In his neighbourhood is Milstone, the birth-place of Addison, to which he conducted me with obliging enthusiasm. The native nest is a modest parsonage, hard by the Church, which is one of the very humblest of its kind, and has no tower. I peeped in at the windows, and saw where Addison was baptized. Our walk was extended to Durrington, where a fine Church was re-appearing on the foundations of a very ancient one. In the afternoon of the same day, this kind friend took me to Amesbury, where the remains of a Roman encampment are still visible in some trenches and hillocks, which were made by the soldiers of Vespasian. Thence we went to see the grounds of the once celebrated Duchess of Queensbury, and a grotto, which was formerly frequented by the poet Gay. We passed an old lodge upon this estate, which gave shelter, during the Reign of Terror, to a community of French nuns. Next, we drove to the famous Stonehenge, on Salisbury plain. To me, these gigantic remains of Druid superstition were of surpassing interest: and while my friend explained to me the various theories of their origin and use, I found the actual inspection of this old scene of horrible idolatry, the rather fascinating, because from its still existing altar, one can just descry over the hills in the horizon, the needle-like point of the spire of Salisbury. I never felt before, that England had once been Pagan, and that the Gospel had conquered it, and made it all that Salisbury is, as compared with this accursed temple of the idol Bel. The Chaldean Shepherds seem indeed to have shared their superstition with those of Salisbury.
We drove over the plains, so called, to visit Wilton, and my attention was continually attracted by the shepherds and their flocks, not unlike, in some respects, to those who are seen on the Roman Campagna. Their dogs, who do the work of men, in searching stragglers, and in driving and tending the sheep, are interesting objects. Of course the story of Hannah More came often to mind as we encountered these sights. But other interesting associations were excited by the evident remains of old Roman roads, which traversed these pasturages in ancient times. There were, besides, some strange circular hollows, in form like saucers, of undoubted Roman origin, which lay on either side of our way as we drove over a sort of ridge-road. As we left the downs, we had a fine view of the surrounding country, and descried Trafalgar House, the seat of Lord Nelson, at a distance. We passed a noble estate of the Pembroke family; and visited the magnificent Church, at Wilton, reared by Mr. Sydney Herbert, at his personal expense of sixty thousand pounds. It is a superb Anglican basilica, a curiosity in England, as departing from the historical architecture of the realm, and closely resembling the finest churches of Italy. It is, however, a blessing to the place, and is largely frequented by the poor. From this splendid Church we drove to a still more interesting one, although a church as remarkably poor as this is costly. The smallest and plainest little Church I had yet seen in England was reached at last, and reverently entered. A few pews, a chancel and Holy Table of starving plainness, and a pulpit to match! This was holy Herbert’s Church—this was Bemerton! I climbed, and then crawled into the little box of a belfry, to see the bell which he tolled when he was instituted; and then I went outside, and looked in at the window, through which he was descried tarrying long at prayer, on his face, before the altar. How a good life can glorify what otherwise would be utterly without attractions! Even in America, I have seldom seen a church look so mean as that at Bemerton: yet few places have I ever visited with more of awe and affection; and verily, all the embellishments of the Sistine Chapel failed to produce in me such a sense of the beauty of holiness, as did the sight of the humble altar, at which ministered before the Lord two hundred years ago, that man of God, George Herbert.
Reaching Southampton early in the evening of a mid-summer day, I had time enough, during the long twilight, for an excursion to Netley Abbey, which I made in a boat, rowed by an old waterman and his son, a lad of twelve years. The descending sun threw its radiance over the bright Southampton water, as we left the pier, and a pathway of burnished gold seemed to lie in our wake, as we glided rapidly along. The boy volunteered to sing a little hymn which he had learned at Sunday School, and, accordingly the praise of God was sweetly wafted by the sunset breezes that played about us; and if I have heard more romantic strains on the Venetian waters, since then, from the gondoliers, I can testify that they were no sweeter, and not half so inspiring to a devout disposition. This beautiful bay was filled with many sails, and the neighbouring shores, on every side, were highly picturesque. We reached the “glad nook,” whose corrupted Latin name survives, in Netley, just in time to disturb the composures of the rook and owl, as they were congratulating themselves on the close of the day, and settling for the night, the one in his dormitory, and the other in his watch-tower. There was enough of day to display the entire beauty of the ruins, and enough of melancholy night to give them a mysterious solemnity. Here I stumbled over piles of rubbish, overgrown with grass and wall-flowers, among which slender trees have sprouted side by side with the branching columns of the architect; while through graceful tracery, and broken vaulting, I looked up into the deep heaven, and descried the first stars as they began to twinkle in its unfathomable azure. I fancied I could hear the gentle sigh of the waters on the pebbled beach, which spreads hard by beneath its walls, and the charms of the spot, as a home of religion, became very vividly impressed on my mind as the soft susurrations appeared to bewail the loss of responsive vesper-songs from the consecrated pile. It was a bewitching hour for such a visit: and when I went down into crypts, and gloomy vaults, which were barely light enough to enable me to feel my way, and to descry the surrounding outlines of Gothic ruin, through loop-holes and doorways festooned with luxuriant ivy, all that I ever read of romance, in its wildest forms, seemed conjured about me. It was quite dark as we returned, but the waters glittered with tremulous reflections of many lights on the shore; and our little pilot sung—“There’s a good time coming, boys!” with a sort of pathetic thrill, which made me love him, and I prayed that he might live to see the good time which he so feelingly promised himself. I conversed with him freely, and found that he had been taught of God, in the bosom of the Church.
Next morning I took the steamer to Cowes. The sail down the sea of Southampton was very pleasant, and my fancy was as busy as my sight, as we skirted along the shore, from which the “New Forest” stretches away towards Dorsetshire, covering many a square mile of merry England with woods as dense as those of our own primeval wilds. How exciting to reflection, the view of a wood which, for so many ages, has perpetuated the violence of William the Norman, and the tragic memory of Rufus! A gay little French woman, who knew nothing of the history, however, and who seemed to take me for an Englishman, expressed herself, in her sprightly vernacular, in terms of rapturous delight, with reference to the scenery alone. She was overwhelmed with the luxurious beauty of England, as contrasted with the penury which stares you in the face for leagues and leagues in France, in places where nature only needs a little aid from cultivation to assume a face as cheerful as those of its inhabitants. When we passed Calshot Castle, and had the Isle of Wight in full view, I was nearly as much inspired as herself. The admirable service which the island renders to the British fleet, became apparent as we looked towards those “leviathans afloat,” at Spithead; but I turned with greater interest towards the Solent, and tried hard to descry that lonely spur of Hampshire, on which stands Hurst Castle, the scene of one of the most thrilling episodes in the closing history of Charles the First. As we approached Cowes, it reminded me of Staten Island, off New-York, and, at first, I hardly knew to what I owed the association, though the similarity of scene is considerable; but when a second glance showed me a noble ship, of unmistakeable American proportions, with the American ensign fluttering at her peak, just under the lee of the island, I felt the home-feeling overpoweringly, and could have shouted my salutation to my country’s oak, with full lungs and a fuller heart! I pointed it out to the French woman, and told her of my country, and then I was saluted with her voluble congratulations, in such terms as showed that she, at least, thought it a land of which one has a right to be proud.
Osborne House is a prominent object, on the rising bank of the Medina, as one drives from Cowes toward Newport, and I looked with no little interest at the beautiful home in which Victoria and Albert live the life of private people, without sacrificing the dignity which they owe it to the nation to sustain. It delights me to say that they have the reputation of cultivating, there, every domestic virtue; and I was charmed with a popular print, which one sees in the neighbourhood, representing the family at Osborne, on their knees, with the prince reading prayers among his children.
I was fortunate in visiting this gem of the sea, during the most pleasant part of the year. The hay-makers were at work, and everywhere a delicious fragrance filled the air. Our drive from Newport to Chale afforded many pleasing views, and my first view of the open sea was enchanting. The channel was as smooth as glass, and the vessels that lay upon it scarcely seemed to move. From the celebrated Black-gang Chine, the view of the chalky coast of Dorset, the curving shore of Freshwater-bay, and the bristling file of cliffs, called “the Needles,” was truly superb. Then wheeling round the bold head of St. Catherine’s Downs, we entered that sweet realm of Faerie, called the Undercliff, where a palisade of rock rises on one side of the road, and the sea-beach lies below, the exposure being such as to receive the breath and the sunshine of the genial south, with all the vigorous breezes of the ocean. Here the roses bloom all the year in the open air, and Nature has made it all that Nature could, by a combination of her charms. Indeed, the circuit of the coast, from here to Yaverland, seen, at various hours of the day, in all the shifting effects of the sun and shadows, affords a panorama of incomparable attractions: here a dense grove, and there a deep cleft in the rocks, intercepting the sea-view, and then, again, a fresh apocalypse of beauty, breaking upon the sight, at some unexpected turn of the way. The murmur of ocean comes to the ear just as the eye catches the numberless smiles of its surface, and a glimpse through green foliage will often discover a brilliant perspective, in which the blue sea, and the gray rocks, and the fading horizon, are enlivened by a stretching show of snowy canvas, reflecting the golden light of the sun, sail after sail, the tiniest glittering far off on the verge of the expanse, like a star in the twilight.
The Tom-thumb Church of St. Lawrence, with walls six feet high, and all the rest in proportion; the beauties of Ventnor, and Bonchurch, and Shanklin Chine; in short, the entire scenery of the Undercliff is enchanting, and bewitches one with a desire to build a tabernacle there, and to rest from one’s labours. At Brading, I paused, in honour of good Legh Richmond, and visited the grave of his “Young Cottager.” Ryde is a pleasant place enough, something like our Staten Island towns in situation, and in many other particulars. But my drive from Ryde to Newport, through Wooton and Fern-hill, disclosed many of those inland scenes of rural beauty, for which the Isle of Wight is unsurpassed. Hedges, thick and green, on each side of the road, with wild woodbine twisting all over them, and loading the air with perfumes, were the appropriate frame-work of rich fields, waving with golden crops, fragrant with new-mown hay, or filled with pasturing cattle, while here and there they enclosed a little garden full of flowers, or were broken by the prettiest cottages in all the world, neatly whitewashed, and trimly thatched, and planted about with white and red roses, clambering over the windows, mounting to the eaves, and even straggling among the straw, to the ridge of the roof. Again I caught a glimpse of the towers of Osborne; but it seemed to me that the Queen herself might be willing to exchange them for these charming little snuggeries of her contented peasantry.
But I came to the Isle, above all, to see Carisbrooke Castle, and thither I went, after a night at Newport. It was a bright, unclouded morning, and I went alone. Over a little bridge you pass to the great doorway, between two massive towers, hung with verdure, and pierced with cross-shaped arrow-slits. All was as quiet and as beautiful as if no history brooded over the spot, with strange and melancholy witchery. The twitter of a bird, the nodding of a wild rose in the morning breeze, the sparkling of the dew upon the leaves, all seemed to share something of the mysterious spell. ‘How still, and yet how speaking, thought I, this scene of mighty personal struggles, of a crisis of ages, of overwhelming sorrows! Is it not conscious of its own dignity? Poor Charles! after seeing thy brief wrestling with adversity, it has lapsed into desolation, and lets the world have its own way, while it alone wears enduring tokens of sympathy with thee!’
I saw the window where the King made one last effort to be free. Sir Thomas Herbert’s portraiture rose all before me, and a thousand busy thoughts, which any one may imagine, but which language fails to arrest, much more to convey. Ascending to the keep, surveying the undulating scenery, and loitering here and there among the ruins, the past, the entrancing past floated around me like an atmosphere; and I felt how much more powerful than romance, is the charm of historic fact, when invested with living interest, by associations of religion, by connections with surviving realities, and by the perpetual attraction and moral sublimity of an example of greatness and worth, tried in the furnace of affliction.
Nor did I forget that lily among thorns, the little princess who died in this doleful prison, of a broken heart, after bewailing her father’s murder a single year. The sweet child, Elizabeth! what a thought it was to imagine her moaning her young life away, amid these gloomy walls, surrounded only by the butchers of her adored parent, mocking her woes! Among tales of childhood’s sorrows, there have been few like hers.