Emerson said of the English people, “Every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable,” and that “It is almost an affront to look a man in the face without being introduced.” Holmes, on the contrary, records that he and his daughter were “received with nothing but the most overflowing hospitality and the most considerate kindness.” Lowell found the average Briton likely to regard himself as “the only real thing in a wilderness of shams,” and thought his patronage “divertingly insufferable.” On the other hand, he praised the genuineness of the better men of England, as “so manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than water.” Longfellow met at dinner on two successive days what he called “the two opposite poles of English character.” One of them was “taciturn, reserved, fastidious” and without “power of enjoyment”; the other was “expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laughing loud and long.” All of this suggests that in attempting to write one’s impressions of the English or any other people, one must remember, what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare with great emphasis—“some people are not all alike!”
I have but one impression to record, namely, that, almost without exception, the people whom we met, both in England and Scotland, manifested a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic work delightful and led to the accomplishment of results not otherwise obtainable. They not only showed an unexpected interest in our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obligation to assist. This was true even of the policeman at the gate of the Tower of London, who, according to his orders, deprived me of my camera before I could enter. But upon my protesting, he referred me to another guardian of the place, and he to another, until, continuing to pass “higher up,” I was at last photographing everything of interest, including the “Beef-Eater” who obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever difficulties arose, these helpful people always seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, a desire that I might have what I came for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should not be disappointed.
An incident which happened at the very outset of our photographic experiences in England, and one which was responsible in large measure for much of the success of that undertaking, will serve as an example of the genial and sympathetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere prevalent. We had started to discover and to photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s writings, and on the day of our arrival in London, my wife had found in the British Museum a particularly interesting portrait of George Henry Lewes. She learned that permission to copy it must be obtained from the Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the following morning I appeared in the great room of the Museum where thousands of rare prints are carefully preserved.
Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of this department, was not in, but a polite assistant made note of my name and message, making at the same time an appointment for the next day. At the precise hour named I was present again, revolving in my mind the briefest possible method of requesting permission to copy the Lewes picture. Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically repeating to myself the little formula or speech I intended to make, and wondering what luck I should have. The formula disappeared instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced with outstretched hand and genial smile, calling me by name and saying, “I have something I want to show you, if you would care to see it.” Considerably surprised, I saw him touch a button as he resumed,—“It’s a picture of George Eliot,—at least we think it is, but we are not sure,—we bought it from the executor of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist.” Here the attendant appeared and was instructed to get the portrait. It proved to be a large painting in water-colors of a woman’s face, with remarkably strong, almost masculine features and a pair of eyes that seemed to say, “If any woman in the world can do a man’s thinking, I’m that person.” A letter received subsequently, in answer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well as the painter, definitely established the fact that the newly discovered portrait was a “study” for the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more of the true womanliness of George Eliot’s character, for he certainly softened the expression of those determined-looking eyes.
After we had discussed the picture at some length, my new-found friend inquired about my plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as possible, the scenes of George Eliot’s novels and to photograph all the various places of interest. “Of course you’ll go to Nuneaton?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, in a tone of assurance; “I expect to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel Manor.” “I suppose, then, you are acquainted with Mr. Newdegate,” said he, inquiringly. I had to confess that I did not know the gentleman. Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise. “Why, you can’t get in if you don’t know him. Arbury is a private estate.” This remark struck me with stunning force. I had supposed I could go anywhere. The game was a new one to me, and here at the very beginning appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. Of course, I could not expect to walk into private houses and grounds to make photographs, and how was I to make the acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin seemed to read my thought and promptly solved the problem. “I happen to know Mr. Newdegate well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.—No, I’ll do better. I’ll write and tell him you’re coming.”
This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I was a complete stranger, was as welcome as it was unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did not forget. As I was about to leave, he asked if I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and added, “Of course, you will have permission to copy the Lewes picture”; and the interview ended with his promise to have the official photographer make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to report that the Lewes picture had been obtained without even asking for it, and the next morning received a message from the owner of Arbury Hall cordially inviting us to visit him.
Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, somewhere, that the full-length portraits of Sir Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging side by side in the great saloon of Cheverel Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I was, therefore, eager to find them.
We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, where we passed the night at the veritable tavern which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster’s conviviality. Readers of “Janet’s Repentance” will recall that the great “man of deeds” addressed the mob in the street from an upper window of the “Red Lion,” protesting against the “temptation to vice” involved in the proposition to hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He brought the meeting to a close by calling for “Three cheers for True Religion”; then retiring with a party of friends to the parlor of the inn, he caused “the most capacious punch-bowl” to be brought out and continued the festivities until after midnight, “when several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter.”
| THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL |
The old tavern, one of the few which still retain the old-fashioned arched doorways through which the coaches used to enter to change horses, boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal Shakespeare. My wife said she was sure this was true, for the house smelled as if it had not been swept since Shakespeare’s time.