Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
Does that come back to you, from Arthur's speech to Bedévere? but he died of the "grievous wound" after all; and the custodian goes so far as to assert, solemnly, that when the coffins were opened in the days of Henry II. the bodies of the king and queen were "very beautiful to see, for a moment, untouched by time; but that in a second, as the people looked, their dust crumbled away, all except the splendid golden hair of Guinevere, which remained to tell of her glory, for many a long year, until it was stolen, and disappeared forever."
That is a good story, anyhow, and adds to the curious, almost magical enchantment of Glastonbury. Ellaline says that the very name of Glastonbury will after this ring in her ears like the sound of fairy bells, chiming over the lost lake that ringed the Isle of Avalon. You know, I dare say, that Glastonbury is supposed to have its derivation from British "Ynyswytryn," "Inis vitrea," the "Island of Glass," because the water surrounding it was blue and clear as crystal. So many golden apples grew in the island orchards, that it became also the Isle of Avalon, from "Avalla" an apple.
Even now, the queer conical, isolated hills of the neighbourhood are called islands, and it is easy to picture Glastonbury as an isle rising among lesser ones out of a bright, azure estuary stretching away and away to the Bristol Channel. The Saxon king, Edgar, whose royal castle has given the name to the town of Edgarly, must have had a fine view in his day. And now you have only to go up Tor Hill (a landmark for miles round, with its tower of St. Michael on top like the watch-dog of a dead king) to see Wells Cathedral to the north, the blue Mendips east and west, and cutting the range, a mysterious break, like a door, which means the wild pass of Cheddar; far in the west, a gleam of the Bristol Channel; south, the Polden Hills, the Dorset heights beyond, and the Quantocks overtopped by the peak of Dunkery Beacon. I think one would have to go far to see more of England in one sweep of the eye. Indeed, foreigners might come, make a hasty ascent of Tor Hill, and take the next boat back to their own country, telling their friends not untruthfully that they had "seen England."
At night, in the room of Henry VIII., I dreamed I saw Anne Boleyn, with Ellaline's face, which smiled at me, the lips saying: "I'll forgive you, if you'll forgive me." I hope that's a good omen?
We gave ourselves twenty-four hours in Glastonbury and the neighbourhood, running out to the prehistoric village at Godney Marsh, to see the excavations, and to Meare (by the by, the very causeway over which our motor spun was built of stones from the Abbey!) then on, toward evening, to Wells. There have been surprisingly blue evenings lately, to which Ellaline has drawn my attention; and her simile on the way to Wells, that we seemed to be driving through a pelting rain of violets, I thought rather pretty. What shall I do, I wonder, if I have to part with her—give her to some other man, perhaps? It hardly bears thinking of. And yet it may easily happen. It seems to me that every man who sees her must want her; and the feeling doesn't make for peace or comfort. I suppose I might be different, and less the brute, if I hadn't lived so long in the East, growing used to Eastern customs; but as it is, when I see some man's eyes light upon her face and rest there in surprised admiration, I want to snatch her up, wrap her in a veil, and run off with her in my arms. Beastly, isn't it? I have no such feeling, however, in connection with Mrs. Senter, although she is very striking, and excites a good deal of attention wherever we go.
I haven't seen Emily so happy since we have been motoring as she is at Wells, and it seems almost criminal to tear her away, though I fear I shall have to do so to-morrow. She says that, except at home, she has never felt such "an air of religious calm" as at Wells; and there's something in the feeling which I can understand, though I must admit I don't go about the world searching for religious calm.
Certainly one can't imagine a crime being committed at Wells, and a wicked thought would be rather wickeder here than elsewhere. Not that the Cathedral is to me alluringly beautiful (I believe it ranks high, and is even exalted as the "best secular church" to be found the world over, the west front being glorified as a masterpiece beyond all others in England); at first sight it vaguely disappointed me. I am no expert judge of architecture, and don't pretend to be; still, I dare to have my likes and dislikes; and it was not until I'd walked round the cathedral many times, stood and stared at it, and gone up heights to survey it from different points of view, that I began to warm toward it mightily. Now, I find it eminently noble, yet not so lovable as some which my memory cherishes, some not perhaps as architecturally or artistically perfect. But you know what individuality buildings have, especially those which are vast and dominating; and Wells is unique. As the common people say, it "wants knowing."