Читать книгу Odd Bits of Travel with Brush and Camera - Charles M. Taylor - Страница 3
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| PAGE | |
| Canal at Monnikendam | (Frontispiece) |
| We feel the heart throbs of old Neptune | 17 |
| She proves to be a Barkentine under full sail | 22 |
| The sailors in the rigging are swaying to and fro | 26 |
| Amongst these are two typical products of the British Isles | 30 |
| This is a fine field for the student of human nature | 35 |
| Wayside Inn, New Brighton | 39 |
| Typical English houses with their massive thatched roofs | 43 |
| Suburban residence | 48 |
| White Hall Horse Guards’ Barracks | 65 |
| A short run of an hour | 74 |
| The chalky cliffs of Dover | 79 |
| The largest and handsomest Gothic church in the Netherlands | 106 |
| The place is intersected everywhere by canals | 112 |
| In many cases the balconies of residences overhang the water | 117 |
| The belle of the market | 123 |
| The Amstel River | 132 |
| Wicker chairs offer rest to the weary pedestrian | 141 |
| The flat landscape is varied by herds of cattle | 152 |
| Most of the houses have a canal at the back | 156 |
| The blue stream finds its outlet in the river | 161 |
| All persuasions accomplish naught | 165 |
| One old woman is fascinated with the camera | 170 |
| We walk along the narrow streets | 176 |
| Sheep, grazing upon the green pasture lands, form a homelike scene | 182 |
| Hotel de Posthoorn | 187 |
| De Hooflstraat, Monnikendam | 193 |
| There is a young man whose walk is all his own | 200 |
| The streets and sidewalks are kept scrupulously clean | 204 |
| The whole place is a succession of quaint and picturesque houses | 208 |
| A street auction | 213 |
| At the farthest end of the street stands an old windmill | 217 |
| A beautifully shaded walk just outside the town | 221 |
| Land and water | 228 |
| A good road for the bicycle | 232 |
| This strange looking highway runs lengthwise through the town | 241 |
| The houses are roofed with red tiles | 245 |
| The delicate lace caps frame smiling faces | 254 |
| As the congregation draws nearer we halt before the foremost group | 258 |
| Every man is a volume if you know how to read him | 263 |
| Goeden dag. Tot weerziens | 267 |
| Palace of Brühl | 276 |
| Lovely walks, and bowery avenues | 282 |
| Not far off stands the statue of the artist | 287 |
| The great peak known as the Drachenfels, or Dragon Rock | 293 |
| How noble and defiant is the appearance of these venerable fortresses | 302 |
| Every turn of the river presents a different view | 306 |
| Now we behold the little church surrounded by picturesque houses | 311 |
| Approaching Bingen we see vineyards covering the mountain side | 315 |
| Thousands of fashionably dressed people appear upon this promenade | 338 |
| There are many odd and fantastic sights here | 342 |
| One’s portfolio might soon be filled with interesting subjects | 346 |
| Many typical Irish characters come aboard our vessel | 350 |
| Several small boats are floating at our side | 355 |
| Beyond is all abyss, Eternity, whose end no eye can reach | 359 |
Scenes of the Present and Relics of the Past.
Scenes of the Present and Relics of the Past.
Passing Vessels—The Ocean—Sudden Changes—Taking Photographs—The Landing Stage at Liverpool—New Brighton—In the Country—Liverpool by Night—Salvationists—Old Taverns—Chester—An English Home—Relics—The Cathedral—The River Dee—Leamington—The River Leam—Warwick Castle—An Old Mill—Through Kenilworth, Coventry and Stoneleigh—“The King’s Arms”—Nature’s Pictures.
E sight a steamer on our leeward side. A passing vessel is a great excitement on an ocean voyage. From the time when she first appears, a tiny speck on the distant horizon, every one is on deck watching her as she slowly climbs into full view, then draws nearer and nearer to our floating palace. How companionable she seems in the vast waste around us. We wonder to which line she belongs; what is her name; her speed, and whither she is bound: and now that she is within hailing distance, we await eagerly the result of the usual interchange of questions and answers by means of small flags and a certain code of signals, well understood throughout the nautical world. The following are some of the questions asked: “To what line do you belong?” “What is your port?” “Have you seen any icebergs?” “Met any wrecks?” “Are you a tramp?” and so on, until both sides are satisfied, then away she speeds on her course, while the passengers and sailors on both ships gaze at one another through their glasses until they are lost in the distance. The excitement is over, and we all return to our former occupations, or stand looking idly out to sea until once more there is a cry: “A sail! A sail!” and we begin to hope that she too is coming our way. Straining our eyes through the powerful field-glasses, we perceive that she is coming toward us, and will probably cross our line. Larger and larger she appears as she steadily advances, until she attracts the attention of every one on deck. She is now quite close to us, and proves to be a Barkentine under full sail. We shout a greeting to the crew, and wave our handkerchiefs as she passes, and the sailors smile in return and take off their caps.
| “We feel the heart throbs of old Neptune.” (See page 16.) |
The ocean air is delightful and invigorating, the sky a perfect azure, and the translucent waves with their foamy edges stretch away in long beautiful curves. We feel the heart throbs of old Neptune, as the waters plash softly over the steamer’s sides, and we speed steadily forward, with the rush and swish of the sea sounding in our ears with a wild sweet melody all its own. To fall asleep on deck amid these charming conditions is delightful indeed. But how quickly the scene changes. Suddenly a shrill whistle from the Quartermaster summons all hands to the deck. Orders are rapidly given in quick sharp tones: “Aloft. Take sail in.” “Aye, aye, sir,” is the swift response, in a twinkling the sure-footed sailors are up among the yards, perched in seemingly impossible places, reefing the flapping sails in preparation for the coming storm. Dark clouds above are reflected in gloomy waves below, and heaving billows surround us, uniting with a furious wind that seems bent on the destruction of our noble ship. The sailors in the rigging are swaying to and fro, and the panic-stricken passengers in the cabins are telling each other with pale faces that belie their words that they are not afraid, for there is no danger; yet they listen anxiously for every sound from above, and will not allow their dear ones to move beyond reach of their hands. There is no music now in the rushing of the waves or the flapping of the sails. Old Neptune in his angry moods is not a desirable companion. But nothing lasts forever, and from storm and night and black despair the flower of hope arises, for there comes a lull, followed by a furious blinding onslaught, and then the spirit of the hurricane calls his followers and flies up, away, somewhere beyond our ken: the captain’s face relaxes from its tense expression, and he looks proudly around his good ship which has come out victor in the struggle with the elements. One by one, the passengers appear on deck, the purple clouds, after a final frown of disapproval at things in general, break into smiles, life on shipboard resumes its everyday attitude, and all goes “merry as a marriage bell.” Life is full of contrasts. This is a picture for which neither brush nor camera is ready. He who would paint it must draw it from its recess in his memory, or from some sheltered nook on shore, and be cool and calm enough to follow his favorite occupation in spite of the consciousness that life and death are struggling for mastery in yonder thrilling scene that will make him famous if he can but truly portray it upon his canvas.
| “She proves to be a Barkentine under full sail.” (See page 16.) |
But there are many tableaux and picturesque situations here, very tempting to the traveller who carries with him his sketch book or camera, and I entertain my companions as well as myself by photographing many a little group both comical and interesting in the world around us. I invite our friends to the lower deck, where I wish to take pictures of some of the steerage passengers. Amongst these are two typical products of the British Isles—one a robust Irishman of shillalah fame, and the other a bonny boy from Scotland. I make known to them my desire to have their photographs, whereupon the quick witted Irishman, without doubt knowing the quality of his face, which is one of the ugliest I have ever seen, begins at once to bargain with me for the privilege of transferring it to my camera. It is true I could have stolen a march on him by a snap shot, and he been all unconscious of the act, but wishing to keep up the comedy I asked at what price he values his face. He replies that if I will take up a collection from the passengers around us, he will accept that as full pay. My friends of the cabin enter into the spirit of the play, and quite a goodly sum finds its way into the horny hand of the Hibernian athlete, who now, with a broad smile of satisfaction, intimates that he is ready to be “taken.”
These pictures too join the gallery of our yesterdays. Swift has truly said: “It is the talent of human nature to run from one extreme to another.” The long voyage is over, and all hearts rejoice in the sight of land, and now we are upon the landing stage at Liverpool, amidst the throng of excited passengers, all moving hither and thither in search of baggage which seems hopelessly lost in the confusion of trunks, porters, policemen, drays and ubiquitous small boys. This is a fine field for the student of human nature. Here are groups of inexperienced travellers looking anxiously about them, wondering how it is possible to extricate their belongings from the indistinguishable mass before them, and laboring under the dread that when found, a fierce and merciless custom-house official will seize upon trunks and boxes, and deaf to all protestations, dump the contents, from a shoe to a hat, upon the floor, to the everlasting confusion of the owners and the amusement of the spectators. The cool indifference of those who have crossed the ocean many times is in marked contrast to these panic-stricken, and really pitiable creatures.
| “The sailors in the rigging are swaying to and fro.” (See page 19.) |
Then there is the “happy-go-lucky” youth, who finds all this tumult a great joke, and who wanders carelessly about, with the serene confidence that “things” will turn out all right; which they generally do. Here is the fashionable mother with her pretty daughters who evince a charming delight in everything that happens; the fussy mama who is sure that her baggage has not come ashore, or that the officers of the custom-house are in league against her; children separated from parents or nurses, shrieking wildly in their terror, while others, more venturesome and curious, are in every one’s way. Porters elbow their way through the crowd, cabmen shout in stentorian tones, policemen watch the masses, and now and then in sharp curt tones call a delinquent to order. A placid looking old gentleman with silvery hair and dignified demeanor stands in the midst of a picturesque party of young people, evidently his grandchildren. They all look so happy that it seems contagious, for the troubled countenances of their neighbors break into sympathetic smiles as they glance at this joyous family group. Every shade of human expression may be observed in this motley throng, and he who has eyes to see will find many a charming tableau, many a pathetic scene or diverting situation that would enrich a sketch book, or prove a valuable addition to the collection made by the ready camera. The various changes of expression are worth studying, for where “luxuriant joy and pleasure in excess” appear at one moment, the next may behold an angry frown, and a struggle as if for life amid the surging tide of humanity.
| “Now one’s the better—then the other best Both tugging to be victor, breast to breast Yet neither conqueror, or is conquered.” |
Taking a small steamer which plies between Liverpool and New Brighton, one may for a few cents, after a half hour’s ride, land at an attractive and much frequented watering-place upon the bank of the Mersey River, opposite Liverpool. This resort is the pleasure-ground of the middle classes, and is well worth a visit. Upon a holiday many thousands flock to its shores which remind one of Vanity Fair, where numerous phases and conditions of life are represented. Here is the indefatigable and annoying travelling photographer with his “Four for a shilling. Take you in two minutes. Ladies and gentlemen, step in and see the finest pictures to be found in this country. Bridal groups a specialty.”
| “Amongst these are two typical products of the British Isles.” (See page 23.) |
Here are games of all kinds, pony and donkey riding, and all the shows to be found at the popular seashore resort. The “merry-go-round” is in full swing, with a crowd of spectators, among them many wistful children, watching the prancing camels and gaily caparisoned horses. The music here is quite inspiring, and the numerous small boys and maidens who lack the necessary pennies for this ravishing entertainment gaze at their more fortunate companions with woe-begone countenances. Strains less animated, but more melodious attract us to a fine dancing hall, where the older lads and lasses are tripping about in a lively manner. The light dresses, colored ribbons and happy faces make a pretty picture. Along the beach are beautiful views, worthy of a master hand, while out in the country the typical English houses with their massive thatched roofs and lovely surroundings of trees, lawns and gardens fair, cannot fail to captivate the artist’s eyes.
A stroll through the streets and byways of Liverpool at night is a sad but interesting experience. Alas for the misery and crime and want that exist in all the great cities! Girls, young and pretty, but no longer innocent, may be seen in scores in every locality: children with poverty and depravity written on their faces boldly address one at the street corners: men and women, with sharp, pinched features and misery and despair in their voices, beseech one for alms, or with fierce cunning lie in wait for the unwary. Sick at heart and with inexpressible pity we wend our way from one point to another. Vice, crime, want, suffering meet our eyes on every side: and the old hopeless cry: Why must these things be? rises up again in our souls. Through the whole night long upon the curb stones, at the corners, lounging against the windows and doors of closed houses or shops, this lower stratum of life appears with its atmosphere of dusky gloom. When the daylight dawns upon the city, it seems to shrivel up and shrink into the mouths of the yawning black cellars and foul alleys whose very breath is a deadly poison. There are dozens of taverns scattered about the city, and within these rooms or stalls are partitioned off where sin may be screened from public view, for even those dyed deepest in crime sometimes fall so low that they dare not carry on their nefarious operations in the face of their everyday companions. These dens are countenanced by the authorities, and one may find within them criminals of every grade who prey upon each other for their sustenance: but in the long run, it is the proprietor who comes out with a substantial bank account.
Beggars, peddlers, musicians, singers of both sexes, and itinerant vendors of all kinds jostle each other in these haunts of sin, and great caution should be exercised in visiting them, for in certain localities, crimes of the most brutal character are of daily, I might say hourly occurrence. I would suggest that the tourist should at such times depend for safety upon the company of a first-class detective.
Let praise be given where it is due. The Salvationists of Europe have by their indefatigable labors reclaimed thousands of these men and women from their lives of sin and misery. You will meet these untiring workers everywhere, exhorting, praying, pleading with fallen humanity. These noble bands of Christians enter fearlessly the most loathsome hovels, and, wrestling with filth and disease, in many cases come off victorious. They have been known to wash the clothing and cleanse the houses of fever-stricken families, and supply wholesome food and care for helpless infants, defied at every step by a drunken son or father. They fear nothing, knowing that their cause is God’s cause, and that in the end Almighty Goodness shall win an eternal conquest.
It is customary throughout England to close all the saloons on Sundays until noon, after which time they open their doors, and remain open till midnight as upon week-days.
Of the many cities whose haunts I have visited at night, I think that without exception, unless it be London, Liverpool leads in depravity and vice.
The country from Liverpool to Chester abounds in attractive scenery, local in character and possessing the additional charm of novelty for the American tourist. Along the route are scattered a number of old taverns, such as “The Horn,” “The Green Tree,” and similar names. Dismounting from bicycle or trap, the traveller who enters one of these ancient landmarks will find everything in “apple pie order”: the floor clean and shining like a bright new dollar just launched from the mint. He will sit at a table within one of the three stalls on either side of the little room, and the landlord’s wife will bring him a bumper of “good auld Al,” the effect of which will prove lasting and beneficial, if it corresponds with my experience.
| “This is a fine field for the student of human nature.” (See page 24.) |
Chester, oldest of English cities, is full of quaint residences and other ancient buildings. The old wall which surrounds the town is the only one in Great Britain which has been preserved entire. It forms a continuous ring, although in some places the earth has climbed so far above its base, that it appears no higher than a terrace. Its rugged outer parapet is still complete, and the wide flagging forms a delightful promenade, with a fine view of the surrounding country. The earliest date which we find upon the wall is A. D. 61, when it was erected by the Romans. Twelve years later, Marius, king of the Britons, extended the wall. The Britons were defeated under it in 607, and after a lapse of three centuries, it was rebuilt by the daughter of Alfred the Great. It has a long and eventful history, and the old Cathedral whose edge it skirts, is one of the largest and most ancient in England. The sculptures in this magnificent edifice are worn smooth by the hand of time. The stained glass windows are marvels of art, the groined arches, dreamy cloisters, and antique carving upon seats and pews fill one with admiration mingled with awe. There are many fine mosaics here, and specimens of wood from the Holy Land. Costly gems adorn the choir; here too is a Bible whose cover is inlaid with precious stones. The massive Gothic pillars are still in a perfect state of preservation, as well as the numerous ancient monuments and relics of the past. The vast size of the Cathedral is a perpetual source of wonder to the stranger, who, wandering among its curious historic mementos, gazing upon its storied nave, transepts and choir, and upon the Bible scenes pictured in these glorious windows, feels that he has been transported by some magician’s hand into an age long buried in the past. The Cathedral is said to have been founded in the year 200. Its height within, from floor to the lofty dome lighted by these exquisite windows is from sixty to one hundred feet. The Church of St. John the Baptist rivals the Cathedral in antiquity, but it is now a picturesque ruin covered with moss and ivy.
Chester itself contains many antiquities that are to be found nowhere else in the world. The houses, dating back to 1500, or even earlier, are of every degree of shade and color, with little windows with diamond-shaped panes, and gable ends facing the streets whose sidewalks are on a level with the second stories. Everything here seems to belong to the past, excepting the fine, modern station, ten hundred and fifty feet long, with its projecting iron roofed wings for the protection of vehicles waiting for passengers from the trains. This station is one of the longest in England. The famous Chester Rows are public passages running through the second stories of the houses facing the four principal streets. These arcades are reached by flights of steps at the corners of the streets, and contain some very attractive shops. The old timber-built houses of Chester with their curious inscriptions are all preserved in their original ancient style, and nowhere in England can the artist or photographer find a more interesting spot, or one richer in ancient and mediæval relics than this little town.
| “Wayside Inn, New Brighton.” (See page 31.) |
The quaint old taverns carry one back, back, to the life of the past. Drop in at the Bear & Billet Inn some day, or The Falcon Inn, and yield yourself up to the charming mediæval atmosphere of the place. Seat yourself at the little table beside the window, and look out upon the same scene which your English ancestors looked upon more than two hundred years ago. The landlord’s wife will bring you a foaming tankard of ale. It is the same tankard from which your forefathers quenched their thirst, and if you are of a contented, philosophical temperament, you will experience the same comfort and enjoyment as they, in this truly English beverage. If you are not fired with enthusiasm by this old-time picture, wend your way to the banks of the River Dee, where you may paint the greens in every variety of light and shade, with one of the picturesque old farmhouses which abound here in the foreground, and some “blooded” cattle resting quietly beneath the wide-spreading branches of the trees. Or here is the single wide arch of Grosvenor Bridge crossing the river, with a span of two hundred feet. This is one of the largest stone arches in Europe. Or here is a bit of the old wall skirting the water, and the charming picture of the Old Bridge, which dates back to the thirteenth century; and here too are the vast mills of the Dee, associated with the history and traditions of eight hundred years. With its surrounding country, and the succession of lovely gardens bordering the Dee, surely Chester is one of the choice spots in England for the lover of the quaint and beautiful. Within the pretty residences of the suburbs may be found all the comforts and recreations of a happy prosperous family life, united with genuine English hospitality, and a cordial welcome for the stranger. The owner of one of these charming homes orders up his cart, and insists upon taking us for a drive through this delightful locality, and for miles and miles our hearts and eyes are captivated by lovely landscapes and enchanting bits of scenery. We wind up with a cup of good hot tea, thinly cut buttered bread, and other dainties.
| “Typical English houses with their massive thatched roofs.” (See page 31.) |
A decided change from the ancient and mediæval associations of Chester is the prosperous city of Leamington, a watering-place situated on the Leam River, a tributary of the Avon. The natural mineral springs discovered here in 1797 have proved the source of great benefit to this town, as the springs are highly recommended by physicians, and many invalids resort thither. But as health is not our object in coming, we do not follow the popular custom, but proceeding to the banks of the River Leam, engage one of the many small boats which may be hired, and drift leisurely down the stream with the current, revelling in the wealth of beauty which surrounds us. Hundreds of lovely nooks disclose themselves to our eager eyes—typical English scenes—and as we float along life assumes an ideal aspect under the witchery of this picturesque river. Here are old farmhouses in the foreground, with their richly cultivated fields stretching away for hundreds of acres, and here are velvet lawns, with their dainty high-bred air, surrounding noble homes, stately and silent. Now a group of merry children dance about the water side, and a great Newfoundland dog dashes wildly into the stream after a ball or stick, swimming gallantly out until he seizes his prize. How the children scream and run away as he rushes joyously up to them, shaking the spray over their dresses and into their faces. Oh fair River Leam! these lofty elms and giant oaks that look down upon your waters love you, and we too, strangers from a foreign shore, here yield our tribute of loving praise for the happy hours we owe to you, lingering often, reluctant to leave some especially charming spot where the branches of the trees overhang the stream, and touch our faces with soft caressing fingers.
| “Nature was here so lavish of her store, That she bestowed until she had no more.” |
This scene too fades as we board one of the many tram-cars, and in a few moments are carried to the very gateway of the world-renowned Warwick Castle, which occupies a commanding position, overlooking the Avon. This ancient pile is artistically poised, and presents grand effects of color, light and shade. Upon the payment of a shilling for each person, the massive iron doors which for centuries have guarded this stately and historic stronghold, open as if by magic, and a passageway cut through the solid rock leads us to an open space, where we have a fine view of the magnificent round towers and embattled walls. A visit of two hours gives us opportunity to climb to the top of the ancient towers which for ages have loomed up as monuments of power and defiance in the face of the enemy. We are impressed with the vast size of the castle. The view from the towers and the windows is beautiful and romantic. In the spacious courtyard there are magnificent old trees and soft velvety turf, and the hand of time has colored towers and battlements a rich brown hue that blends harmoniously with the ivy creeping in and out wherever it can find a place.
| “Suburban residence.” (See page 42.) |
The gardens slope down to the Avon, from whose banks there is a picturesque view of the river front of the castle, and here as well as in the park we see some fine old cedars of Lebanon, brought from the East by the Warwick Crusaders. In the main castle we enter a number of the apartments which are furnished in a style of regal splendor. The Great Entrance Hall, sixty two feet long and forty wide, is rich in dark old oak wainscoting, and curious ancient armor; and shields and coronets of the earls of many generations, as well as the “Bear and Ragged Staff,” of Robert Dudley’s crest are carved upon its Gothic ceiling. The Gilt Drawing-room contains a rare collection of the masterpieces of great artists. This room is so called from the richly gilded panels which cover its walls and ceiling. In the Cedar Drawing-room are wonderful antique vases, furniture and other curios, which would well repay a much longer inspection than we can give them. But all the rooms in this magnificent old feudal castle are filled with the finest specimens of works of ancient art in every line. The paintings alone fill us with despair, for they line the walls in close succession, and the artists’ names are Murillo, Rubens, Rembrandt, Vandyke, Sir Peter Lely, Guido, Andrea del Sarto, and many others of like celebrity. What an opportunity for those who have the time to linger in this atmosphere of lofty genius!
Many beautiful old shade trees surround the castle, and the restful silence inspires one with the desire to be alone and yield himself up to the spirit of the place, hallowed by such wealth of associations and the presence of immortal art.
A short distance from the castle, and outside the Warwick enclosure, stands an old mill upon the bank of the Avon. This ancient and picturesque structure was originally built for the purpose of grinding wheat, but the all-observing eye of the artist quickly discovered in it a mission of a higher order, and for years it has posed as the central figure in the romantic landscapes portrayed by the brush of the painter or the camera of the photographer.
Taking a drag and driving through Kenilworth, Coventry and Stoneleigh, will give one delightful views of some of the most beautiful portions of England. The roads are macadamized, and in good condition. This is a fine farming country, and here we see the typical English farmhouses, built of brick and stone, surrounded by well-cultivated fields, stretching away into a peacefully smiling landscape. The fields are separated by green hedges, and the whole scene is one that can hardly be surpassed throughout “Merrie England.”
From these lovely quiet homes, we pass through roads bordered with wild flowers to the ruins of one of the most magnificent castles in Great Britain. It is hardly necessary to say that Kenilworth is inseparably associated with Sir Walter Scott, and his graphic descriptions of the scenes and events that have taken place here in the days of its glory. This castle, one of the finest and most extensive baronial ruins in England, dates back to about 1120 A. D. It covered an area of seven acres, but is now a mass of ivy-covered ruins, from which one can form but a faint idea of its appearance in the height of its prosperity. Yet the hand of nature has invested it with another kind of beauty, and in place of the pomp and majesty of power, the brilliant pageants of the court of Queen Elizabeth, we behold the clinging robe of ivy, the daylight illuminating the gallery tower in place of the hundreds of wax torches which flashed their lights upon the royal cavalcade, and a little country road where once a stately avenue led to the tower, and listened to the court secrets, lovers’ vows and merry badinage uttered within its shades. The castle has passed through many changes, and experienced stormy days as well as those of prosperity and luxury, but the pen of Scott has immortalized it on the summit of its glory, and though the ages may cast their blight upon its visible form, it will ever live in the soul of the artist, the poet, the lover of beauty, as a scene of splendor, of sorrowful tragedy, of magnificent design.
But a few steps beyond the Kenilworth grounds is an old English inn—The King’s Arms. It is so picturesque and romantic-looking, that I feel like rechristening it: “The Entire Royal Family.”
Let us enter its hospitable doors and enjoy its old-time atmosphere and many curious attractions. Here the artist is in his element, for on every side are quaint corners, cozy nooks, and relics for which the lover of the antique would give a fortune; while outside the windows the beautiful English landscape beams upon one with inviting smiles. The landlady, with her cheerful bustling air and broad accent, imparts a pleasant thrill of anticipation, which is more than realized upon the appearance of the savory chops—grown on the neighboring hillside, whose rich green pasturage is a guarantee for the flavor and quality of the meat—the delicious hot cakes, and the unfailing tankard, or if one prefers it, the cup of fragrant tea. And so we sit and refresh the inner man, while the soul revels in the world of beauty around us, and picture after picture passes before the mental vision, connecting these scenes with famous historic characters, or wonderful events of legendary lore. So lovely are these views, that one could gaze for hours, and never weary of the “living jewels dropp’d unstained from heaven,” for this picturesque country possesses a peculiar freshness, as though free from the touch of care and the hand of time, like the fair maiden who has received from the fountain of youth the gift of eternal life and beauty.
Lights and Shadows of London Life.
Lights and Shadows of London Life.
