I will first lead you to the seven sources of the Thames, which arises two or three miles from Cheltenham. I set out on this excursion in ‘a Fly’ (a kind of small landau, drawn by one horse), on the top of which I sat, that I might enjoy the beautiful prospect from the highest station.
After a long ascent, you come to some solitary grassy hills; on the top of these, under the shade of two or three alders, is a little group of plashy springs, which trickle away, forming, as far as the eye can follow them, an insignificant brook. Such is the modest infancy of the proud Thames. I felt a tide of poetry come over my mind, as I thought, how, but a few hours ago, and but a few miles hence, I had seen these same waters covered with a thousand vessels; how this glorious stream, in its short course, bears on its bosom more ships, more treasures, and more human beings, than any of its colossal brethren; how the capital of the world lies on its banks, and by her omnipotent commerce may be almost said to rule the four quarters of the globe. With reverential admiration I looked down on the gushing drops, and compared them, one while with Napoleon, who, obscurely born in Ajaccio, in a few years made all the thrones of the earth tremble;—then with the avalanche, which, loosened from its bed under the foot of a sparrow, in five minutes buries a village;—then with Rothschild, whose father sold ribands, and without whose assistance no power in Europe is now able to carry on war.
My driver, who was at the same time an accredited Cheltenham cicerone, took me from this spot to a high hill called Lackington Hill, from which there is a celebrated view, with the appendage of a pleasant inn for the accommodation of visitors. Hidden under a bower of roses[93] my eye commanded an extent of seventy English miles;—a rich plain studded with towns and villages, among which the cathedral of Gloucester is the most striking and stately object. Behind it rose two ridges, the Malvern Hills and above them the Welsh mountains. Beautiful as was all around me, the distant blue mountains, bathed in air, awoke in me only an intense longing after home. How gladly should I have flown to your side with the aid of Fortunatus’s cap!
Up to this time black clouds had chased each other across the heavens; just as I turned away from the prospect the sun provokingly broke forth: it lighted me through a beautiful beech-wood to the charming seat of Mr. Todd, who has built a smiling village in the midst of the leafy shade, consisting of straw-roofed cottages and pretty moss houses. In the centre of a green level turf stands a noble lime-tree, surrounded by three tiers of benches for as many generations. Not far distant, on the withered trunk of a tree, is a sun-dial, and on the edge of the hill overlooking the valley, a rural seat, sheltered by a little arched roof covered with heather, and its sides tastefully interwoven with roots. On holidays it is often covered with evergreens and flowers, and lighted at evening with gay lamps. In the neighbouring park, which has many distinguishing beauties, are the ruins of a Roman villa: they were accidentally discovered about eight years ago by the sudden sinking-in of a tree. Some baths are still in good preservation, as are also two tessellated floors; they are however of rather coarse workmanship, and bear no comparison with those discovered at Pompeii. The walls are in part covered with red and blue stucco, two inches thick, and the brick pipes for conveying heat are of a quality and durability now unequalled. About three quarters of a mile further on, the Roman road is distinctly to be traced, and a portion of it is indeed in actual use: it is to be distinguished from the English road chiefly by its running, like a north-German ‘Chaussée,’ in a perfectly straight line. It is to be hoped, however, that the taste of the Romans was too good to allow them to enclose their roads between two endless rows of Lombardy poplars, and thus inflict a twofold torture of monotony on the unfortunate traveller. How different from an English road, which winds around the hills in soft and graceful sweeps, avoiding deep valleys or reverend trees, instead of following the one inveterate idea of a straight line, at a sixfold cost, through thick and thin, over hill and valley.
On my return to Cheltenham, I passed through a large village, where I visited for the first time what is here called a tea-garden. The ingenuity with which a small space is made to contain a hundred little niches, benches, and picturesque, nay, often romantic seats, is quite extraordinary, and forms a curious contrast with the phlegm of the gaily dressed multitude who rather garnish than animate the scene.
As it was rather early when I reached the town, I took advantage of the beautiful evening to visit more of the mineral waters, and I found that in the morning I had stumbled on the least important. These establishments are extremely splendid, ornamented with marble decorations, and still more with flowers, green-houses and pretty plantations. As soon as a thing is the fashion in England it becomes the subject of enormous speculation. This is to such a degree the case here, that the value of an acre of land in the neighbourhood of the town has risen within fifteen years from forty to a thousand guineas. The gardens and grounds which are destined to be places of public resort and amusement, are here, and I think rightly, laid out in a totally different style from the gardens and parks of private gentlemen. Broad and shady walks, and distinct open spaces, are rather to be aimed at, than picturesque views, or a large and landscape-like whole. Their manner of planting shady walks pleases me. A strip of ground about five feet wide, on each side of the way, is dug and thickly planted with a mixture of various trees and shrubs. The most flourishing trees are afterwards left to grow, and the others are kept down by the shears as irregular underwood. Between this and the top of the high trees the prospect is as it were set in a beautiful frame; the whole is fuller and more luxuriant; and wherever the country is uninteresting, it may be shut out by merely suffering the underwood to grow.
Worcester, July 14th.
Yesterday, ‘entre la poire et le fromage,’ I received the twice-declined visit of the master of the ceremonies,—the gentleman who does the honour of the baths, and exercises a considerable authority over the company of an English watering-place, in virtue of which he welcomes strangers with most anti-English officiousness and pomposity, and manifests great care and zeal for their entertainment. An Englishman invested with such a character has mauvais jeu, and vividly recalls the ass in the fable, who tried to imitate the caresses of the lapdog. I could not get rid of my visitor till he had swallowed some bottles of claret with me, and devoured all the dessert the house afforded. At length he took his leave, first extorting from me a promise that I would honour the ball of the following evening with my presence. However, I had so little inclination for company and new acquaintances, that I made ‘faux bond,’ and left Cheltenham early in the morning.
The country continued most lovely, the near ground full of soft meadows and deep green clumps of trees; the horizon bounded by the mountains, which at every mile grew in magnitude and distinctness of outline. At almost every stage I passed a considerable town, which was never without its towering Gothic church. The situation of Tewksbury struck me as peculiarly delightful. Nothing can be more tranquil, more pastoral; and yet all these blooming plains were bloody battle-fields in the times of the countless civil wars of England, whence they retain the names, now so inappropriate, of Bloody Field, Field of Bones, &c.
Worcester, where I am now writing, the chief city of the county, has nothing remarkable except its magnificent cathedral; the windows contain but small remains of ancient painted glass: to these, new has been added, which is very little inferior either in softness or brilliancy to the old. In the middle of the nave King John is buried: his effigy in stone reposes on the tomb; the oldest monument of an English king which Great Britain contains. The tomb was opened some years ago, when the skeleton was found in good preservation, and in precisely the same dress as that represented in the statue: as soon as it came in contact with the air, the materials of which it was composed crumbled into dust; the sword was entirely consumed by rust, and only its handle remained.