Passages From the English Notebooks, Volume 1.

N >> Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Passages From the English Notebooks, Volume 1.

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WOOTON.

Wooton stands in a hollow, near the summit of one of the long swells that
here undulate over the face of the country. There is a good deal of wood
behind it, as should be the case with the residence of the author of the
Sylva; but I believe few, if any, of these trees are known to have been
planted by John Evelyn, or even to have been coeval with his time. The
house is of brick, partly ancient, and consists of a front and two
projecting wings, with a porch and entrance in the centre. It has a
desolate, meagre aspect, and needs something to give it life and stir and
jollity. The present proprietor is of the old Evelyn family, and is now
one of the two members of Parliament for Surrey; but he is a very shy and
retiring man, unmarried, sees little company, and seems either not to
know how to make himself comfortable or not to care about it. A servant
told us that Mr. ------ had just gone out, but Tupper, who is apparently
on intimate terms with him, thought it best that we should go into the
house, while he went in search of the master. So the servant ushered us
through a hall,--where were many family pictures by Lely, and, for aught
I know, by Vandyke, and by Kneller, and other famous painters,--up a
grand staircase, and into the library, the inner room of which contained
the ponderous volumes which John Evelyn used to read. Nevertheless, it
was a room of most barren aspect, without a carpet on the floor, with
pine bookcases, with a common whitewashed ceiling, with no luxurious
study-chairs, and without a fire. There was an open folio on the table,
and a sheet of manuscript that appeared to have been recently written. I
took down a book from the shelves (a volume of annals, connected with
English history), and Tupper afterwards told us that this one single
volume, for its rarity, was worth either two or three hundred pounds.
Against one of the windows of this library there grows a magnolia-tree,
with a very large stem, and at least fifty years old.

Mrs. Tupper and I waited a good while, and then Bennoch and Tupper came
back, without having found Mr. ------. Tupper wished very much to show
the prayer-book used by King Charles at his execution, and some curious
old manuscript volumes; but the servant said that his master always kept
these treasures locked up, and trusted the key to nobody. We therefore
had to take our leave without seeing them; and I have not often entered a
house that one feels to be more forlorn than Wooton,--although we did
have a glimpse of a dining-room, with a table laid for three or four
guests, and looking quite brilliant with plate and glass and snowy
napery. There was a fire, too, in this one room. Mr. ------ is making
extensive alterations in the house, or has recently done so, and this is
perhaps one reason of its ungenial meagreness and lack of finish.

Before our departure from Wooton, Tupper had asked me to leave my card
for Mr. ------; but I had no mind to overstep any limit of formal
courtesy in dealing with an Englishman, and therefore declined. Tupper,
however, on his own responsibility, wrote his name, Bennoch's, and mine
on a piece of paper, and told the servant to show them to Mr. ------. We
soon had experience of the good effect of this; for we had scarcely got
back before somebody drove up to Tupper's door, and one of the girls,
looking out, exclaimed that there was Mr. ------ himself, and another
gentleman. He had set out, the instant he heard of our call, to bring
the three precious volumes for me to see. This surely was most kind; a
kindness which I should never have dreamed of expecting from a shy,
retiring man like Mr. ------.

So he and his friend were ushered into the dining-room, and introduced.
Mr. ------ is a young-looking man, dark, with a mustache, rather small,
and though he has the manners of a man who has seen the world, it
evidently requires an effort in him to speak to anybody; and I could see
his whole person slightly writhing itself, as it were, while he addressed
me. This is strange in a man of his public position, member for the
county, necessarily mixed up with life in many forms, the possessor of
sixteen thousand pounds a year, and the representative of an ancient
name. Nevertheless, I liked him, and felt as if I could become
intimately acquainted with him, if circumstances were favorable; but, at
a brief interview like this, it was hopeless to break through two great
reserves; so I talked more with his companion--a pleasant young man,
fresh from college, I should imagine--than with Mr. ------ himself.

The three books were really of very great interest. One was an octavo
volume of manuscript in John Evelyn's own hand, the beginning of his
published diary, written as distinctly as print, in a small, clear
character. It can be read just as easily as any printed book. Another
was a Church of England prayer-book, which King Charles used on the
scaffold, and which was stained with his sacred blood, and underneath are
two or three lines in John Evelyn's hand, certifying this to be the very
book. It is an octavo, or small folio, and seems to have been very
little used, scarcely opened, except in one spot; its leaves elsewhere
retaining their original freshness and elasticity. It opens most readily
at the commencement of the common service; and there, on the left-hand
page, is a discoloration, of a yellowish or brownish hue, about two
thirds of an inch large, which, two hundred years ago and a little more,
was doubtless red. For on that page had fallen a drop of King Charles's
blood.

The other volume was large, and contained a great many original letters,
written by the king during his troubles. I had not time to examine them
with any minuteness, and remember only one document, which Mr. ------
pointed out, and which had a strange pathos and pitifulness in it. It
was a sort of due-bill, promising to pay a small sum for beer, which had
been supplied to his Majesty, so soon as God should enable him, or the
distracted circumstances of his kingdom make it possible,--or some
touching and helpless expression of that kind. Prince Hal seemed to
consider it an unworthy matter, that a great prince should think of "that
poor creature, small beer," at all; but that a great prince should not be
able to pay for it is far worse.

Mr. ------ expressed his regret that I was not staying longer in this
part of the country, as he would gladly have seen me at Wooten, and he
succeeded in saying something about my books; and I hope I partly
succeeded in showing him that I was very sensible of his kindness in
letting me see those relics. I cannot say whether or no I expressed it
sufficiently. It is better with such a man, or, indeed, with any man, to
say too little than too much; and, in fact, it would have been indecorous
in me to take too much of his kindness to my own share, Bennoch being
likewise in question.

We had a cup of coffee, and then took our leave; Tupper accompanying us
part way down the village street, and bidding us an affectionate
farewell.

BATTLE ABBEY.

Bennoch and I recommenced our travels, and, changing from one railway to
another, reached Tunbridge Wells at nine or ten in the evening. . . .
The next day was spent at Tunbridge Wells, which is famous for a
chalybeate spring, and is a watering-place of note, most healthily
situated on a high, breezy hill, with many pleasant walks in the
neighborhood. . . . From Tunbridge Wells we transported ourselves to
Battle,--the village in which is Battle Abbey. It is a large village,
with many antique houses and some new ones; and in its principal street,
on one side, with a wide, green space before it, you see the gray,
embattled, outer wall, and great, square, battlemented entrance tower
(with a turret at each corner), of the ancient Abbey. It is the perfect
reality of a Gothic battlement and gateway, just as solid and massive as
when it was first built, though hoary and venerable with the many
intervening centuries. There are only two days in the week on which
visitors are allowed entrance, and this was not one of them.
Nevertheless, Bennoch was determined to get in, and he wished me to send
Lady Webster my card with his own; but this I utterly refused, for the
honor of America and for my own honor; because I will not do anything to
increase the reputation we already have as a very forward people.
Bennoch, however, called at a bookshop on the other side of the street,
near the gateway of the castle; and making friends, as he has a
marvellous tact in doing, with the bookseller, the latter offered to take
in his card to the housekeeper, and see if Lady Webster would not relax
her rule in our favor. Meanwhile, we went into the old church of Battle,
which was built in Norman times, though subsequently to the Abbey. As we
entered the church door, the bell rang for joy at the news of peace,
which had just been announced by the London papers.

The church has been whitewashed in modern times, and does not look so
venerable as it ought, with its arches and pillared aisles. In the
chancel stands a marble tomb, heavy, rich, and elaborate, on the top of
which lie the broken-nosed statues of Sir Anthony Browne and his lady,
who were the Lord and Lady of Battle Abbey in Henry VIII.'s time. The
knight is in armor, and the lady in stately garb, and (save for their
broken noses) they are in excellent preservation. The pavement of the
chancel and aisles is all laid with tombstones, and on two or three of
these there were engraved brasses, representing knights in armor, and
churchmen, with inscriptions in Latin. Some of them are very old. On
the walls, too, there are various monuments, principally of dignitaries
connected with the Abbey. Two hatchments, in honor of persons recently
dead, were likewise suspended in the chancel. The best pew of the church
is, of course, that of the Webster family. It is curtained round,
carpeted, furnished with chairs and footstools, and more resembles a
parlor than a pew; especially as there is a fireplace in one of the
pointed archways, which I suppose has been bricked up in order to form
it. On the opposite side of the aisle is the pew of some other magnate,
containing a stove. The rest of the parishioners have to keep themselves
warm with the fervor of their own piety. I have forgotten what else was
interesting, except that we were shown a stone coffin, recently dug up,
in which was hollowed a place for the head of the corpse.

Returning to the bookshop, we found that Lady Webster had sent her
compliments, and would be very happy to have us see the Abbey. How
thoroughly kind these English people can be when they like, and how often
they like to be so!

We lost no time in ringing the bell at the arched entrance, under the
great tower, and were admitted by an old woman who lives, I believe, in
the thickness of the wall. She told us her room used to be the prison of
the Abbey, and under the great arch she pointed to a projecting beam,
where she said criminals used to be hanged.

At two of the intersecting points of the arches, which form the roof of
the gateway, were carved faces of stone, said to represent King Harold
and William the Conqueror. The exterior wall, of which this tower is the
gateway, extends far along the village street, and encloses a very large
space, within which stands the mansion, quite secluded from unauthorized
visitors, or even from the sight of those without, unless it be at very
distant eyeshot.

We rang at the principal door of the edifice (it is under a deep arch, in
the Norman style, but of modern date), and a footman let its in, and then
delivered us over to a respectable old lady in black. She was a
Frenchwoman by birth, but had been very long in the service of the
family, and spoke English almost without an accent; her French blood
being indicated only by her thin and withered aspect, and a greater
gentility of manner than would have been seen in an Englishwoman of
similar station. She ushered us first into a grand and noble hall, the
arched and carved oaken roof of which ascended into the gable. It was
nearly sixty feet long, and its height equal to its length,--as stately a
hall, I should imagine, as is anywhere to be found in a private mansion.
It was lighted, at one end, by a great window, beneath which, occupying
the whole breadth of the hall, hung a vast picture of the Battle of
Hastings; and whether a good picture or no, it was a rich adornment of
the hall. The walls were wainscoted high upward with oak: they were
almost covered with noble pictures of ancestry, and of kings and great
men, and beautiful women; there were trophies of armor hung aloft; and
two armed figures, one in brass mail, the other in bright steel, stood on
a raised dais, underneath the great picture. At the end of the hall,
opposite the picture, a third of the way up towards the roof, was a
gallery. All these things that I have enumerated were in perfect
condition, without rust, untouched by decay or injury of any kind; but
yet they seemed to belong to a past age, and were mellowed, softened in
their splendor, a little dimmed with time,--toned down into a venerable
magnificence. Of all domestic things that I have seen in England, it
satisfied me most.

Then the Frenchwoman showed us into various rooms and offices, most of
which were contrived out of the old abbey-cloisters, and the vaulted
cells and apartments in which the monks used to live. If any house be
haunted, I should suppose this might be. If any church-property bring a
curse with it, as people say, I do not see how the owners of Battle Abbey
can escape it, taking possession of and dwelling in these holy precincts,
as they have done, and laying their kitchen hearth with the stones of
overthrown altars. The Abbey was first granted, I believe, to Sir
Anthony Browne, whom I saw asleep with his lady in the church. It was
his first wife. I wish it had been his second; for she was Surrey's
Geraldine. The posterity of Sir Anthony kept the place till 1719, and
then sold it to the Websters, a family of Baronets, who are still the
owners and occupants. The present proprietor is Sir Augustus Webster,
whose mother is the lady that so kindly let us into the Abbey.

Mr. Bennoch gave the nice old French lady half a crown, and we next went
round among the ruined portions of the Abbey, under the gardener's
guidance. We saw two ivied towers, insulated from all other ruins; and
an old refectory, open to the sky, and a vaulted crypt, supported by
pillars; and we saw, too, the foundation and scanty remains of a chapel,
which had been long buried out of sight of man, and only dug up within
present memory,--about forty years ago. There had always been a
tradition that this was the spot where Harold had planted his standard,
and where his body was found after the battle; and the discovery of the
ruined chapel confirmed the tradition.

I might have seen a great deal more, had there been time; and I have
forgotten much of what I did see; but it is an exceedingly interesting
place. There is an avenue of old yew-trees, which meet above like a
cloistered arch; and this is called the Monks' Walk. I rather think they
were ivy, though growing unsupported.

As we were retiring, the gardener suddenly stopped, as if he were
alarmed, and motioned to us to do the same, saying, "I believe it is my
lady!" And so it was,--a tall and stately lady in black, trimming shrubs
in the garden. She bowed to us very graciously,--we raised our hats, and
thus we met and parted without more ado. As we went through the arch of
the entrance tower, Bennoch gave the old female warder a shilling, and
the gardener followed us to get half a crown.

HASTINGS.

We took a fly and driver from the principal hotel of Battle, and drove
off for Hastings, about seven miles distant. Hastings is now a famous
watering and sea-bathing place, and seems to be well sheltered from the
winds, though open to the sea, which here stretches off towards France.
We climbed a high and steep hill, terraced round its base with streets of
modern lodging-houses, and crowned on its summit with the ruins of a
castle, the foundation of which was anterior to the Conquest. This
castle has no wall towards the sea, the precipice being too high and
sheer to admit of attack on that side. I have quite exhausted my
descriptive faculty for the present, so shall say nothing of this old
castle, which indeed (the remains being somewhat scanty and scraggling)
is chiefly picturesque and interesting from its bold position on such a
headlong hill.

Clambering down on another side from that of our ascent, we entered
the town of Hastings, which seems entirely modern, and made up of
lodging-houses, shops, hotels, parades, and all such makings up of
watering-places generally. We took a delightful warm bath, washing off
all weariness and naughtiness, and coming out new men. Then we walked to
St. Leonard's,--a part of Hastings, I believe, but a mile or two from the
castle, and there called at the lodgings of two friends of Bennoch.

These were Mr. Martin, the author of Bon Gaultier's ballads, and his
wife, the celebrated actress, Helen Faucett. Mr. Martin is a barrister,
a gentleman whose face and manners suited me at once; a simple, refined,
sincere, not too demonstrative person. His wife, too, I liked; a tall,
dark, fine, and lady-like woman, with the simplest manners, that give no
trouble at all, and so must be perfect. With these two persons I felt
myself, almost in a moment, on friendly terms, and in true accord, and so
I talked, I think, more than I have at any time since coming to London.

We took a pleasant lunch at their house; and then they walked with us to
the railway station, and there they took leave of Bennoch affectionately
and of me hardly less so; for, in truth, we had grown to be almost
friends in this very little while. And as we rattled away, I said to
Bennoch earnestly, "What good people they are!"--and Bennoch smiled, as
if he had known perfectly well that I should think and say so. And thus
we rushed onward to London; and I reached St. James's Place between nine
and ten o'clock, after a very interesting tour, the record of which I
wish I could have kept as we went along, writing each day's history
before another day's adventures began.

END OF VOL. I.

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