Passages From the English Notebooks, Volume 2.

N >> Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Passages From the English Notebooks, Volume 2.

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We were to dine at the Refectory of the House with the new member for
Boston; and, meanwhile, Bennoch obtained admittance for us into the
Speaker's gallery, where we had a view of the members, and could hear
what was going on. A Mr. Muntz was speaking on the Income Tax, and he
was followed by Sir George Cornewall Lewis and others; but it was all
very uninteresting, without the slightest animation or attempt at
oratory,--which, indeed, would have been quite out of place. We saw Lord
Palmerston; but at too great a distance to distinguish anything but a
gray head. The House had daylight in it when we entered, and for some
time afterwards; but, by and by, the roof, which I had taken to be a
solid and opaque ceiling, suddenly brightened, and showed itself to be
transparent; a vast expanse of tinted and figured glass, through which
came down a great, mild radiance on the members below.

The character of the debate, however, did not grow more luminous or
vivacious; so we went down into the vestibule, and there waited for
Mr. ------, who soon came and led us into the Refectory. It was very
much like the coffee-room of a club. The strict rule forbids the
entrance of any but members of Parliament; but it seems to be winked at,
although there is another room, opening beyond this, where the law of
seclusion is strictly enforced.

The dinner was good, not remarkably so, but good enough,--a soup, some
turbot or salmon, cutlets, and I know not what else, and claret, sherry,
and port; for, as Mr. ------ said, "he did not wish to be stingy."
Mr. ------ is a self-made man, and a strong instance of the difference
between the Englishman and the American, when self-made, and without
early education. He is no more a gentleman now than when he began life,
--not a whit more refined, either outwardly or inwardly; while the
American would have been, after the same experience, not distinguishable
outwardly, and perhaps as refined within, as nine tenths of the gentlemen
born, in the House of Commons. And, besides, an American comes naturally
to any distinctions to which success in life may bring him; he takes them
as if they were his proper inheritance, and in no wise to be wondered at.
Mr. ------, on the other hand, took evidently a childish delight in his
position, and felt a childish wonder in having arrived at it; nor did it
seem real to him, after all. . . .

We again saw Disraeli, who has risen from the people by modes perhaps
somewhat like those of Mr. ------. He came and stood near our table,
looking at the bill of fare, and then sat down on the opposite side of
the room with another gentleman, and ate his dinner. The story of his
marriage does him much credit; and indeed I am inclined to like Disraeli,
as a man who has made his own place good among a hostile aristocracy, and
leads instead of following them.

From the House of Commons we went to Albert Smith's exhibition, or
lecture, of the ascent of Mont Blanc, to which Bennoch had orders. It
was very amusing, and in some degree instructive. We remained in the
saloon at the conclusion of the lecture; and when the audience had
dispersed, Mr. Albert Smith made his appearance. . . .

Nothing of moment happened the next day, at least, not till two o'clock,
when I went with Mr. Bowman to Birch's eating-house (it is not Birch's
now, but this was the name of the original founder, who became an
alderman, and has long been dead) for a basin of turtle-soup. It was
very rich, very good, better than we had at the Lord Mayor's, and the
best I ever ate.

In the evening, Mr. J. B. Davis, formerly our Secretary of Legation,
called to take us to dine at Mr. ------'s in Camden Town. Mr. ------
calls his residence Vermont House; but it hardly has a claim to any
separate title, being one of the centre houses of a block. I forget
whether I mentioned his calling on me. He is a Vermonter, a graduate of
Yale College, who has been here several years, and has established a sort
of book brokerage, buying libraries for those who want them, and rare
works and editions for American collectors. His business naturally
brings him into relations with literary people; and he is himself a
kindly and pleasant man. On our arrival we found Mr. D------ and one of
his sisters already there; and soon came a Mr. Peabody, who, if I mistake
not, is one of the Salem Peabodys, and has some connection with the
present eminent London Mr. Peabody. At any rate, he is a very sensible,
well-instructed, and widely and long travelled man. Mr. Tom Taylor was
also expected; but, owing to some accident or mistake, he did not come
for above an hour, all which time our host waited. . . . But Mr. Tom
Taylor, a wit, a satirist, and a famous diner out, is too formidable and
too valuable a personage to be treated cavalierly.

In the interim Mr. ------ showed us some rare old books, which he has in
his private collection, a black-letter edition of Chaucer, and other
specimens of the early English printers; and I was impressed, as I have
often been, with the idea that we have made few, if any, improvements in
the art of printing, though we have greatly facilitated the modes of it.
He showed us Dryden's translation of Virgil, with Dr. Johnson's autograph
in it and a large collection of Bibles, of all dates,--church Bibles,
family Bibles of the common translation, and older ones. He says he has
written or is writing a history of the Bible (as a printed work, I
presume). Many of these Bibles had, no doubt, been in actual and daily
use from generation to generation; but they were now all splendidly
bound, and were likewise very clean and smooth,--in fact, every leaf had
been cleansed by a delicate process, a part of which consisted in soaking
the whole book in a tub of water, during several days. Mr. ------ is
likewise rich in manuscripts, having a Spanish document with the
signature of the son of Columbus; a whole little volume in Franklin's
handwriting, being the first specimen of it; and the original manuscripts
of many of the songs of Burns. Among these I saw "Auld Lang Syne," and
"Bruce's Address to his Army." We amused ourselves with these matters as
long as we could; but at last, as there was to be a party in the evening,
dinner could no longer be put off; so we took our seats at table, and
immediately afterwards Mr. Taylor made his appearance with his wife and
another lady.

Mr. Taylor is reckoned a brilliant conversationist; but I suppose he
requires somebody to draw him out and assist him; for I could hear
nothing that I thought very remarkable on this occasion. He is not a
kind of man whom I can talk with, or greatly help to talk; so, though I
sat next to him, nothing came of it. He told me some stories of his life
in the Temple,--little funny incidents, that he afterwards wrought into
his dramas; in short, a sensible, active-minded, clearly perceptive man,
with a humorous way of showing up men and matters. . . . I wish I could
know exactly what the English style good conversation. Probably it is
something like plum-pudding,--as heavy, but seldom so rich.

After dinner Mr. Tom Taylor and Mr. D------, with their respective
ladies, took their leave; but when we returned to the drawing-room, we
found it thronged with a good many people. Mr. S. C. Hall was there with
his wife, whom I was glad to see again, for this was the third time of
meeting her, and, in this whirl of new acquaintances, I felt quite as if
she were an old friend. Mr. William Howitt was also there, and
introduced me to his wife,--a very natural, kind, and pleasant lady; and
she presented me to one or two daughters. Mr. Marston, the dramatist,
was also introduced to me; and Mr. Helps, a thin, scholarly, cold sort of
a man. Dr. Mackay and his wife were there, too; and a certain Mr. Jones,
a sculptor,--a jolly, large, elderly person, with a twinkle in his eye.
Also a Mr. Godwin, who impressed me as quite a superior person,
gentlemanly, cultivated, a man of sensibility; but it is quite impossible
to take a clear imprint from any one character, where so many are stamped
upon one's notice at once. This Mr. Godwin, as we were discussing
Thackeray, said that he is most beautifully tender and devoted to his
wife, whenever she can be sensible of his attentions. He says that
Thackeray, in his real self, is a sweet, sad man. I grew weary of so
many people, especially of the ladies, who were rather superfluous in
their oblations, quite stifling me, indeed, with the incense that they
burnt under my nose. So far as I could judge, they had all been invited
there to see me. It is ungracious, even hoggish, not to be gratified
with the interest they expressed in me; but then it is really a bore, and
one does not know what to do or say. I felt like the hippopotamus, or--
to use a more modest illustration--like some strange insect imprisoned
under a tumbler, with a dozen eyes watching whatever I did. By and by,
Mr. Jones, the sculptor, relieved me by standing up against the
mantel-piece, and telling an Irish story, not to two or three auditors,
but to the whole drawing-room, all attentive as to a set exhibition. It
was very funny.

The next day after this I went with Mr. Bowman to call on our minister,
and found that he, and four of the ladies of his family, with his son,
had gone to the Queen's Drawing-room. We lunched at the Wellington; and
spent an hour or more in looking out of the window of that establishment
at the carriages, with their pompous coachmen and footmen, driving to and
from the Palace of St. James, and at the Horse Guards, with their bright
cuirasses, stationed along the street. . . . Then I took the rail for
Liverpool. . . . While I was still at breakfast at the Waterloo, J-----
came in, ruddy-cheeked, smiling, very glad to see me, and looking, I
thought, a good deal taller than when I left him. And so ended my London
excursion, which has certainly been rich in incident and character,
though my account of it be but meagre.

SCOTLAND.--GLASGOW.

May 10th.--Last Friday, May 2d, I took the rail, with Mr. Bowman, from
the Lime Street station, for Glasgow. There was nothing of much interest
along the road, except that, when we got beyond Penrith, we saw snow on
the tops of some of the hills. Twilight came on as we were entering
Scotland; and I have only a recollection of bleak and bare hills and
villages dimly seen, until, nearing Glasgow, we saw the red blaze of
furnace-lights at frequent iron-founderies. We put up at the Queen's
Hotel, where we arrived about ten o'clock; a better hotel than I have
anywhere found in England,--new, well arranged, and with brisk
attendance.

In the morning I rambled largely about Glasgow, and found it to be
chiefly a modern-built city, with streets mostly wide and regular, and
handsome houses and public edifices of a dark gray stone. In front of
our hotel, in an enclosed green space, stands a tall column surmounted by
a statue of Sir Walter Scott,--a good statue, I should think, as
conveying the air and personal aspect of the man. There is a bronze
equestrian statue of the Queen in one of the streets, and one or two more
equestrian or other statues of eminent persons. I passed through the
Trongate and the Gallow-Gate, and visited the Salt-Market, and saw the
steeple of the Tolbooth, all of which Scott has made interesting; and I
went through the gate of the University, and penetrated into its enclosed
courts, round which the College edifices are built. They are not Gothic,
but of the age, I suppose, of James I.,--with odd-looking, conical-roofed
towers, and here and there the bust of a benefactor in niches round the
courts, and heavy stone staircases ascending from the pavement, outside
the buildings, all of dark gray granite, cold, hard, and venerable. The
University stands in High Street, in a dense part of the town, and a very
old and shabby part, too. I think the poorer classes of Glasgow excel
even those in Liverpool in the bad eminence of filth, uncombed and
unwashed children, drunkenness, disorderly deportment, evil smell, and
all that makes city poverty disgusting. In my opinion, however, they are
a better-looking people than the English (and this is true of all
classes), more intelligent of aspect, with more regular features. I
looked for the high cheek-bones, which have been attributed, as a
characteristic feature, to the Scotch, but could not find them. What
most distinguishes them front the English is the regularity of the nose,
which is straight, or sometimes a little curved inward; whereas the
English nose has no law whatever, but disports itself in all manner of
irregularity. I very soon learned to recognize the Scotch face, and when
not too Scotch, it is a handsome one.

In another part of the High Street, up a pretty steep slope, and on one
side of a public green, near an edifice which I think is a medical
college, stands St. Mungo's Cathedral. It is hardly of cathedral
dimensions, though a large and fine old church. The price of a ticket of
admittance is twopence; so small that it might be as well to make the
entrance free. The interior is in excellent repair, with the nave and
side aisles, and clustered pillars, and intersecting arches, that belong
to all these old churches; and a few monuments along the walls. I was
going away without seeing any more than this; but the verger, a friendly
old gentleman, with a hearty Scotch way of speaking, told me that the
crypts were what chiefly interested strangers; and so he guided me down
into the foundation-story of the church, where there is an intricacy and
entanglement of immensely massive and heavy arches, supporting the
structure above. The view through these arches, among the great shafts
of the columns, was very striking. In the central part is a monument; a
recumbent figure, if I remember rightly, but it is not known whom it
commemorates. There is also a monument to a Scotch prelate, which seems
to have been purposely defaced, probably in Covenant times. These
intricate arches were the locality of one of the scenes in "Rob Roy,"
when Rob gives Frank Osbaldistone some message or warning, and then
escapes from him into the obscurity behind. In one corner is St. Mungo's
well, secured with a wooden cover; but I should not care to drink water
that comes from among so many old graves.

After viewing the cathedral, I got back to the hotel just in time to go
from thence to the steamer wharf, and take passage up the Clyde. There
was nothing very interesting in this little voyage. We passed many
small iron steamers, and some large ones; and green fields along the
river-shores, villas, villages, and all such suburban objects; neither am
I quite sure of the name of the place we landed at, though I think it was
Bowling. Here we took the railway for Balloch; and the only place or
thing I remember during this transit was a huge bluff or crag, rising
abruptly from a river-side, and looking, in connection with its vicinity
to the Highlands, just such a site as would be taken for the foundation
of a castle. On inquiry it turned out that this abrupt and double-headed
hill (for it has two summits, with a cleft between) is the site of
Dumbarton Castle, for ages one of the strongest fortresses in Scotland,
and still kept up as a garrisoned place. At the distance and point of
view at which we passed it, the castle made no show.

Arriving at Balloch, we found it a small village, with no marked
features, and a hotel, where we got some lunch, and then we took a stroll
over the bridge across the Levers, while waiting for the steamer to take
us up Loch Lomond. It was a beautiful afternoon, warm and sunny; and
after walking about a mile, we had a fine view of Loch Lomond, and of the
mountains around and beyond it,--Ben Lomond among the rest. It is vain,
at a week's distance, to try to remember the shapes of mountains; so I
shall attempt no description of them, and content myself with saying that
they did not quite come up to my anticipations. In due time we returned
to our hotel, and found in the coffee-room a tall, white-haired,
venerable gentleman, and a pleasant-looking young lady, his daughter.
They had been eating lunch, and the young lady helped her father on with
his outside garment, and his comforter, and gave him his stick, just as
any other daughter might do,--all of which I mention because he was a
nobleman; and, moreover, had engaged all the post-horses at the inn, so
that we could not continue our travels by land, along the side of Loch
Lomond, as we had first intended. At four o'clock the railway train
arrived again, with a very moderate number of passengers, who (and we
among them) immediately embarked on board a neat little steamer which was
waiting for us.

The day was bright and cloudless; but there was a strong, cold breeze
blowing down the lake, so that it was impossible, without vast
discomfort, to stand in the bow of the steamer and look at the scenery.
I looked at it, indeed, along the sides, as we passed, and on our track
behind; and no doubt it was very fine; but from all the experience I have
had, I do not think scenery can be well seen from the water. At any
rate, the shores of Loch Lomond have faded completely out of my memory;
nor can I conceive that they really were very striking. At a year's
interval, I can recollect the cluster of hills around the head of Lake
Windermere; at twenty years' interval, I remember the shores of Lake
Champlain; but of the shores of this Scottish lake I remember nothing
except some oddly shaped rocks, called "The Cobbler and his Daughter," on
a mountain-top, just before we landed. But, indeed, we had very
imperfect glimpses of the hills along the latter part of the course,
because the wind had grown so very cold that we took shelter below, and
merely peeped at Loch Lomond's sublimities from the cabin-windows.

The whole voyage up Loch Lomond is, I think, about thirty-two miles; but
we landed at a place called Tarbet, much short of the ultimate point.
There is here a large hotel; but we passed it, and walked onward a mile
or two to Arroquhar, a secluded glen among the hills, where is a new
hotel, built in the old manor-house style, and occupying the site of what
was once a castle of the chief of the MacFarlanes. Over the portal is a
stone taken from the former house, bearing the date 1697. There is a
little lake near the house, and the hills shut in the whole visible scene
so closely that there appears no outlet nor communication with the
external world; but in reality this little lake is connected with Loch
Long, and Loch Long is an arm of the sea; so that there is water
communication between Arroquhar and Glasgow. We found this a very
beautiful place; and being quite sheltered from all winds that blew, we
strolled about late into the prolonged twilight, and admired the outlines
of the surrounding hills, and fancied resemblances to various objects in
the shapes of the crags against the evening sky. The sun had not set
till nearly, if not quite, eight o'clock; and before the daylight had
quite gone, the northern lights streamed out, and I do not think that
there was much darkness over the glen of Arroquhar that night. At all
events, before the darkness came, we withdrew into the coffee-room.

We had excellent beds and sleeping-rooms in this new hotel, and I
remember nothing more till morning, when we were astir betimes, and had
some chops for breakfast. Then our host, Mr. Macregor, who is also the
host of our hotel at Glasgow, and has many of the characteristics of an
American landlord, claiming to be a gentleman and the equal of his
guests, took us in a drosky, and drove us to the shore of Loch Lomond, at
a point about four miles from Arroquhar. The lake is here a mile and a
half wide, and it was our object to cross to Inversnaid, on the opposite
shore; so first we waved a handkerchief, and then kindled some straw on
the beach, in order to attract the notice of the ferryman at Inversnaid.
It was half an hour before our signals and shoutings resulted in the
putting off of a boat, with two oarsmen, who made the transit pretty
speedily; and thus we got across Loch Lomond. At Inversnaid there is a
small hotel, and over the rock on which it stands a little waterfall
tumbles into the lake,--a very little one, though I believe it is
reckoned among the other picturesque features of the scene.

We were now in Rob Roy's country, and at the distance of a mile or so,
along the shore of the lake, is Rob Roy's cave, where he and his
followers are supposed to have made their abode in troublous times.
While lunch was getting ready, we again took the boat, and went thither.
Landing beneath a precipitous, though not very lofty crag, we clambered
up a rude pathway, and came to the mouth of the cave, which is nothing
but a fissure or fissures among some great rocks that have tumbled
confusedly together. There is hardly anywhere space enough for half a
dozen persons to crowd themselves together, nor room to stand upright.
On the whole, it is no cave at all, but only a crevice; and, in the
deepest and darkest part, you can look up and see the sky. It may have
sheltered Rob Roy for a night, and might partially shelter any Christian
during a shower.

Returning to the hotel, we started in a drosky (I do not know whether
this is the right name of the vehicle, or whether it has a right name,
but it is a carriage in which four persons sit back to back, two before
and two behind) for Aberfoyle. The mountain-side ascends very steeply
from the inn door, and, not to damp the horse's courage in the outset, we
went up on foot. The guide-book says that the prospect from the summit
of the ascent is very fine; but I really believe we forgot to turn round
and look at it. All through our drive, however, we had mountain views in
plenty, especially of great Ben Lomond, with his snow-covered head, round
which, since our entrance into the Highlands, we had been making a
circuit. Nothing can possibly be drearier than the mountains at this
season; bare, barren, and bleak, with black patches of withered heath
variegating the dead brown of the herbage on their sides; and as regards
trees the hills are perfectly naked. There were no frightful precipices,
no boldly picturesque features, along our road; but high, weary slopes,
showing miles and miles of heavy solitude, with here and there a highland
hut, built of stone and thatched; and, in one place, an old gray, ruinous
fortress, a station of the English troops after the rebellion of 1715;
and once or twice a village of hills, the inhabitants of which, old and
young, ran to their doors to stare at us. For several miles after we
left Inversnaid, the mountain-stream which makes the waterfall brawled
along the roadside. All the hills are sheep-pastures, and I never saw
such wild, rough, ragged-looking creatures as the sheep, with their black
faces and tattered wool. The little lambs were very numerous, poor
things, coming so early in the season into this inclement region; and it
was laughable to see how invariably, when startled by our approach, they
scampered to their mothers, and immediately began to suck. It would seem
as if they sought a draught from the maternal udder, wherewith to fortify
and encourage their poor little hearts; but I suppose their instinct
merely drove them close to their dams, and, being there, they took
advantage of their opportunity. These sheep must lead a hard life during
the winter; for they are never fed nor sheltered.

The day was sunless, and very uncomfortably cold; and we were not sorry
to walk whenever the steepness of the road gave us cause. I do not
remember what o'clock it was, but not far into the afternoon, when we
reached the Baillie Nicol-Jarvie Inn at Aberfoyle; a scene which is much
more interesting in the pages of Rob Roy than we found it in reality.
Here we got into a sort of cart, and set out, over another hill-path, as
dreary as or drearier than the last, for the Trosachs. On our way, we
saw Ben Venue, and a good many other famous Bens, and two or three lochs;
and when we reached the Trosachs, we should probably have been very much
enraptured if our eyes had not already been weary with other mountain
shapes. But, in truth, I doubt if anybody ever does really see a
mountain, who goes for the set and sole purpose of seeing it. Nature
will not let herself be seen in such cases. You must patiently bide her
time; and by and by, at some unforeseen moment, she will quietly and
suddenly unveil herself, and for a brief space allow you to look right
into the heart of her mystery. But if you call out to her peremptorily,
"Nature! unveil yourself this very moment!" she only draws her veil the
closer; and you may look with all your eyes, and imagine that you see all
that she can show, and yet see nothing. Thus, I saw a wild and confused
assemblage of heights, crags, precipices, which they call the Trosachs,
but I saw them calmly and coldly, and was glad when the drosky was ready
to take us on to Callender. The hotel at the Trosachs, by the by, is a
very splendid one, in the form of an old feudal castle, with towers and
turrets. All among these wild hills there is set preparation for
enraptured visitants; and it seems strange that the savage features do
not subside of their own accord, and that there should still be cold
winds and snow on the top of Ben Lomond, and rocks and heather, and
ragged sheep, now that there are so many avenues by which the commonplace
world is sluiced in among the Highlands. I think that this fashion of
the picturesque will pass away.

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