Liverpool To London

( Originally Published Early 1900's )

SOLID, unromantic Liverpool, whose greatness is entirely of modern growth, though its charter dates back to the twelfth century, will not detain us ; for it is too much like Boston, or one of our own large commercial cities.

Red-walled Chester, also, which is invariably the next step of an American traveler who longs to see something of Old England, — something different from what he sees at home, — has been so often de-scribed, that I will begin my story at once in the railway carriage flying out of Chester westward to Bangor; for I intend to take my reader to London around by the way of North Wales, which is by far the most interesting route, and which, if not taken at first, is not apt to be passed over upon one's return.

Emerson calls an English railway carriage, a cushioned cannonball." There is a wonderfully smooth rapidity upon an English railway ; and yet 'with all this speed, one has a great sense of persona security. Were the American system of checking luggage adopted, there would be an improvement. It depends upon word-of-mouth communication whether one's trunks go with one and stop with one ; and thus by mere good luck they are shifted and passed along. Sometimes a label is pasted, but at most places one is told that labels are not used ; for the idea seems to be that the owner himself should mark, or at least look out for, his own lug-gage. This may be done for considerable distances, but it is impracticable for tourists making frequent stops in the course of a day. It is the best plan for a traveler in England, to take with him a simple portmanteau that he can carry in his hand. The first-class carriage is truly luxurious, light and splendid with plate-glass sides, and furnished with capacious springy seats, and with every accommodation for the bestowing of bundles, hats, and umbrellas. The second-class carriage forms a lamentable contrast to this ; it is as hard, bare, and uncomely a box as oak boards can make it ; its seats are uncushioned, and frequently dirtied by the baskets and boots of railway workmen, market-men, and " tramps." There seems to be little or no distinction between the second and third class carriages excepting in this, that the second-class carriages are resorted to by the most respectable pea pie, on account of the expensiveness of the first. But let me say a word of commendation of the English railway porters : they are true friends of the traveler, being easily distinguishable in crowd from their dress of black velveteen, and are always at the right spot to afford assistance, to relieve one of his parcels, to point out the booking office, to put the luggage in the right carriage, in fact to do all that can be done, — and to expect no fee for it. I was always tempted to break the strict letter of the law, and to reward these men for such efficient service.

On leaving Chester the railway runs along the artificial canal made for the channel of the Dee. The river widens toward its mouth into a shallow bay, forming an enormous bed of shifting sand, covered grandly with the water at full tide, but shrinking into dribbling rills and petty ditches at ebb. As one speeds along he catches distant views of the Welsh Mountains on the left, and on the right lies the broad river Dee, and soon the sea it-self. The green valleys run up into the highlands, and now and then a castellated mansion, or ruined tower, or genuine old castle is seen, hanging on the slope of the hills. The road from about this point to Bangor is a triumph of engineering skill. Sometimes the track is crowded between the mountains and the sea so narrowly, that in stormy weather the cars are dashed by the waves. The tunnels and the tubular and suspension bridges at Conway are stupendous works. With the solid piers of the bridges, and the massive old castle above, Conway is a city of the Anakim. After Tossing the bridge here one comes into Caernarvonshire, which of all the Welsh counties contains the most rugged and characteristic Welsh scenery. Soon the track runs around the projecting rocks of Penmaen-bach and Penmaen-mauer, precipitous crags jutting out like great foreheads into the sea, and which were the former terror of travelers. Dr. Johnson records the peril he felt in climbing the dizzy road which once crept around their sea-face. Now these formidable crags are tunnelled, the first cut being six hundred and thirty yards long, through flint rock.

Bangor (derived from " ban gor " or the " great circle," a generic British word for a " religious congregation " or " fraternity ") is situated along a narrow ravine, with a mountain at its back, and Beaumaris Bay in front. It is the seat of a bishopric, and is one of the oldest centres of a still more primitive faith ; for here doubtless existed a pure Christianity before the time of Augustine, the reputed apostle of England. A profound spirituality still characterizes the religion of these Welsh people. In their wild mountains and close valleys they cherish their original faith, traditions, and language. Three things, according to a Welsh triad, should a Cymro (Welshman) bear in mind lest he dishonor them: his father, his country, and his name Cymro. An older Welsh triad says, three things are shameful to a Cymro: to look with one eye, to listen with one ear, to defend with one hand. Thus a whole-hearted persistency of character seems to be the heritage of this stubborn race.

Travelers must be allowed to talk and even grumble about hotels ; for these are often the only " interiors" they see, and they sometimes form the only means strangers have of judging of the style of living, and of a hundred little things in the common life of a people. One is made exceedingly comfortable at a first-class English hotel, but there is a stiffness about it which is not apt to be found in the best American or Continental hotels. Seldom is there a public table ; and if the party comprise ladies, one is forced, even if staying for a single day, to take a private parlor. But I am quite converted to the English private parlor. After a long day's journey in heat and dust, struggling on with an eager and vexed human current, to be ushered into one's own room, quiet as a room at home, furnished often with books and every luxury and comfort, this goes some way toward recompensing the traveler for the exclusiveness of the thing. He is, it is true, entirely isolated. If his dearest friend were dying in the next room, he would not find it out, for seldom is there a registry-book kept in an English hotel. And one rarely risks a question to the dignified and taciturn waiter, with gravity and white cravat enough to be the Dean of Westminster.

The best English hotels have one feature that it were surely well for us to imitate. They are not altogether confined to interior magnificence and showy upholstery, but have generally a pleasant breathing-space of ornamental grounds and garden about them. In the dry heart of busy cities, there will be a few flower-beds, a bit of green grass, and walks enough at least to turn around in. At the " Penryhn Arms " in Bangor, the garden is truly beautiful. It is laid out in star and crescent shaped beds, fringed with bright flowers, and the grass is soft and springy with moss. It slopes off toward the water, commanding a fine view of the harbor, the entrance of the Menai Strait, the Bay of Beaumaris, and the opposite mountainous shore of the island. When I first saw it, the harbor of Bangor had a very odd appearance. The tide was out, and a vast mud-bank swept smoothly and steeply down to the deeper abyss beyond. The vessels looked as though they were climbing up this immense hill-side of mud. Some stood erect; some were heeled over ; some were stern-foremost to the sea; and some were hitched painfully up sideways upon the bank. The flags nevertheless were all gallantly flying.

I shall not attempt to describe the remarkable bridges over the Menai Strait ; but cannot pass by the view of the Strait itself, and its surroundings, as seen from the roof of the Britannia Tubular Bridge. It is an epitome of almost all that is great in Nature and the works of man.

On the Caernarvon side of the Strait are seen the craggy mountains of Wales, that looked blue and soft in the misty distance, while the hazy morning sun filled the spaces between their summits with that undefined and vapory light which the artist loves. Yet their rugged outline, culminating in the sharp-pointed cone of Snowdon, could be perfectly seen to the southeast. To the south, on the island itself, was the ancient Druidic grove, in the midst of whose shadows stood the white walls of the Plas Newydd, the seat of the Marquis of Anglesey. More than a hundred feet immediately below, raved and whirled the broad Strait itself; not a river, nor a sea, but something of both. In some places it is two miles in breadth, its sides precipitous and its banks thickly wooded. The sea, as if chafed by its narrow walls, looks petulant and angry, though here and there it is entirely smooth in back-setting pools. Vessels sailing through the Strait are at the mercy of the currents and tide; now they crowd sail for one bank, and now they drift like a log to the other. In a storm the scene must be magnificent, such an ocean race-way as it is. How the great green billows would leap and chase each other through the long gorge ! There is a fisherman's small white house standing on a low rock almost in the middle of the Strait, which, with its irregular shape, its lines of fishing stakes set around it, and its bold insulated position, is a picturesque object. The water boils and swirls around it, and rushes by it with tremendous rapidity. Indeed, this whole channel reminded me of the formidable gorge of Niagara River just below the Falls, filled with its vexed, foam-streaked, and green-colored flood.

At the completion of the central tower of the Britannia Tubular Bridge," which is two hundred and thirty feet high, and holds the whole structure in its strong hand, Mr. Stephenson said " Let them not, any more than himself, and all who have been connected with this great work, forget that whatever may have been, or whatever may be the ability, science, intelligence, and zeal brought to bear on the creature's works, it is to the Creator we should offer praise and thanksgiving ; for without his blessing on our works, how can we expect them to prosper? He fully believed that Providence had been pleased to smile on the under-taking, and he hoped that they all with him would endeavor to obtain those smiles." It is pleasant to see such a simple faith in a mind devoted to so material a science as mechanics. Who can say that the deep secrets of Nature which such a mind grasped, were not also the fruit of this faith, just as truly as if he had thought and labored in purely spiritual things. Truly they build strong who thus build.

It is but a short distance of some nine miles by rail from Bangor to Caernarvon on the Menai Strait, where are the ruins of the majestic castle of the ancient kings of England, who finally succeeded in dominating over Wales, partly by force and partly by politic concession. Height gives the singular majesty which is so marked in the remains of Caernarvon Castle ; and some of its loftiest towers are still perfect to the topmost stone. There are thirteen of these towers, most of them bing surmounted by tall slim turrets. From the water side the aspect of the " Eagle Tower," from which the broad flag of England floats, is imposing. The principal entrance of the castle has a sober grandeur that all the changes of time cannot destroy. A featureless statue of King Edward I. stands above the gateway arch. An area of three acres is said to be inclosed by the walls. It is a good place to study the plan and details of an early mediaeval castle built on the largest scale of regal magnificence. The soldiers' quarters, prisons, stables, granaries, kitchen, servants' rooms, chapel, royal chambers, banquet hall, jousting yard, can still be perfectly made out. There seems to have been a proud and complete separation kept up between the military and civil departments. But lord and servant are now one. Jackdaws have poked their sticks in the windows of queens' chambers ; and it would not be possible for the lightest maiden's foot to traverse the battlements upon which kings have walked and mused. Stairways hang broken midway ; the sides of great towers have rushed down, taking the heart out of them ; the stone eagles on the turrets of the Eagle Tower are reduced to black, shapeless, wingless blocks; and well has it been called " that worm-eaten keep of ragged stone." But the walls of this old Edwardean stronghold are still massive, defying time, though they would be nothing to gunpowder.

The first part of the ride from Caernarvon to Glanberis, a distance of ten miles, is a slow ascent, and has no peculiar interest ; and yet one has an opportunity to see the miniature white stone farm-houses, with their black funereal-looking wooden porticoes, and the small black Welsh cattle dotting the hill-sides. The farms appear to be principally grazing farms, and they become more and more rocky and unpromising as one approaches the hills, the stones growing as thick as in a New Hampshire sheep-pasture. After some five miles, the mountains of the Snowdon range are seen over the lower hills in advance, rising by one bound in a bold wall from the plain ; and through a narrow rock-portal, like that at Cluses on the way from Geneva to Chamouni, one enters the mountains. "Snowdon" is a later Saxon name ; the more ancient British name of this range is said to signify " Eagle-ridge " or " Eagle-crag-ridge." The craggy and wild characteristics of a mountain pass are now be-fore and around ; and one soon begins to skirt the shores of the small twin lakes of Llanberis. These are insignificant in size, it is true, rather ponds than lakes, — but the upper and inner one of some two miles in length, is a singular sheet of water, lying smooth and glassy in the shadow of gloomy and verdureless mountains. The sharp-edged and splintered character of the slate mountains of Wales adds to their sombreness, — being almost literally black, — and when wet glistening and gleaming fiercely in the sun, and their immense shelving precipices of sheer rock well atone for their want of great height ; for a thousand feet of bare Alpine precipice always looks grander than three thousand feet of wooded and gentle descent. The view from the top of Snowdon is said to be one of the noblest in England, commanding as from a central throne all of rocky Wales, the sea, the island of Anglesea, and the highest points of England, Scotland, and Ireland. And another interest attaches itself to this broken range of Welsh mountains ; they are held by the best modern geologists to form the oldest portion of the island of England. They rose first of all from the waters ; and around them, as a solitary nucleus in the ocean of the earliest period of creation, the rest of the land was gradually formed. We tread here on the primitive land of Britain. We are at the head source of her antiquity, before a living thing had appeared.

On the further shore of the lake of Llyn. Peris is a vast slate quarry scooped out of the mountain side, and lying open to view, resembling a gigantic Roman amphitheatre with its regular rows of seats. A small locomotive puffs and smokes along at the foot of the Alt Dú Mountain, to carry slates to Caernarvon, whence they are shipped to all parts of the kingdom, and to America. Slate constitutes the wood of this region. It shingles the roof, clap-boards the wall, makes the door, floors the room, and builds the fence. Tall boards of it, knitted together with wire, form a very strong, enduring, and neat style of fence ; so that a farmer could conveniently make all his " calculations" while swinging on his gate, as the farmer boys are said to lo in Yankee land.

After passing through the village of Llanberis, the real mountain Pass in its true wildness and toil someness begins ; it is a rough scene for the bed of the Pass is strewn with vast fragments of rock torn from the crags above ; and in and out and among these the road wearily turns and winds ; the walls of naked cliff rise boldly on either hand ; and the only relief to this savage desolation is now and then a little clump of fox-gloves, that push up their slender stems, hung with spikes of faintly crimson nodding bells, from the crevices of the grim rocks.

From the summit of the Pass, a descending road of five miles, affording more free and open views of the irregular mountains of the Snowdon range, brings us to Capel Cerrig, which is the centre of the best scenery in Wales ; for Southern Wales is by no means so grand in its mountain scenery, although it contains much that is boldly picturesque ; and there is no place also which commands such fine points of view within such short distances. Capel Cerrig is a spot where one would be satisfied to stay day after day, until the snow and storms of winter made it dreary. The inn is a comfortable and neat one, built almost entirely of slate, within and without. Maps, books, a quiet parlor, a clean table, and a tasteful garden, — these are charms for any man ; and then, by a few steps out of the house, or by a climb up the steep hill at its back to a little grassy alp or mountain pasture, one comes to perfect solitude, with a noble view of the whole pyramidal mass of Snowdon in the distance, and a tranquil valley with a gleam of peaceful waters at your feet. The wild flowers upon this hill-side appeared to me to be wonderfully lovely ; but with the exception of the fox-glove, they were generally very small, such as hare-bells, daisies, crow's-foot, and heather blossoms ; and the very grass seemed to be filled with the most minute moss-smothered flowers, toc delicate even for fragrance. Wales is a favorite botanizing region, and its ferns, heathers, and all kinds of mountain plants, are of exquisite beauty and numberless variety.

The road on toward Corwen, passes through a region gradually growing less rocky, and milder and more fertile in its character; the lofty sides of the vale of Llugwy are covered to the summit with larches, beautiful trees when found standing together in a wood, —making pointed lines of the greatest regularity and softest hue. A step from the road through the larch-forest brings one to the verge of the " cataract of the Swallow ; " something more than a pretty waterfall, for without being on a very large scale, it is really beautiful. The light penetrating through such a dense mass of foliage, and struggling in upon the water, is itself of a rich merald green. A little beyond is Bettwys-y-Coed, the shady and romantic summer retreat of landscape painters, reminding one of our own picturesque Conway in sight of the White Hills. The church at Corwen, just back of the inn, is of fabulous antiquity; and its gray churchyard is patriarchal in appearance, like that of Ramlah, or the old Hebrew burial-ground in Prague. It has a monument of Owen Glendower. Was not his name derived from the river Dee ?

It was market-day at Corwen, and the costumes were primitive, particularly the high hat of the peasant women, which, when crowning strong and masculine features gives the impression of a man's being under it, especially if the whole figure is not at first seen. One may still meet in Wales the conical " cappan " or cap, which is said to have come down from the most ancient British days.

From Corwen to Llangollen, we come again upon the romantic river Dee, here in its impetuous youth. It was, the sacred stream, the Diuw," the Divine, of the ancient Welsh ; and few rivers of the same length link together more opposite or striking scenes, — the quiet Bala lake and the ocean, splendid modern Eaton Hall and venerable old Chester, the rocky Welsh mountains and the broad tranquil Cheshire meadows. We now reach the region of cultivated fields, of flowering hedges, and the white briar wild rose ; the Berwyn hills rise steeply from the valley ; and indeed the scenery now becomes a succession of changing and lovely valleys — Llangollen the loveliest of all. This vale spreads out into wide and majestic pro-portions, its barriers of high green hills receding and rolling away gently toward the east, forming the very heart of all that is rich and lovely in Welsh scenery.

Coming out of Wales, the first natural stopping place is "good old Shrewsbury." Shrewsbury, in Shropshire, or the county of Salop, is the ideal of a hearty English town, comfortable and quaint ; it is still fit to live in, which cannot be said of some old towns, such, for instance, as Chester, which is too antique for modern breadth and convenience ; but it appeared to me as if the good citizens of Shrewsbury, with their Welsh mutton, shady trees, quiet walks and rippling Severn River, lived as handsomely and happily as any people in England. Abundance flowed down their streets ; fat ducks and poultry lay in piles in the market-place ; Cheshire cheese and butter barricaded the side-walks ; rosy farm-maidens, such as Edwin Landseer paints and " George Eliot " describes, stood bare-armed and bare-headed in the sun. How different these buxom English peasant girls, from the gaunt and care-worn market women that one sees in a German town ! In January, 1860, the statue of Lord Clive was erected in the Shrewsbury market-place, although Clive was born at Market-Drayton, not far distant, where his youthful exploit of climbing the church-steeple and sitting on the spout, is still fresh in the traditions of the people.

The Severn River forms a bend around the city of Shrewsbury, and at this bend outside the walls there are meadows which have been left open as a public park ; and here, skirting the river, is " St. Chad's Walk," the most stately avenue of lime-trees in England. These trees were said to have been planted by one man in one day, nearly a century and a half ago, another James Hillhouse in good taste and public spirit. Battlefield Church, on the spot where Falstaff fought his hour by Shrewsbury clock, is about four miles distant ; I did not visit it, but am told that it stands desolate and neglected, the roof having tumbled in, and the nave being open to rain and weather. Only one tower of the ancient wall of Shrewsbury yet remains, though the elevated site of the town and its long line of old-fashioned buildings and steeples, still show picturesquely from the river).

At Wolverhampton, on the London and Holy-head road, where one passes into Staffordshire, the scenery suddenly changes its character; it is as if an invisible line were drawn between Paradise and Purgatory. Instead of the sweet clear sky, one rushes into an atmosphere like an oven's mouth ; and in the place of green and daisy-dropt fields, the ground becomes herbless and black, gloomy enough for Doré's pencil. Blast furnaces are vomiting smoke and flame ; the streams run darkness ; the sun glares raylessly and luridly through the simmering gaseous air; men and women look begrimed, and smutchy-faced children play hive-and-seek through old burst engine-boilers and the whole country around is strewn with heaps of slag, scoria, and the refuse matter of the blast furnaces. This represents a narrow streak of country across which the road passes, running from the neighborhood of Newport down to Worcester; and there is also a much broader coal region that lies between Lich-field and Kidderminster. But in this " Black Country," notwithstanding its Tartarean aspect, the power of Old England couches herself like a dragon breathing flame and smoke, — the dragon that St. George of England (George Stephenson) has manfully subdued and hitched to the car of progress.

The railway into Birmingham, in Warwick County, runs above the tops of an immense assemblage of low, dingy brick houses with red-tiled roofs ; block after block, street after street, undistinguished by any architectural superiority the one over the other, are passed over ; the fragments of machinery strew the work-yards ; long factories are glided by ; sign-boards that seem to stretch the length of a train are spelled out word by word ; and at length one comes to a stand-still in the heart of the workshop of England, where John Bull has his sleeves rolled up, and a square paper-cap on his head.

All things have an opportunity to prove themselves in Birmingham ; and from the last invention in machinery to Dr. New man's Catholic Convent, there is free and kindly soil for the theorist. Dr. Newman's gentle and yet austere presence hallowed even so practical and work-a-day a world as Birmingham, showing that pure devotion to the love of God may burn serenely amid the strifes of earthly activities. As a writer of idiomatic English, simple and strong, while preserving the most delicate harmonies of the language, he de-serves our sympathetic study. I had noticed a small portrait of him in a shop window, which I mistook for the likeness of Ralph Waldo Emerson ; and this awakened my curiosity to see his religious establishment ; so taking a seat in an Edgbaston omnibus, I was soon at Dr. Newman's conventual house, an unsightly brick building not far out of the city, with a shabby little chapel attached to it, — any thing but the imposing ecclesiastical structure one would have expected from a man of taste and a scholar. Inside of the chapel door was pasted this notice : " Plenary Indulgence to all the faithful who after confession and communion shall visit the chapel and pray for the intention of the Pope." There was certainly nothing to attract the faithful into this door ; — the whole affair was commonplace, flimsy, and cheap, with some faded pre-tensions to paint and splendor, and with a crude image of the Virgin that would have hardly satisfied a third-rate Italian village church. If this be the chief instrumentality to convert England to the Catholic faith, it will probably fail ; but in saying this, I would say nothing against the most truly lovely character of Dr. Newman, and that spell of genius and power, with which he is said to have attracted those who came within the sphere of his personal influence.

I noticed in Birmingham, what I also noticed more especially in Liverpool dud Manchester, and in some other cities whose greatness is of modern growth, that notwithstanding this fact, the city looks perfectly finished. Every thing is as complete and solid as if this life were to last forever. There is nothing more to be done. There is no gap to be filled, no pulling down and building up, as with us. We may be sure that the English would not be apt to pull down an old house like " the Hancock House," to make way for a modern building, though something of this sort has been done of late in London by the pressure of necessity. An old sign-board, half undecipherable, would be very likely to be left hanging for the sake of its past respectability. Whatever has stood the trial of time, has acquired in England preëmption from change. Whatever is established, is concluded to be right, beautiful, and good.

In the midst of the earnest life of this hard-working city, at the exciting hour of high noon, when the busy human tide was greatest in the streets, I saw our lively little friend " Punch," in vigorous discussion with his worthy helpmate. An English institution this ! The contracted brow was relaxed ; the quick step was arrested ; and the English love of fun and fighting broke out. High and now gathered around the small booth ; men with bars of iron upon their shoulders, carmen sitting sideways on their elephantine horses, clerks with their papers in their hands, all for the moment forgot work, and even bank hours, and as they gazed roars of hearty laughter followed the fierce piping denunciations, and the determined thwacks of Mr. Punch.

Although, going out from Leamington Spa as a centre, I visited Warwick, Kenilworth, and other well-known places, I cannot bring myself to speak of but one or two more of these places on the road to London.

I have no intention to rhapsodize at the tomb of Shakspeare. When I visited it, there happened to be a great gathering of people in the church upon the occasion of instituting " The Bard of Avon Lodge of Free Masons ; and it appeared to me to be a strange enough ceremony to occur in such a place as this. The Masonic Brotherhood, distinguished by their dress and decorations, filled the body of the church. A young clergyman preached from the fifth chapter of Ezra, about rebuilding the old temple of true worship and of Christian brotherhood in these godless and degenerate days. Though not one of the initiated, I joined in singing s hymn beginning thus : —

Great Architect of earth and heaven,
By time nor space confined,
Enlarge our love to comprehend
Our Brethren, all mankind."

One would think that better poetry than this might have been produced and sung in Shakspeare's church, and yet, after all, its expansive sentiment harmonized with the spirit of the place. An opportunity was given to contribute to the erection of a new painted window to the edifice, which will be something pleasant to think of here-after.

While the religious services were progressing, a loud and unearthly shriek rang through the church. Such a singular interruption came from one of the side-aisles, where a poor tired woman had been suddenly seized with a fit. This event created considerable confusion, and it was indeed, for the moment, quite as startling as any of the poet's own weird scenes.

In the heavy shadow of one of the ancient pillars, I noticed a very old man wearing a red vest, leaning on his crutch, with trembling head, bleared eyes, and long, tangled, white locks, seeming to be hardly conscious of what was taking place around him ; and here, I thought, truly was Shakspeare's Old Age. And, I could also see, just about me there in the motley crowd composed as they were of the poet's own towns-people, the burly magistrate, the bearded soldier, the young man, or it may be lover, the school-boy, and the nursing babe. It was altogether like reading a leaf of the poet in .,he same daily and natural light in which it was written.

How strange that after centuries of acquiescence in the authorship of Shakspeare's plays, a Yankee woman should be the first to challenge his claims. And now another fearless American has taken up the bold assertion. It is almost like attacking the authorship of a gospel. Though the arguments are ingenious the confidence of ages is not easily shaken. The Iliad is believed to have been written by Homer by the settled conviction of the world, founded on internal evidence as well as the testimony of history, although German criticism has exhausted its strength to overthrow the claim of the unity of its authorship. Above all, to add the fame of Shakspeare to that of Lord Bacon, were to " pile Ossa on Pelion." The. world would groan under the weight. The testimony and friendship of Ben Jonson outweighs the envious assaults of a fellow-play-writer on him whom he smartly calls " the only Shake-scene in a country." That strange and incomprehensible impersonality which has always been noticed in Shakspeare's writings, belongs to the greatness and universality of his mind, not surely to the mere desire to conceal the author-ship of the most wonderful works of human genius. If Shakspeare could have written one of his plays, he could have written them all ; and his very greatness seems to lift him serenely above doubt, or criticism, or discussion. But this is not the time or place to argue this matter. In what promises to be an exciting passage of arms, I am not now prepared to " shake a spear." Doubtless there will be a host of spears raised to sustain the falling heavens of Shakspeare's bright, immortal fame.

The next day after, I looked from the window of Elizabeth's room in the " Swan Tower" of Kenilworth, over the region of what was once a part of the forest of Arden, the same region that gave the name to Shakspeare's mother, and where he laid the scene of that rich June poem, "As You Like It," perhaps a poetic tribute to his mother, Mary Arden.

At the Kenilworth railway station, there was gathered a rustic bridal party. The bride wore the invariable white ribbons and white veil, which English etiquette requires of brides high or low. I admired the honest sincerity of the scene, and the modest meekness with which the bride bore the smiles and pleasant remarks of all around. It was a half-triumphal and half-annoying ordeal

" I waited for the train at Coventry,"

and the " three tall spires" rising from the plain proved that the old town still belonged to the unenchanted present, and is not yet spirited away into fairy land. One is more painfully reminded of this material present by the number of coarse modern liquor-shops that spot and infest this ancient city, as well as all other English cities and towns. In some smaller places, it is said that every fifth house is used for this purpose ; and by far the most elegant and ornamental shops in the kingdom are those which bear the staring signs of " Stout," " Wine," " Gin," " Brandy. ' The light wines of France and the Continent would be preferable to he strong liquors and soddening beers used univers ally by the common people; but it is quite doubtful whether the English will adopt these light wines to any extent, or, what is better, become soon an entirely temperate people. They will sog on until " Facts," a more eloquent speaker than Mr. Gough, converts them. But intelligent Englishmen are feeling deeply the force of these appalling facts in regard to the wide-spread and terrible ravages of intemperance.

The antique interest of Coventry lies chiefly in the neighborhood of St. Michael's Church, and the more venerable St, Mary's Hall ; the first of these, with its towering spire of three hundred and three feet, is inferior only to the great cathedrals. This spire is a beautifully shaped octagon, supported by flying buttresses ; it pierces the sky like a wedge. St. Mary's Hall by its side takes us back to the days of the feudal " guilds " and pomps ; and it is a familiar fact that Coventry, even to this day, is a marvelous city for shows and pageants. Some of these, it is said, exhibit very odd and ludicrous mixtures of ancient helmets and modern beavers.

The story of " Lady Godiva " meets you everywhere. It is repeated in street statues, in architectural ornaments, and upon shop sign-boards But in these coarse and grotesque popular illustrations of the story, one cannot recognize the same legend as it shines in the hazy amber light of Tennyson's poetry, the pure and delicate picture of ner, who, for the love she bore the poor,

" took the tax away,
And build herself an everlasting name."