I never saw Glastonbury until now, and I'm not sure that, having seen it, I shan't be obliged to hook it on top of Winchester, on my bump of reverence. Not that one can compare its ruined grandeur with well-preserved Winchester, the comparison lies in the oldness and the early beginnings of religion. I believe Glastonbury is the one religious institution in which Briton, Saxon, and Norman all share and share alike; so the place seems to bind our race to a race supplanted. St. Dunstan is the "great man" of the place, because he it was who restored the monastery after Danish wars; but he is a modern celebrity beside Joseph of Arimathea, the founder, who came with eleven companions to bring the Holy Word to Britain. It was the Archangel Gabriel who bade him found a church in honour of the Virgin; and it was a real inspiration of the archangel's; for what one can see of the chapel of St. Joseph is absolutely perfect—a gem of beauty.
We came to Glastonbury in the afternoon, having lunched at a nice old coaching house in Bridgewater, and after pausing for a look at the Abbot's kitchen, I drove straight to the George, which I had heard of as being the Pilgrim's Inn of ancient times, and the best bit of domestic architecture in the town. The idea was to have tea there—an indulgence for which Emily clamoured, being half choked with chalky dust; but the house was so singularly beautiful and interesting that it seemed a crime not to sleep in it. The front is a gorgeous mass of carved panelling; in the middle rises a four-centred gateway, and on the left is a marvel of a bow window, with a bay for every story. We went up a newel stairway to look at rooms, and one in which Henry VIII. slept a night fell to my share—not because I was selfishly ready to take the best, however, for there were several others more curious, if not more interesting.
Our quarters for the night selected, we went out sight-seeing, on foot, first taking the Abbey and Chapel of the Blessed Virgin, corruptly known as St. Joseph's. It's a good thing, Pat, that you didn't get your youthful way, and annex Emily, because you have, or had, a "strong weakness" for ruins, and she doesn't appreciate them in any form. The difference between her expression and Ellaline's while gazing at what is left of Glastonbury's glory was a study. Emily's bored, yet conscientiously desiring to be interested; the girl's rapt, radiant. And, indeed, these remnants of beauty are pathetically fair enough to draw tears to such young eyes as hers. They are even more majestic in ruin than they could have been in noblest prime, I think, because those broken arches have the splendour of classic tragedy. They are like a poem of which a few immortal lines are lost.
In the warm light of the August afternoon the old stones, pillars, and arches of Glastonbury Abbey seemed to be carved in stained ivory, a bas relief on lapis lazuli. We lingered until our pretty Mrs. Senter got the look in her eyes of one who has stood too long in high-heeled boots, and Emily asked plaintively whether we were not going to see the Glastonbury Thorn. It appeared that she had promised to write her tame parson about it, and send him a sprig for planting; and she was much disappointed when she heard that the "original thorn," Joseph of Arimathea's blossoming staff, had been destroyed centuries ago on Weary-All Hill, where the saintly band rested on the way to Glastonbury. One trunk of the famous tree was hewed down by a Puritan in Elizabeth's day (I'm happy to tell you he lost a leg and an eye in the act), while the second and only remaining one was destroyed by a "military saint" in the great rebellion. "What disagreeable things saints have done!" exclaimed Ellaline, which shocked Emily. "There have been very few military ones, anyhow," my sister returned, mildly, with a slightly reproachful glance at me, aimed at my spiritual failures. I cheered her up by promising that I would get her a sprig of thorn at Wells, and telling her how all the transplanted slips have the habit of blossoming on Christmas Day, old style—January 6th, isn't it?
Our next "sight" was the museum in the Market Place; and you may take my word for it, Pat, there's nothing much more interesting to be found the world over, if you're interested in antiquities, as you and I are. There's the Alfred jewel, which, of course, the women liked best; and next in their estimation came the bronze mirrors, the queer pins and big needles, the rouge pots and the hair curlers (which Emily gravely pronounced to be curiously like Hinde's) of the Celtic beauties who lived before the visits of those clever commercial travellers, the Phœnicians. These relics were taken from the prehistoric village at Godnet Marsh, discovered only about sixteen years ago, and they were found with others far more important; for instance, a big, clumsy canoe of black oak, which was soft as soap when it first came up out of its hiding-place in the thick peat bog, but was hardened afterward by various scientific tricks. I confess to more interest in the dice boxes and dice, some of which the sly old Celtic foxes had loaded. Cheating isn't precisely a modern device, it seems!
After the museum, I took the party to a jeweller's I'd heard of, and bought some copies of the sacred treasures: a replica of the Alfred jewel; a silver bowl, exactly imitating a bronze one from the lake village—probably of Greek manufacture, brought over by Phœnicians—and other quaint and interesting things. Ellaline is to have the jewel; the silver bowl is to be a "sop" to Mrs. Senter; and for Emily is a tiny model oven, such as the Phœnicians taught the Celts to make and Cornish cottagers bake their bread in to this day.
There was the old Red Lion Inn to see, too, where Abbot Whiting lay the night before his execution, which was a murder; and the Women's Almshouses, and a dozen other things which tourists are expected to see besides many dozen which they are not; and it is for the latter that Ellaline and I have a predilection. She and I are also fond of believing any story which is interesting, therefore we are both invaluable victims to the custodians of museums and other show places. The nice old fellow in the Glastonbury museum was delighted with our faith, which would not only have moved mountains, but transported to such mountains any historic celebrity necessary to impress the picture. We believed in the burying of the original Chalice, from which to this hour flows a pure spring, the Holy, or Blood Spring. We believe that St. Patrick was born, and died on the Isle of Avalon; and more firmly than all, that both Arthur and Guinevere were buried under St. Mary's (or St. Joseph's) Chapel. Why, didn't the custodian point out to us, in the picture of an ancient plan of the chapel, the actual spot where their bodies lay? What could we ask more than that? But if we go to Scotland next year, we shall doubtless believe just as firmly that Arthur rests there, in spite of the record at Glastonbury, in spite even of Tennyson:
"... the island valley of Avilon;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies