Three Years in Europe by William Wells Brown

W >> William Wells Brown >> Three Years in Europe

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

LETTER XI.

_York Minster--The Great Organ--Newcastle-on-Tyne--The Labouring
Classes--The American Slave--Sheffield--James Montgomery._

_January, 1850_.

Some days since, I left the Metropolis to fulfil a few engagements to
visit provincial towns; and after a ride of nearly eight hours, we were
in sight of the ancient city of York. It was night, the moon was in her
zenith, and there seemed nothing between her and the earth but
glittering gold. The moon, the stars, and the innumerable gas-lights,
gave the city a panoramic appearance. Like a mountain starting out of a
plain, there stood the Cathedral in all its glory, looking down upon the
surrounding buildings, with all the appearance of a Gulliver standing
over the Lilliputians. Night gave us no opportunity to view the
Minster. However, we were up the next morning before the sun, and
walking round the Cathedral with a degree of curiosity seldom excited
within us. It is thought that a building of the same dimensions would
take fifty years to complete it at the present time, even with all the
improvements of the nineteenth century, and would cost no less than the
enormous sum of two millions of pounds sterling. From what I had heard
of this famous Cathedral, my expectations were raised to the highest
point; but it surpassed all the idea that I had formed of it. On
entering the building, we lost all thought of the external appearance by
the matchless beauty of the interior. The echo produced by the tread of
our feet upon the floor as we entered, resounding through the aisles,
seemed to say "Put off your shoes, for the place whereon you tread is
holy ground." We stood with hat in hand, and gazed with wonder and
astonishment down the incomparable vista of more than five hundred feet.
The organ, which stands near the centre of the building, is said to be
one of the finest in the world. A wall, in front of which is a screen
of the most gorgeous and florid architecture and executed in solid
stone, separates the nave from the service choir. The beautiful
workmanship of this makes it appear so perfect, as almost to produce the
belief that it is tracery work of wood. We ascended the rough stone
steps through a winding stair to the turrets, where we had such a view
of the surrounding country, as can be obtained from no other place. On
the top of the centre and highest turret, is a grotesque figure of a
fiddler; rather a strange looking object, we thought, to occupy the most
elevated pinnacle on the house of God. All dwellings in the
neighbourhood appear like so many dwarfs couching at the feet of the
Minster; while its own vastness and beauty impress the observer with
feelings of awe and sublimity. As we stood upon the top of this
stupendous mountain of ecclesiastical architecture, and surveyed the
picturesque hills and valleys around, imagination recalled the tumult of
the sanguinary battles fought in sight of the edifice. The rebellion of
Octavius near three thousand years ago, his defeat and flight to the
Scots, his return and triumph over the Romans, and being crowned king
of all Britain; the assassination of Oswald king of the Northumbrians;
the flaying alive of Osbert; the crowning of Richard III; the siege by
William the Conqueror; the siege by Cromwell, and the pomp and splendour
with which the different monarchs had been received in York, all
appeared to be vividly before me. While we were thus calling to our aid
our knowledge of history, a sweet peal from the lungs of the ponderous
organ below cut short our stay among the turrets, and we descended to
have our organ of tune gratified, as well as to finish the inspection of
the interior.

I have heard the sublime melodies of Handel, Hayden, and Mozart,
performed by the most skilful musicians; I have listened with delight
and awe to the soul-moving compositions of those masters, as they have
been chaunted in the most magnificent churches; but never did I hear
such music, and played upon such an instrument, as that sent forth by
the great organ in the Cathedral of York. The verger took much delight
in showing us the Horn that was once mounted with gold, but is now
garnished with brass. We viewed the monuments and tombs of the departed,
and then spent an hour before the great north window. The designs on the
painted glass, which tradition states was given to the church by five
virgin sisters, is the finest thing of the kind in Great Britain. I felt
a relief on once more coming into the open air and again beholding
Nature's own sun-light. The splendid ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, with its
eight beautiful light gothic windows, next attracted our attention. A
visit to the Castle finished our stay in York; and as we were leaving
the old city we almost imagined that we heard the chiming of the bells
for the celebration of the first Christian Sabbath, with Prince Arthur
as the presiding genius.

* * * * *

England stands pre-eminently the first government in the world for
freedom of speech and of the press. Not even in our own beloved America,
can the man who feels himself oppressed speak as he can in Great
Britain. In some parts of England, however, the freedom of thought is
tolerated to a greater extent than in others; and of the places
favourable to reforms of all kinds, calculated to elevate and benefit
mankind, Newcastle-on-Tyne doubtless takes the lead. Surrounded by
innumerable coal mines, it furnishes employment for a large labouring
population, many of whom take a deep interest in the passing events of
the day, and, consequently, are a reading class. The public debater or
speaker, no matter what may be his subject, who fails to get an audience
in other towns, is sure of a gathering in the Music Hall, or Lecture
Room in Newcastle. Here I first had an opportunity of coming in contact
with a portion of the labouring people of Britain. I have addressed
large and influential meetings in Newcastle and the neighbouring towns,
and the more I see and learn of the condition of the working-classes of
England the more I am satisfied of the utter fallacy of the statements
often made that their condition approximates to that of the slaves of
America. Whatever may be the disadvantages that the British peasant
labours under, he is free; and if he is not satisfied with his employer
he can make choice of another. He also has the right to educate his
children; and he is the equal of the most wealthy person before an
English Court of Justice. But how is it with the American Slave? He has
no right to himself, no right to protect his wife, his child, or his own
person. He is nothing more than a living tool. Beyond his field or
workshop he knows nothing. There is no amount of ignorance he is not
capable of. He has not the least idea of the face of this earth, nor of
the history or constitution of the country in which he dwells. To him
the literature, science, and art--the progressive history, and the
accumulated discoveries of bygone ages, are as if they had never been.
The past is to him as yesterday, and the future scarcely more than
to-morrow. Ancestral monuments, he has none; written documents fraught
with cogitations of other times, he has none; and any instrumentality
calculated to awaken and expound the intellectual activity and
comprehension of a present or approaching generation, he has none. His
condition is that of the leopard of his own native Africa. It lives, it
propagates its kind; but never does it indicate a movement towards that
all but angelic intelligence of man. The slave eats, drinks, and
sleeps--all for the benefit of the man who claims his body as his
property. Before the tribunals of his country he has no voice. He has no
higher appeal than the mere will of his owner. He knows nothing of the
inspired Apostles through their writings. He has no Sabbath, no Church,
no Bible, no means of grace,--and yet we are told that he is as well off
as the labouring classes of England. It is not enough that the people of
my country should point to their Declaration of Independence which
declares that "all men are created equal." It is not enough that they
should laud to the skies a constitution containing boasting declarations
in favour of freedom. It is not enough that they should extol the genius
of Washington, the patriotism of Henry, or the enthusiasm of Otis. The
time has come when nations are judged by the acts of the present instead
of the past. And so it must be with America. In no place in the United
Kingdom has the American Slave warmer friends than in Newcastle.

* * * * *

I am now in Sheffield, and have just returned from a visit to James
Montgomery, the poet. In company with James Wall, Esq., I proceeded to
The Mount, the residence of Mr. Montgomery; and our names being sent in,
we were soon in the presence of the "Christian Poet." He held in his
left hand the _Eclectic Review_ for the month, and with the right gave
me a hearty shake, and bade me "Welcome to old England." He was anything
but like the portraits I had seen of him, and the man I had in my mind's
eye. I had just been reading his "Pelican Island," and I eyed the poet
with no little interest. He is under the middle size, his forehead high
and well formed, the top of which was a little bald; his hair of a
yellowish colour, his eyes rather small and deep set, the nose long and
slightly aquiline, his mouth rather small, and not at all pretty. He was
dressed in black, and a large white cravat entirely hid his neck and
chin: his having been afflicted from childhood with salt-rhum, was
doubtless the cause of his chin being so completely buried in the
neckcloth. Upon the whole, he looked more like one of our American
Methodist parsons, than any one I have seen in this country. He entered
freely into conversation with us. He said he should be glad to attend my
lecture that evening, but that he had long since quit going out at
night. He mentioned having heard William Lloyd Garrison some years
before, and with whom he was well pleased. He said it had long been a
puzzle to him, how Americans could hold slaves and still retain their
membership in the churches. When we rose to leave, the old man took my
hand between his two, and with tears in his eyes said, "Go on your
Christian mission, and may the Lord protect and prosper you. Your
enslaved countrymen have my sympathy, and shall have my prayers." Thus
ended our visit to the Bard of Sheffield. Long after I had quitted the
presence of the poet, the following lines of his were ringing in my
ears:--

"Wanderer, whither dost thou roam?
Weary wanderer, old and grey,
Wherefore has thou left thine home,
In the sunset of thy day.
Welcome wanderer as thou art,
All my blessings to partake;
Yet thrice welcome to my heart,
For thine injured people's sake.
Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?
To what region far away?
Bend thy steps to find a home,
In the twilight of thy day.
Where a tyrant never trod,
Where a slave was never known--
But where Nature worships God
In the wilderness alone."

Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations
on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted,
is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the
fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost
amounting to superstition, for the poet who deals with nature. And who
is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has
better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than
Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle
weaknesses of Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact
intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of
Freedom, than our own Whittier?

LETTER XII.

_Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of
Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord
Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern
Abbey--Redcliffe Church._

_January 29_.

In passing through Yorkshire, we could not resist the temptation it
offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of
Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale,
about three miles from Leeds. A pleasant drive over a smooth road,
brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and pensive
beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral
luxuriance, and amidst the touching associations of seven centuries, is
almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it.
After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty
arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls
frowning with age. At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen
gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has
left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur. We
could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:--

"Beautiful fabric! even in decay
And desolation, beauty still is thine;
As the rich sunset of an autumn day,
When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine
To render homage to its slow decline,
Is more majestic in its parting hour:
Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine
Possesses now a more subduing power,
Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower."

The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is supposed, and not without
foundation, to be connected with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the name
of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or
pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher. The
anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it.
It, however, is briefly this:--

"One stormy night, as two travellers sat at the inn, each having
exhausted his news, the conversation was directed to the Abbey, the
boisterous night, and Mary's heroism; when a bet was at last made by one
of them, that she would not go and bring back from the nave a slip of
the alder-tree growing there. Mary, however, did go; but having nearly
reached the tree, she heard a low, indistinct dialogue; at the same
time, something black fell and rolled towards her, which afterwards
proved to be a hat. Directing her attention to the place whence the
conversation proceeded, she saw, from behind a pillar, two men carrying
a murdered body: they passed near the place where she stood, a heavy
cloud was swept from off the face of the moon, and Mary fell
senseless--one of the murderers was her intended husband! She was
awakened from her swoon, but--her reason had fled for ever." Mr. Southey
wrote a beautiful poem founded on this story, which will be found in his
published works. We spent nearly three hours in wandering through these
splendid ruins. It is both curious and interesting to trace the early
history of these old piles, which become the resort of thousands,
nine-tenths of whom are unaware either of the classic ground on which
they tread, or of the peculiar interest thrown around the spot by the
deeds of remote ages.

During our stay in Leeds, we had the good fortune to become acquainted
with Wilson Armistead, Esq. This gentleman is well known as an able
writer against Slavery. His most elaborate work is "A Tribute for the
Negro." This is a volume of 560 pages, and is replete with facts
refuting the charges of inferiority brought against the Negro race. Few
English gentlemen have done more to hasten the day of the American
slave's liberation, than Wilson Armistead.

* * * * *

We have just paid a visit to Newstead Abbey, the far-famed residence of
Lord Byron. I posted from Hucknall over to Newstead one pleasant
morning, and, being provided with a letter of introduction to Colonel
Wildman, I lost no time in presenting myself at the door of the Abbey.
But, unfortunately for me, the Colonel was at Mansfield, in attendance
at the Assizes--he being one of the County Magistrates. I did not
however lose the object of my visit, as every attention was paid in
showing me about the premises. I felt as every one must, who gazes for
the first time upon these walls, and remembers that it was here, even
amid the comparative ruins of a building once dedicated to the sacred
cause of Religion and her twin sister, Charity, that the genius of Byron
was first developed. Here that he paced with youthful melancholy the
halls of his illustrious ancestors, and trode the walks of the
long-banished monks. The housekeeper--a remarkably good looking and
polite woman--showed us through the different apartments, and explained
in the most minute manner every object of interest connected with the
interior of the building. We first visited the Monks' Parlour, which
seemed to contain nothing of note, except a very fine stained
window--one of the figures representing St. Paul, surmounted by a cross.
We passed through Lord Byron's Bedroom, the Haunted Chamber, the
Library, and the Eastern Corridor, and halted in the Tapestry Bedroom,
which is truly a magnificent apartment, formed by the Byrons for the use
of King Charles II. The ceiling is richly decorated with the Byron arms.
We next visited the grand Drawing-room, probably the finest in the
building. This saloon contains a large number of splendid portraits,
among which is the celebrated portrait of Lord Byron, by Phillips. In
this room we took into our hand the Skull-cup, of which so much has been
written, and that has on it a short inscription, commencing with--"Start
not--nor deem my spirit fled." Leaving this noble room, we descended by
a few polished oak steps into the West Corridor, from which we entered
the grand Dining Hall, and through several other rooms, until we reached
the Chapel. Here we were shown a stone coffin which had been found near
the high altar, when the workmen were excavating the vault, intended by
Lord Byron for himself and his dog. The coffin contained the skeleton of
an Abbot, and also the identical skull from which the cup, of which I
have made mention, was made. We then left the building, and took a
stroll through the grounds. After passing a pond of cold crystal water,
we came to a dark wood in which are two leaden statues of Pan, and a
female satyr--very fine specimens as works of art. We here inspected the
tree whereon Byron carved his own name and that of his sister, with the
date, all of which are still legible. However, the tree is now dead, and
we were informed that Colonel Wildman intended to have it cut down so as
to preserve the part containing the inscription. After crossing an
interesting and picturesque part of the gardens, we arrived within the
precincts of the ancient Chapel, near which we observed a neat marble
monument, and which we supposed to have been erected to the memory of
some of the Byrons; but, on drawing near to it, we read the following
inscription:--

"Near this spot
are deposited the remains of one
who possessed beauty without vanity,
strength without insolence,
courage without ferocity,
and all the virtues of man without his vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery,
if inscribed over human ashes,
is but a just tribute to the memory of
BOATSWAIN, a dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
and died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808."

By a will which his Lordship executed in 1811, he directed that his own
body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.
This feeling of affection to his dumb and faithful follower, commendable
in itself, seems here to have been carried beyond the bounds of reason
and propriety.

In another part of the grounds we saw the oak tree planted by the poet
himself. It has now attained a goodly size, considering the growth of
the oak, and bids fair to become a lasting memento to the Noble Bard,
and to be a shrine to which thousands of pilgrims will resort in future
ages, to do homage to his mighty genius. This tree promises to share in
after times the celebrity of Shakspere's mulberry, and Pope's willow.
Near by, and in the tall trees, the rooks were keeping up a tremendous
noise. After seeing everything of interest connected with the great
poet, we entered our chaise, and left the premises. As we were leaving,
I turned to take a farewell look at the Abbey, standing in solemn
grandeur, the long ivy clinging fondly to the rich tracery of a former
age. Proceeding to the little town of Hucknall, we entered the old grey
Parish Church, which has for ages been the last resting-place of the
Byrons, and where repose the ashes of the Poet, marked only by a neat
marble slab, bearing the date of the poet's birth, death, and the fact
that the tablet was placed there by his sister. This closed my visit to
the interesting scenes associated with Byron's strange eventful
history--scenes that ever acquire a growing charm as the lapse of years
softens the errors of the man, and confirms the genius of the poet.

* * * * *

_May 10_.

It was on a lovely morning that I found myself on board the little
steamer _Wye_, passing out of Bristol harbour. In going down the river,
we saw on our right, the stupendous rocks of St. Vincent towering some
four or five hundred feet above our heads. By the swiftness of our fairy
steamer, we were soon abreast of Cook's Folly, a singular tower, built
by a man from whom it takes its name, and of which the following
romantic story is told:--"Some years since a gentleman, of the name of
Cook, erected this tower, which has since gone by the name of 'Cook's
Folly.' A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining, by
means of astrology, if he would live to enjoy his property. Being
himself a firm believer, like the poet Dryden, that certain information
might be obtained from the above science, he caused the child's
horoscope to be drawn, and found, to his dismay, that in his third,
sixteenth, or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of meeting with
some fearful calamity or sudden death, to avert which he caused the
turret to be constructed, and the child placed therein. Secure, as he
vainly thought, there he lived, attended by a faithful servant, their
food and fuel being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, until
he was old enough to wait upon himself. On the eve of his twenty-first
year, his parent's hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings
prepared to welcome the young heir to his home. But, alas! no human
skill could avert the dark fate which clung to him. The last night he
had to pass alone in the turret, a bundle of faggots was conveyed to him
as usual, in which lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand. The
bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne in triumph, the dead body of
his only son was the sad spectacle which met the sight of his father."

We crossed the channel and soon entered the mouth of that most
picturesque of rivers, the Wye. As we neared the town of Chepstow the
old Castle made its appearance, and a fine old ruin it is. Being
previously provided with a letter of introduction to a gentleman in
Chepstow, I lost no time in finding him out. This gentleman gave me a
cordial reception, and did what Englishmen seldom ever do, lent me his
saddle horse to ride to the Abbey. While lunch was in preparation I took
a stroll through the Castle which stood near by. We entered the Castle
through the great door-way and were soon treading the walls that had
once sustained the cannon and the sentinel, but were now covered with
weeds and wild flowers. The drum and fife had once been heard within
these walls--the only music now is the cawing of the rook and daw. We
paid a hasty visit to the various apartments, remaining longest in those
of most interest. The room in which Martin the Regicide was imprisoned
nearly twenty years, was pointed out to us. The Castle of Chepstow is
still a magnificent pile, towering upon the brink of a stupendous cliff,
on reaching the top of which, we had a splendid view of the surrounding
country. Time, however, compelled us to retrace our steps, and after
partaking of a lunch, we mounted a horse for the first time in ten
years, and started for Tintern Abbey. The distance from Chepstow to the
Abbey is about five miles, and the road lies along the banks of the
river. The river is walled in on either side by hills of much beauty,
clothed from base to summit with the richest verdure. I can conceive of
nothing more striking than the first appearance of the Abbey. As we
rounded a hill, all at once we saw the old ruin standing before us in
all its splendour. This celebrated ecclesiastical relic of the olden
time is doubtless the finest ruin of its kind in Europe. Embosomed
amongst hills, and situated on the banks of the most fairy-like river in
the world, its beauty can scarcely be surpassed. We halted at the
"Beaufort Arms," left our horse, and sallied forth to view the Abbey.
The sun was pouring a flood of light upon the old grey walls, lighting
up its dark recesses, as if to give us a better opportunity of viewing
it. I gazed with astonishment and admiration at its many beauties, and
especially at the superb gothic windows over the entrance door. The
beautiful gothic pillars, with here and there a representation of a
praying priest, and mailed knights, with saints and Christian martyrs,
and the hundreds of Scriptural representations, all indicate that this
was a place of considerable importance in its palmy days. The once
stone floor had disappeared, and we found ourselves standing on a floor
of unbroken green grass, swelling back to the old walls, and looking so
verdant and silken that it seemed the very floor of fancy. There are
more romantic and wilder places than this in the world, but none more
beautiful. The preservation of these old abbeys should claim the
attention of those under whose charge they are, and we felt like joining
with the poet and saying:--

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15