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ILLUSTRATIONS

The Stepping Stones	Frontispiece
On the River Rothay, near Ambleside, England, and below Fox How, the home of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, grandfather of Mrs. Humphry Ward. One of the scenes in “Robert Elsmere” was suggested by these stones.
A Path in Bretton Woods	10
White Mountains, N.H.
Profile Lake	12
Showing the Old Man of the Mountains. In the Franconia Notch, White Mountains, N.H. The profile suggested to Hawthorne the tale of “The Great Stone Face.”
The Grand Saloon, Arbury Hall	22
Near Nuneaton, England. The original of Cheverel Manor, in George Eliot’s “Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story.”
A School in Nuneaton	30
Where George Eliot attended school in her eighth or ninth year.
The Bromley-Davenport Arms	34
In Ellastone, England, the original of the “Donnithorne Arms” of “Adam Bede.”
The Birthplace of Robert Burns	40
In Ayrshire, Scotland. The poet was born here January 25, 1759. The left of the building is the cottage of two rooms where the family lived. Adjoining, on the right, is the “byre,” or cow-house.
The Burns Monument, Ayrshire	44
The monument was built in 1820. It is sixty feet high, and almost an exact duplicate of the monument in Edinburgh.
The Brig o’ Doon, Ayrshire	48
The bridge over which Tam o’ Shanter rode to escape the witches.
Grasmere Lake	60
“For rest of body perfect was the spot.”
Dove Cottage, Grasmere	64
Wordsworth’s home for eight years. The view is from the garden in the rear of the cottage.
Wordsworth’s Well	68
In the garden of Dove Cottage, where the poet placed “bright gowan and marsh marigold” brought from the border of the lake.
Hawthornden	76
The home of the Drummond family, on the banks of the Esk, Scotland.
The Sycamore	80
The tree at Hawthornden under which William Drummond met Ben Jonson.
Ruins of Roslin Castle	86
In Roslin Glen overlooking the Esk.
Mrs. Humphry Ward and Miss Dorothy Ward	96
At the villa in Cadenabbia, overlooking Lake Como, where Mrs. Ward wrote “Lady Rose’s Daughter.”
“Under Loughrigg”	100
The view from the study window of Thomas Arnold at Fox How.
The Passmore Edwards Settlement House	104
Tavistock Place, London.
The Lime Walk	110
In the garden of Trinity College, Oxford. Referred to in “Robert Elsmere.”
Cottage of “Mary Backhouse”	114
At Sad Gill, Long Sleddale. The barns and storehouses, on either end, give the small cottage an attenuated appearance.
The Rectory of Peper Harow	118
In Surrey, England. The original of Murewell Rectory, the house of “Robert Elsmere.”
The Rothay and Nab Scar	130
From Pelter Bridge, Ambleside, England.
Lake Como	138
From “the path that led to the woods overhanging the Villa Carlotta.”
Stocks	144
The home of Mrs. Humphry Ward, near Tring, England.
Lake Maggiore, Italy	150
According to Ruskin the most beautiful of the Italian Lakes.
Isola Bella, Lake Maggiore	154
The costly summer home of Count Vitaliano Borromeo in the Seventeenth Century.
The Atrium of the Villa Maria	170
At Cadenabbia, Lake Como.
“I call this my J. M. W. Turner”	174
View from the dining-room window of the Villa Maria.
The Old Manse	180
In Concord, where Emerson wrote “Nature” and Hawthorne lived for three years.
Walden Woods	184
The cairn marks the site of Thoreau’s hut and “Thoreau’s Cove” is seen in the distance.
House of Ralph Waldo Emerson	190
Concord, Massachusetts.
The Wayside	194
House in Concord, where Hawthorne lived in the latest years of his life.
The Mall Street House	200
Salem, Mass. The room in which Hawthorne wrote “The Scarlet Letter” is in the third floor, front, on the left.
The House of the Seven Gables	204
The house in Turner Street, Salem, Mass., built in 1669, and owned by the Ingersoll family.
The Bailey House	208
The house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of Thomas Bailey Aldrich’s grandfather, known as “Captain Nutter” in “The Story of a Bad Boy.”
”Aunt Abigail’s” Room	212
In the “Nutter” House.
An Old Wharf	216
On the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth, where Aldrich often played in his boyhood.
Celia Thaxter’s Cottage	224
On Appledore, where the poet maintained her famous “Island Garden.”
Appledore	232
Trap-dike, on Appledore, the largest of the “Isles of Shoals.”
John Burroughs at Woodchuck Lodge	238
The summer home of Mr. Burroughs is near Roxbury, New York, in the Catskill Mountains. When not at work he enjoys “the peace of the hills.”
John Burroughs at Work	244
The “study” is a barn, where the naturalist sits facing the open doors. He looks out upon a stone wall where the birds and small animals come to “talk with him.” The “desk” is an old hen-coop, with straw in the bottom, to keep his feet warm.
Hymen Terrace	254
At Mammoth Hot Springs in the Yellowstone National Park.
Pulpit Terrace	258
A part of Jupiter Terrace, the largest of the formations at Mammoth Hot Springs.
Old Faithful	264
The famous geyser in the Upper Geyser Basin of the Yellowstone National Park. It plays a stream about one hundred and fifty feet high every sixty-five minutes, with but slight variations.
The Grotto Geyser	266
A geyser in the Yellowstone National Park notable for its fantastic crater.
The Cañon of the Yellowstone River	268
The view from Inspiration Point.
The Trail, Grand Cañon	278
The view shows the upper part of Bright Angels’ Trail, as it appears when the ground is covered with snow.
The Grand Cañon of Arizona	290
The view from Bright Angels’. The plateau over which the trail leads to the edge of the river is partly covered by a deep shadow. The great formation in the left foreground is known as the “Battleship.”

I

THE LURE OF THE CAMERA

THE LURE OF THE

CAMERA

I

Two pictures, each about the size of a large postage-stamp, are among my treasured possessions. In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, in a white dress, is vigorously kicking a football. The second depicts a human wheelbarrow, the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, whose two plump arms serve admirably the purpose of a wheel, his stout legs making an excellent pair of handles, while the motive power is supplied by an equally robust lad of eight, who grasps his younger brother firmly by the ankles.

These two photographs, taken with a camera so small that in operation it was completely concealed between the palms of my hands, revealed to me for the first time the fascination of amateur photography. The discovery meant that whatever interested me, even if no more than the antics of my children, might be instantly recorded. I had no idea of artistic composition, nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, and printing papers. Still less did I foresee that the tiny little black box contained the germ of an indefinable impulse, which, expanding and growing more powerful year by year, was to lead me into fields which I had never dreamed of exploring, into habits of observation never before a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of countless places of historic and literary interest as well as natural beauty and grandeur, which would never have been mine but for the lure of the camera.

The spell began to make itself felt almost immediately. I determined to buy a camera of my own—for the two infinitesimal pictures were taken with a borrowed instrument—and was soon the possessor of a much larger black box capable of making pictures three and a quarter inches square. The film which came with it was quickly “shot off,” and then came the impulse to go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend a day at a pretty little inland lake, a few hours’ ride from our home. I hastened to the druggist’s to buy another film, and without waiting to insert it in the camera, off we started. Arrived on the scene, our first duty was to “load” the new machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow the directions did not seem to fit. But we got it in place finally and began to enjoy the pleasures of photography.

Our first view was a general survey of the lake, which is nearly twelve miles long, with many bays and indentations in the shore-line, making a rather large subject for a picture only three and a quarter inches square. But such difficulties did not seem formidable. The directions clearly intimated that if we would only “press the button” somebody would “do the rest,” and we expected the intangible somebody to perform his part of the contract as faithfully as we were doing ours. Years afterward, chancing to pass by the British Museum, which stretches its huge bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of nearly four hundred feet, we saw a little girl taking its picture with a “Brownie” camera. “That reminds me of ‘Dignity and Impudence,’ ” said my wife, referring to Landseer’s well-known painting which we had seen at the National Gallery that afternoon. This is the mistake which all amateurs make at first—that of expecting the little instrument to perform impossible feats.

But to resume my story. We spent a remarkably pleasant day composing beautiful views. We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the steamers and the sail-boats and at everything else in sight except the huge ice-houses which disfigure what would otherwise be one of the prettiest lakes in America. We posed for each other in picturesque attitudes on the rocks and in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had a delightful outing and only regretted when, all too soon, the last film was exposed. But we felt unusually happy to think that we had a wonderful record of the day’s proceedings to show to our family and friends.

That night I developed the roll, laboriously cutting off one exposure at a time, and putting it through the developer according to directions. Number one was blank! Something wrong with the shutter, I thought, and tried the next. Number two was also blank!! What can this mean? Perhaps I haven’t developed it long enough. So into the fluid went another one, and this one stayed a long time. To my dismay number three was as vacant as the others, and so were all the rest of the twelve. Early the next morning I was at the drug store demanding an explanation. The druggist confessed that the film-roll he had sold me was intended for another camera, but “It ought to have worked on yours,” he said. Subsequent investigation proved that on my camera the film was to be inserted on the left, while on the other kind it went in on the right. This difference seemed insignificant until I discovered that in turning the roll to insert it on the opposite side from what was intended, I had brought the strip of black paper to the front of the film, thus preventing any exposure at all! Thus I learned the first principle of amateur photography:—Know exactly what you are doing and take no chances with your apparatus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted to explain the use of the various “stops” on her camera, impatiently interrupted me with the remark, “Well, that’s the way it was set when I got it and I’m not going to bother to change it. If the pictures are no good, I’ll send it back.” It is such people who continually complain of “bad luck” with their films.

It was two or three years after the complete failure of my first expedition before the camera again exerted its spell, except that meanwhile it was faithfully recording various performances of the family, especially in the vacation season. It was in the autumn of 1898. The victorious American fleet had returned from Santiago and all the famous battleships and cruisers were triumphantly floating their ensigns in the breezes of New York Harbor. “Here is a rare opportunity. Come!” said the camera. Taking passage on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by the lifeboats, outside the rail, where the view would be unobstructed. We passed in succession all the vessels, from the doughty Texas, commanded by the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Oregon, with the laurels of her long cruise around Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by one I photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, are some pictures worth while. I had been in the habit of doing my own developing—with indifferent success, it must be confessed. These exposures, made under ideal conditions, were too precious to be risked, so I took the roll to a prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, for developing and printing. Every one was spoiled! Not a good print could be found in the lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had left yellow spots and finger-marks on every negative! Subsequent investigation revealed the fact that a negro janitor had been entrusted with the work. Here, then, was maxim number two for the amateur—Do your own developing, and be sure to master the details of the operation. The old adage, “If you want a thing well done, do it yourself,” applies with peculiar force to photography.

Another experience, which happened soon after, came near ending forever all further attempts in photography. This time I lost, not only the negatives, but the camera itself. Having accomplished very little, I resolved to try no more. But a year or two later a friend offered to sell me his 4 × 5 plate camera, with tripod, focusing-cloth and all, at a ridiculously low price, and enough of the old fever remained to make me an easy—victim, shall I say? No! How can I ever thank him enough? I put my head under the focusing-cloth and for the first time looked at the inverted image of a beautiful landscape, reflected in all its colors upon the ground glass. At that moment began my real experience in photography. The hand camera is only a toy. A child can use it as well as an expert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of a prison yard, and beyond them one cannot go. All is guesswork. Luck is the biggest factor of success. Artistic work is practically impossible. It is not until you begin to compose your pictures on the ground glass that art in photography becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing to see how many variations of the same scene may be obtained, how many different effects of light and shade, and how much depends upon the point of view. Then, too, one becomes more independent of the weather, for by a proper use of the “stop” and careful application of the principles of correct exposure, it is possible to overcome many adverse conditions.

An acquaintance once expressed surprise that I was willing to spend day after day of my vacation walking about with a heavy camera case, full of plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky tripod slung over my shoulder. I replied that it was no heavier than a bagful of golf-sticks, that the walk took me through an endless variety of beautiful scenery, and that the game itself was fascinating. Of course, my friend could not appreciate my point of view, for he had never paused on the shore of some sparkling lake to study the ripple of the waters, the varying shades of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the pebbly beach with smooth flat stones whitening in the sun, but looking cooler and darker where seen through the transparent cover of the shallow water, the deep purple of the undulating hills in the distance, and above it all the canopy of filmy, foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the loveliest cerulean blue. He had never looked upon such scenes as these with the exhilarating thought that something of the marvelous beauty which nature daily spreads before us can be captured and taken home as a permanent reminder of what we have seen.

To catch the charm of such a scene is no child’s play. It requires the use of the best of lenses and other appliances, skill derivable only from long study and experience, and a natural appreciation of the artistic point of view. It requires even more, for the plate must be developed and the prints made, both operations calling for skill and a sense of the artistic.

The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and in many forms of recreation is the overcoming of obstacles. The football team must defeat a heavy opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. If the opponents are “easy,” there is no fun in the game. The hunter who incurs no hardship complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman would rather land one big black bass after a long struggle than catch a hundred perch which almost jump into your boat without an invitation.

A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS

Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for the purpose of taking the animal’s picture than they would get if they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes—and in this class I include myself—can find all the sport they want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out the attractive scenes—the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook; the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of some noteworthy historical event—but the art of photography itself presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select the right point of view; to secure an artistic “balance” in all parts of the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired transparency in the shadows—these and a hundred other considerations give sufficient exercise to the most alert mind and add to the never-ending fascination of the game.

I have noticed that the camera does not lure one into the beaten tracks which tourists most frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets nervous when too many people are around, especially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do its work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths and to proceed with leisure and calmness. It is a charming guide to follow. I have always felt a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable jargon of the professional guides who conduct tourists through the various show places of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune to visit such places, have usually left with a vague feeling of disappointment. On the other hand, when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have sought an acquaintance with the owner of some famous house and have proceeded at leisure to photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I have left not only with a sense of complete satisfaction, but with a new friendship to add to the pleasure of future memories.

PROFILE LAKE

To visit the places made famous by their associations with literature and with history; to seek the wonders of nature, whether sublime and awe-inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland and the vast depths of the Grand Cañon, or restful in their sweet simplicity like the quiet hills and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people in their homes, whether stately palaces or humble cottages; to find new beauty daily, whether at home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in the sweep of the hills and the ever-changing panorama of the clouds; to gain that relief from the cares of business or professional life which comes from opening the mind to a free and full contemplation of the picturesque and beautiful—these are the possibilities offered by amateur photography to those who will follow the lure of the camera.

II

LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN

II

LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN

I

Emerson said of the English people, “Every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable,” and that “It is almost an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced.” Holmes, on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were “received with nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate kindness.” Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as “the only real thing in a wilderness of shams,” and thought his patronage “divertingly insufferable.” On the other hand, he praised the genuineness of the better men of England, as “so manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than water.” Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days what he called “the two opposite poles of English character.” One of them was “taciturn, reserved, fastidious” and without “power of enjoyment”; the other was “expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laughing loud and long.” All of this suggests that in attempting to write one’s impressions of the English or any other people, one must remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great emphasis—“some people are not all alike!”

I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland, manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to another, until, continuing to pass “higher up,” I was at last photographing everything of interest, including the “Beef-Eater” who obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should not be disappointed.

An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s writings, and on the day of our arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully preserved.

Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial smile, calling me by name and saying, “I have something I want to show you, if you would care to see it.” Considerably surprised, I saw him touch a button as he resumed—“It’s a picture of George Eliot—at least we think it is, but we are not sure—we bought it from the executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist.” Here the attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to be a large painting in water-colors of a woman’s face, with remarkably strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say, “If any woman in the world can do a man’s thinking, I’m that person.” A letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered portrait was a “study” for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true womanliness of George Eliot’s character, for he certainly softened the expression of those determined-looking eyes.

After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s novels and to photograph all the various places of interest. “Of course you’ll go to Nuneaton?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, in a tone of assurance; “I expect to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor.” “I suppose, then, you are acquainted with Mr. Newdegate,” said he, inquiringly. I had to confess that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise. “Why, you can’t get in if you don’t know him. Arbury is a private estate.” This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I could go anywhere. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very beginning appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. Of course, I could not expect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs, and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. “I happen to know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.—No, I’ll do better. I’ll write and tell him you’re coming.”

This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and added, “Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture”; and the interview ended with his promise to have the official photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and the next morning received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall cordially inviting us to visit him.

Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging side by side in the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I was, therefore, eager to find them.

We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster’s conviviality. Readers of “Janet’s Repentance” will recall that the great “man of deeds” addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of the “Red Lion,” protesting against the “temptation to vice” involved in the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He brought the meeting to a close by calling for “Three cheers for True Religion”; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the inn, he caused “the most capacious punch-bowl” to be brought out and continued the festivities until after midnight, “when several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter.”

THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL

The old tavern, one of the few which still retain the old-fashioned arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change horses, boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept since Shakespeare’s time.

In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the private grounds of which make a beautifully wooded park of three hundred acres. The mansion is seen to the best advantage from the opposite side of a little pool, where the surrounding trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are waving gently in the summer air, and the pond-lilies spread their round green leaves to make a richer, deeper background for their blossoms of purest white. On a green knoll behind this charming foreground stands a gray stone mansion of rectangular shape, its sharp corners softened with ivy and by the foliage at either end. Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each with a double-storied oriel, and a multitude of pinnacles surmounting the walls on every side, give a distinguished air to the building, as though it were a part of some great cathedral. This Gothic aspect was imparted to the mansion something over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdigate, who was the prototype of George Eliot’s Sir Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist describes the place as if in the process of remodeling.

We were cordially welcomed by the present owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose hospitality doubly confirmed our first impressions of British courtesy. After some preliminary conversation we rose to begin a tour of inspection. Our host threw open a door and instantly we were face to face with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel, which for so long had stood in my mind as the only known objects of interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the way, not of Sir Joshua Reynolds, but of George Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory, probably a full score of years after her last visit to the place, and this is one of several slight mistakes. These fine portraits, really representing Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the end of a large and sumptuously furnished room, with high vaulted ceiling in the richest Gothic style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster Abbey. The saloon, as the apartment is called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window, the very one through which Sir Christopher stepped into the room and found various members of his household “examining the progress of the unfinished ceiling.”

Looking out through these windows, our host noticed some gathering clouds and suggested a drive through the park before the shower. Soon his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty little horse appropriately named “Lightheart,” for no animal with so fond a master could possibly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few minutes at Astley Castle, the “Knebley Abbey” of George Eliot, an old but picturesque mansion, once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour and his ill-fated protégée, Lady Jane Grey. Then, after a brief pause at the parson’s cottage, we proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building with a square tower such as one sees throughout England.

A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure suggested George Eliot’s bucolic parson, the Reverend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the farmers and talked of “short-horns” and “sharrags” and “yowes” during the week, and on Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old sermons to the ever-increasing satisfaction of his parishioners. We photographed this ancient temple on the inside as well as outside, for it contains some curious frescoes representing the saints holding ribbons with mottoes from which one is expected to obtain excellent moral lessons.

Our next objective was the birthplace of George Eliot, a small cottage standing in one corner of the park. We were driving rapidly along one of the smooth roads leading to the place, when the pony made a sudden turn to the right. I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, camera and tripod in hand. The cart went down a steep embankment, then up again, and the next instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the ground, while near by lay the tripod, broken into a hundred splinters. Scrambling to my feet, I saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on the seat, and nobody the worse for the accident except poor Lightheart, who was almost overcome with excitement. He had encountered some men on the road leading a bull, and quickly resolved not to face what, to one of his gentle breeding, seemed a deadly peril.

Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked back to the house, and in due season sat down to luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought “looked less like a place to dine in than a piece of space inclosed simply for the sake of beautiful outline.” A cathedral-like aspect is given to the room by the great Gothic windows which form the distinguishing architectural feature of the building. These open into an alcove, large enough in itself, but small when compared with the main part of the room. The ecclesiastical effect is heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of the canopies built over various niches in the walls, or rather it would be, were it not for the fact that the latter are filled with life-size statues in white marble, of a distinctly classical character. Opposite the windows is a mantel of generous proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations of which would not be inappropriate for some fine altar-piece; but Cupid and Psyche, standing in a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any churchly thoughts, though they seem to be having a heavenly time.

After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, in the left wing of the building, examining a first folio Shakespeare, while our host busied himself with various notes of introduction and other memoranda for our benefit. As we sat in the oriel window of this room—the same in which Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp—we noticed what appeared to be magazines, fans, and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It is related that Sir Roger Newdigate—“Sir Christopher Cheverel,” it will be remembered—used to remonstrate with his lady for leaving her belongings scattered over his library. She—good woman—was not only obedient, but possessed a sense of humor as well, for she promptly removed the articles, but later took advantage of her lord’s absence to leave their “counterfeit presentment” in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a century.

The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that in the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel “standing with one arm akimbo,” exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember that “arm akimbo,” if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for more than twenty years?

It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played—her name was Sally Shilton—is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only that interesting instrument, but also the “queer old family portraits … of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly developed head-dresses—of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards.”

Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness that we had met in his friend Mr. Colvin, informed us that he had invited the Reverend Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were invited, however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, and later did so, receiving a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various mementoes of her husband’s distinguished relative, including a lace cap worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess Czerlaski of “The Sad Fortune of the Reverend Amos Barton.” I can still hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, “And here is Aunt Glegg!” There she was, sure enough, with the “fuzzy front of curls” which were always “economized” by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this point the canon suddenly asked, “Have you seen the stone table?” I had been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically told in “Middlemarch.” I had expected to find it at Griff House, near Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot’s girlhood, but the arbor at the end of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident.

Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing, while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr. N——, who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in the neighborhood. We accordingly stopped our little coupé at the doctor’s door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify nearly all the localities of “Amos Barton” and “Janet’s Repentance.” He also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made no objection.

A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON

On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice. The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known George Eliot’s father and mother, and had been interested to paint various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call, because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when, upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear people seemed determined to make our quest a success.

We now turned our attention to “Adam Bede,” traveling into Staffordshire and Derbyshire, where Robert Evans, the novelist’s father and the prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera, and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some surprise at the pile of luggage.

In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only way to reach Ellastone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning to rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though we might be obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the good-natured agent, whose day’s work was now done, and who was anxious to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a fire, at our disposal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for us. A long wait of an hour ensued, during which we congratulated ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, it would at least be dryer than the platform. At last the boy returned with the news that the inn was not open, but that a carriage would be sent for us! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived! It was a butcher’s cart. When the baggage was thrown in, there was but one seat left—the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went, twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces from one direction and the rain from another, but happy in the hope and expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night’s lodging than a country railway station.

In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson, the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to “step in an’ tek somethink.” We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord’s wife, who ushered us into the “best parlor,” kindled a rousing fire in the grate (English fires are not usually “rousing”), and asked what we would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the eyes of the cook—none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. “Oh, no, sir, the inn is not open,” explained our good Samaritan, “but we ’re always glad to make strangers comfortable.” These words indicate the spirit of the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady’s eyes, her smile, and her gestures. I cannot set down the exact words for the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot’s landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam: “They ’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country; the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em; I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for ‘hev n’t you’?—the gentry, you know, says, ‘hev n’t you’—well, the people about here says, ‘hanna yey.’ It’s what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir.”

THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS

It was curious to note, when we explored the village the next morning, that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was in the time of George Eliot’s father. I had never expected to find the real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as represented—except that Adam Bede’s cottage has been enlarged and repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the village as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was the original of the old squire in “Adam Bede.” This fine old estate was the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of a visit. We found the fine old “hoaks” there, which Mr. Casson mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained the hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the place from all the best points of view.

It has not been my intention to follow in detail the events of our exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real pleasure when the people one meets manifest a genuine interest and a spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.

II

There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder. There are surly butlers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we encountered one of the species in the Lake District. I had called at the country residence of Captain——, a wealthy gentleman and a member of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His High-and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening of the muscles of the back and shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was “not at ’ome.” I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum. “Captain—— is ex-treme-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He’s obliged to be in Lunnun to-day, sir, but he towld me to sai to you, sir, that you’re to taik everythink in the ’ouse you want, sir.” And then the Important One gave me full possession while I photographed the most interesting rooms, coming back occasionally to inquire whether I wished him to move “hany harticles of furniture,” afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the sacred precincts of his own particular domain.

At another time, also in connection with Mrs. Ward’s novels, I came dangerously near to another break. It was down in Surrey, whither we had gone to visit the scenery of “Robert Elsmere.” I knocked at the door of a little stone cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown into the presence of a very old gentleman, who looked suspiciously, first at my card, and then at me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. I explained that I was an American and had come to take a picture of his house. He looked puzzled, and after some further scrutiny of my face, my clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, “Well, you people in America must be crazy to come all the way over here to photograph this house. I have always said it’s the ugliest house in England, owned by the ugliest landlord that ever lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the parish.” Fortunately he was not possessed of the Oriental delusion that a photograph causes some of the virtue of an individual (or of a house) to pass out into the picture, and upon further reflection concluded that if a harmless lunatic wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, it wouldn’t matter much after all.