled to spend so many months on these barren sands, when almost every other square yard of England contains something that would have been historically or poetically122 interesting. Our life here has been a blank. There was, indeed, a shipwreck123, a month or two ago, when a large ship came ashore124 within a mile from our windows; the larger portion of the crew landing safely on the hither sands, while six or seven betook themselves to the boat, and were lost in attempting to gain the shore, on the other side of the Ribble. After a lapse125 of several weeks, two or three of their drowned bodies were found floating in this vicinity, and brought to Southport for burial; so that it really is not at all improbable that Milton's Lycidas floated hereabouts, in the rise and lapse of the tides, and that his bones may still be whitening among the sands.
In the same gale126 that wrecked127 the above-mentioned vessel128, a portion of a ship's mast was driven ashore, after evidently having been a very long time in and under water; for it was covered with great barnacles, and torn sea-weed, insomuch that there was scarcely a bare place along its whole length; clusters of sea-anemones129 were sticking to it, and I know not what strange marine130 productions besides. J——- at once recognized the sea-anemones, knowing them by his much reading of Gosse's Aquarium131; and though they must now have been two or three days high and dry out of water, he made an extempore aquarium out of a bowl, and put in above a dozen of these strange creatures. In a little while they bloomed out wonderfully, and even seemed to produce young anemones; but, from some fault in his management, they afterwards grew sickly and died. S——- thinks that the old storm-shattered mast, so studded with the growth of the ocean depths, is a relic132 of the Spanish Armada which strewed133 its wrecks134 along all the shores of England; but I hardly think it would have taken three hundred years to produce this crop of barnacles and sea-anemones. A single summer might probably have done it.
Yesterday we all of us except R——- went to Liverpool to see the performances of an American circus company. I had previously135 been, a day or two before, with J——-, and had been happy to perceive that the fact of its being an American establishment really induced some slight swelling136 of the heart within me. It is ridiculous enough, to be sure, but I like to find myself not wholly destitute137 of this noble weakness, patriotism138. As for the circus, I never was fond of that species of entertainment, nor do I find in this one the flash and glitter and whirl which I remember in other American exhibitions.
[Here follow the visits to Lincoln and Boston, printed in Our Old Home. —ED.]
May 27th.—We left Boston by railway at noon, and arrived in PETERBOROUGH in about an hour and a quarter, and have put up at the Railway Hotel. After dinner we walked into the town to see
THE CATHEDRAL,
Our journey from Boston hitherward was through a perfectly140 level country,—the fens141 of Lincolnshire,—green, green, and nothing else, with old villages and farm-houses and old church-towers; very pleasant and rather wearisomely monotonous142. To return to Peterborough. It is a town of ancient aspect; and we passed, on our way towards the market-place, a very ancient-looking church, with a very far projecting porch, opening in front and on each side through arches of broad sweep. The street by which we approached from our hotel led us into the market-place, which had what looked like an old Guildhall on one side. On the opposite side, above the houses, appeared the towers of the cathedral, and a street leads from the market-place to its front, through an arched gateway143, which used to be the external entrance to the abbey, I suppose, of which the cathedral was formerly144 the church. The front of the cathedral is very striking, and unlike any other that I have seen; being formed by three lofty and majestic145 arches in a row, with three gable peaks above them, forming a sort of colonnade146, within which is the western entrance of the nave. The towers are massive, but low in proportion to their bulk. There are no spires147, but pinnacles148 and statues, and all the rich detail of Gothic architecture, the whole of a venerable gray line. It is in perfect repair, and has not suffered externally, except by the loss of multitudes of statues, gargoyles149, and miscellaneous eccentricities150 of sculpture, which used to smile, frown, laugh, and weep over the faces of these old fabrics151.
We entered through a side portal, and sat down on a bench in the nave, and kept ourselves quiet; for the organ was sounding, and the choristers were chanting in the choir. The nave and transepts are very noble, with clustered pillars and Norman arches, and a great height under the central tower; the whole, however, being covered with plaster and whitewash152, except the roof, which is of painted oak. This latter adornment153 has the merit, I believe, of being veritably ancient; but certainly I should prefer the oak of its native hue154, for the effect of the paint is to make it appear as if the ceiling were covered with imitation mosaic-work or an oil-cloth carpet.
After sitting awhile, we were invited by a verger, who came from within the screen, to enter the choir and hear the rest of the service. We found the choristers there in their white garments, and an audience of half a dozen people, and had time to look at the interior of the choir. All the carved wood-work of the tabernacle, the Bishop's throne, the prebends' stalls, and whatever else, is modern; for this cathedral seems to have suffered wofully from Cromwell's soldiers, who hacked155 at the old oak, and hammered and pounded upon the marble tombs, till nothing of the first and very few of the latter remain. It is wonderful how suddenly the English people lost their sense of the sanctity of all manner of externals in religion, without losing their religion too. The French, in their Revolution, underwent as sudden a change; but they became pagans and atheists, and threw away the substance with the shadow.
I suspect that the interior arrangement of the choir and the chancel has been greatly modernized156; for it is quite unlike anything that I have seen elsewhere. Instead of one vast eastern window, there are rows of windows lighting157 the Lady Chapel158, and seen through rows of arches in the screen of the chancel; the effect being, whoever is to have the credit of it, very rich and beautiful. There is, I think, no stained glass in the windows of the nave, though in the windows of the chancel there is some of recent date, and from fragments of veritable antique. The effect of the whole interior is grand, expansive, and both ponderous56 and airy; not dim, mysterious, and involved, as Gothic interiors often are, the roundness and openness of the arches being opposed to this latter effect.
When the chanting came to a close, one verger took his stand at the entrance of the choir, and another stood farther up the aisle, and then the door of a stall opened, and forth came a clerical dignity of much breadth and substance, aged18 and infirm, and was ushered159 out of the choir with a great deal of ceremony. We took him for the bishop, but he proved to be only a canon. We now engaged an attendant to show us through the Lady Chapel and the other penetralia, which it did not take him long to accomplish. One of the first things he showed us was the tombstone, in the pavement of the southern aisle, beneath which Mary, Queen of Scots, had been originally buried, and where she lay for a quarter of a century, till borne to her present resting-place in Westminster Abbey. It is a plain marble slab160, with no inscription. Near this, there was a Saxon monument of the date 870, with sculpture in relief upon it,—the memorial of an Abbot Hedda, who was killed by the Danes when they destroyed the monastery161 that preceded the abbey and church. I remember, likewise, the recumbent figure of the prelate, whose face has been quite obliterated162 by Puritanic violence; and I think that there is not a single tomb older than the parliamentary wars, which has not been in like manner battered163 and shattered, except the Saxon abbot's just mentioned. The most pretentious164 monument remaining is that of a Mr. Deacon, a gentleman of George I.'s time, in wig165 and breeches, leaning on his elbow, and resting one hand upon a skull. In the north aisle, precisely166 opposite to that of Queen Mary, the attendant pointed167 out to us the slab beneath which lie the ashes of Catharine of Aragon, the divorced queen of Henry VIII.
In the nave there was an ancient font, a venerable and beautiful relic, which has been repaired not long ago, but in such a way as not to lessen168 its individuality. This sacred vessel suffered especial indignity169 from Cromwell's soldiers; insomuch that if anything could possibly destroy its sanctity, they would have effected that bad end. On the eastern wall of the nave, and near the entrance, hangs the picture of old Scarlet170, the sexton who buried both Mary of Scotland and Catharine of Aragon, and not only these two queens, but everybody else in Peterborough, twice over. I think one feels a sort of enmity and spite against these grave-diggers, who live so long, and seem to contract a kindred and partnership171 with Death, being boon172 companions with him, and taking his part against mankind.
In a chapel or some side apartment, there were two pieces of tapestry173 wretchedly faded, the handiwork of two nuns174, and copied from two of Raphael's cartoons.
We now emerged from the cathedral, and walked round its exterior175, admiring it to our utmost capacity, and all the more because we had not heard of it beforehand, and expected to see nothing so huge, majestic, grand, and gray. And of all the lovely closes that I ever beheld176, that of Peterborough Cathedral is to me the most delightful177; so quiet it is, so solemnly and nobly cheerful, so verdant178, so sweetly shadowed, and so presided over by the stately minster, and surrounded by ancient and comely habitations of Christian179 men. The most enchanting180 place, the most enviable as a residence in all this world, seemed to me that of the Bishop's secretary, standing in the rear of the cathedral, and bordering on the churchyard; so that you pass through hallowed precincts in order to come at it, and find it a Paradise, the holier and sweeter for the dead men who sleep so near. We looked through the gateway into the lawn, which really seemed hardly to belong to this world, so bright and soft the sunshine was, so fresh the grass, so lovely the trees, so trained and refined and mellowed181 down was the whole nature of the spot, and so shut in and guarded from all intrusion. It is in vain to write about it; nowhere but in England can there be such a spot, nor anywhere but in the close of Peterborough Cathedral.
May 28th.—I walked up into the town this morning, and again visited the cathedral. On the way, I observed the Falcon182 Inn, a very old-fashioned hostelry, with a thatched roof, and what looked like the barn door or stable door in a side front. Very likely it may have been an inn ever since Queen Elizabeth's time. The Guildhall, as I supposed it to be, in the market-place, has a basement story entirely open on all sides, but from its upper story it communicates with a large old house in the rear. I have not seen an older-looking town than Peterborough; but there is little that is picturesque about it, except within the domain183 of the cathedral. It was very fortunate for the beauty and antiquity of these precincts, that Henry VIII. did not suffer the monkish edifices184 of the abbey to be overthrown185 and utterly186 destroyed, as was the case with so many abbeys, at the Reformation; but, converting the abbey church into a cathedral, he preserved much of the other arrangement of the buildings connected with it. And so it happens that to this day we have the massive and stately gateway, with its great pointed arch, still keeping out the world from those who have inherited the habitations of the old monks; for though the gate is never closed, one feels himself in a sacred seclusion187 the instant he passes under the archway. And everywhere there are old houses that appear to have been adapted from the monkish residences, or from their spacious188 offices, and made into convenient dwellings189 for ecclesiastics190, or vergers, or great or small people connected with the cathedral; and with all modern comfort they still retain much of the quaintness191 of the olden time,—arches, even rows of arcades192, pillars, walls, beautified with patches of Gothic sculpture, not wilfully193 put on by modern taste, but lingering from a long past; deep niches194, let into the fronts of houses, and occupied by images of saints; a growth of ivy195, overspreading walls, and just allowing the windows to peep through,—so that no novelty, nor anything of our hard, ugly, and actual life comes into these limits, through the defences of the gateway, without being mollified and modified. Except in some of the old colleges of Oxford196, I have not seen any other place that impressed me in this way; and the grounds of Peterborough Cathedral have the advantage over even the Oxford colleges, insomuch that the life is here domestic,—that of the family, that of the affections,—a natural life, which one deludes197 himself with imagining may be made into something sweeter and purer in this beautiful spot than anywhere else. Doubtless the inhabitants find it a stupid and tiresome198 place enough, and get morbid199 and sulky, and heavy and obtuse200 of head and heart, with the monotony of their life. But still I must needs believe that a man with a full mind, and objects to employ his affection, ought to be very happy here. And perhaps the forms and appliances of human life are never fit to make people happy until they cease to be used for the purposes for which they were directly intended, and are taken, as it were, in a sidelong application. I mean that the monks, probably, never enjoyed their own edifices while they were a part of the actual life of the day, so much as these present inhabitants now enjoy them when a new use has grown up apart from the original one.
Towards noon we all walked into the town again, and on our way went into the old church with the projecting portal, which I mentioned yesterday. A woman came hastening with the keys when she saw us looking up at the door. The interior had an exceeding musty odor, and was very ancient, with side aisles opening by a row of pointed arches into the nave, and a gallery of wood on each side, and built across the two rows of arches. It was paved with tombstones, and I suppose the dead people contributed to the musty odor. Very naked and unadorned it was, except with a few mural monuments of no great interest. We stayed but a little while, and amply rewarded the poor woman with a sixpence. Thence we proceeded to the cathedral, pausing by the way to look at the old Guildhall, which is no longer a Guildhall, but a butter-market; and then we bought some prints of exterior and interior views of the Minster, of which there are a great variety on note-paper, letter-sheets, large engravings, and lithographs201. It is very beautiful; there seems to be nothing better than to say this over again. We found the doors most hospitably202 open, and every part entirely free to us,—a kindness and liberality which we have nowhere else experienced in England, whether as regards cathedrals or any other public buildings. My wife sat down to draw the font, and I walked through the Lady Chapel meanwhile, pausing over the empty bed of Queen Mary, and the grave of Queen Catharine, and looking at the rich and sumptuous203 roof, where a fountain, as it were, of groins of arches spouts204 from numberless pilasters, intersecting one another in glorious intricacy. Under the central tower, opening to either transept, to the nave, and to the choir, are four majestic arches, which I think must equal in height those of which I saw the ruins, and one, all but perfect, at Furness Abbey. They are about eighty feet high.
I may as well give up Peterborough here, though I hate to leave it undescribed even to the tufts of yellow flowers, which grow on the projections205 high out of reach, where the winds have sown their seeds in soil made by the aged decay of the edifice. I could write a page, too, about the rooks or jackdaws that flit and clamor about the pinnacles, and dart206 in and out of the eyelet-holes, the piercings,—whatever they are called,—in the turrets207 and buttresses208. On our way back to the hotel, J——- saw an advertisement of some knights in armor that were to tilt209 to-day; so he and I waited, and by and by a procession appeared, passing through the antique market-place, and in front of the abbey gateway, which might have befitted the same spot three hundred years ago. They were about twenty men-at-arms on horseback, with lances and banners. We were a little too near for the full enjoyment of the spectacle; for, though some of the armor was real, I could not help observing that other suits were made of silver paper or gold tinsel. A policeman (a queer anomaly in reference to such a mediaeval spectacle) told us that they were going to joust210 and run at the ring, in a field a little beyond the bridge.
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1
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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2
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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8
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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12
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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13
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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14
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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15
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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16
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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17
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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18
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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19
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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20
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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21
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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22
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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23
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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24
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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25
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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26
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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27
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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28
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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29
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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30
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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31
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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32
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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33
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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34
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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35
congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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36
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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37
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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38
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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39
chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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40
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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41
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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42
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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43
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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44
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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45
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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46
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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47
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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48
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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49
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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50
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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51
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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52
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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53
coeval
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| adj.同时代的；n.同时代的人或事物 | |
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54
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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55
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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56
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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57
ponderously
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58
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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59
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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61
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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62
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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64
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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65
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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66
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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67
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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68
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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69
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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70
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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71
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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72
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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73
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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74
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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77
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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78
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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79
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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80
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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81
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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82
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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83
overestimated
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| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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85
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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86
cavalcades
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| n.骑马队伍，车队( cavalcade的名词复数 ) | |
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87
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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88
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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89
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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90
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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91
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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92
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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93
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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94
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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95
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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96
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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97
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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98
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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99
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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100
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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101
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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102
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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103
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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104
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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105
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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106
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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107
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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108
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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109
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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110
oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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111
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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112
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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113
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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114
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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115
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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116
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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117
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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118
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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119
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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120
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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121
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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122
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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123
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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124
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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125
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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126
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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127
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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128
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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129
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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130
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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131
aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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132
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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133
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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134
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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135
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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136
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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137
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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138
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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139
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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140
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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141
fens
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| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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142
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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143
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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144
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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145
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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146
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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147
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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148
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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149
gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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150
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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151
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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152
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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153
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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154
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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155
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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156
modernized
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的过去式和过去分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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157
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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158
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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159
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
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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161
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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162
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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163
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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164
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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165
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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166
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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167
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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168
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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169
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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170
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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171
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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172
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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173
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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174
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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175
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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176
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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177
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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178
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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179
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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180
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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181
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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182
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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183
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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184
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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185
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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186
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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187
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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188
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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189
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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190
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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191
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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192
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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193
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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194
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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195
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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196
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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197
deludes
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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198
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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199
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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200
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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201
lithographs
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| n.平版印刷品( lithograph的名词复数 ) | |
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202
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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203
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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204
spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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205
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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206
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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207
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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208
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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209
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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210
joust
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| v.马上长枪比武，竞争 | |
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