One of the bells at our Christ Church bears this inscription: "Abel Rudhall of Gloucester cast us all, Anno. 1744." As Abraham would have been about forty-two years old at the time, perhaps he was the son of this Abel.
The organ in the cathedral is one of great power and brilliancy of tone. It was built by the celebrated Renatus Harris of London, who built many of the large organs of England.
Reluctantly we left these beautiful grounds, and entertaining a regret unusually deep. The walks are kept scrupulously clean, and the flowers in the vicinity of the student's precincts were charming. As we sauntered about we could not but think of the great who have here held court. Beneath the shadow of these very walls walked Edward the Confessor, and many a Norman lord. In the old abbey Henry III. was crowned three hundred years ago; and who can walk and meditate here and not think of Richard III., Duke of Gloucester? We cannot refrain from quoting the quaint description given of him by Sir Thomas More:—
Richarde, the thirde sonne of Richard, Duke of Yorke, was in witte and corage equal with his two brothers, in bodye and prowesse far under them both, little of stature, ill fetured of limmes, croke backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right, hard favored of visage, and such as in stater called warlye, in other menne otherwise, he was malicious, wrathful, envious and from his birth ever frowarde. It is for truth reported that he came into the world with the feet forwarde, and also ontothed, as if nature changed her course in hys beginnynge, which in the course of his lyfe manny thinges unnaturallye committed.
Just outside the cathedral grounds, in a little park, stands a monument to the memory of John Hooper, who, in the reign of Queen Mary, was one of the first to suffer martyrdom, and was on this spot burned at the stake Feb. 9, 1555. Over three hundred years are gone since the smoke of the martyr arose from this spot. How changed the scene! Over the vast domain, none now for conscience sake have power to destroy.
As reluctantly as can be imagined, we turned away. Very dear to us already had become old Gloucester. With an indescribable feeling we left the hallowed spot, and at 11 a. m., on Wednesday, May 8, took cars for Bristol. Our people do not think enough of the Mother Country. They hurry breathlessly and thoughtlessly, with but confused perceptions, to yet more foreign lands; they do not rest by the way in these fine old towns, drink in the inspiration which pervades their very atmosphere, and so make themselves ever after able better to interpret history. Another has well expressed it: "To him who is of a mind rightly framed, the world is a thousand times more populous than to the men to whom everything that is not flesh and blood is nothing."
BRISTOL.
Arrived at 2 o'clock p. m., after a ride of three hours from Gloucester. First impressions of the place were much like those one experiences at our American Pittsburg, for smoke prevailed, and the dingy appearance of the buildings confirmed the belief, that this condition of the atmosphere was not exceptional. The city is a seaport, situated on both sides of the rivers Avon and Frome, at their confluence, and eight miles from their entrance into the Severn, which is the head of Bristol Channel. The population is 182,524, and the city presents a bustling, hurried appearance. It is provided with docks built in the time of George III., at a cost of $30,000,000, and in commercial influence was long the second city in the kingdom. There are five substantial bridges connecting the several portions of the city. Tides rise very high,—those denominated spring tides forty-eight feet, and the neap ones twenty-three feet, compelling the use of a floating landing.
Our luggage left at the station, in anticipation of but a short stay, we walked out in quest of the cathedral, and soon, as we fancied, saw it in the distance. We entered, admiring much about it, yet disappointed in its general appearance, for it looked old but not cathedralish. It didn't seem to have the genuine antique atmosphere. There were old monuments, but not old enough. The color was dark-reddish brown, very sombre, and in places the building was decayed.
At the risk of showing our ignorance we asked the female verger—for it was a woman this time—if this was the cathedral. Lo, our good judgment had prevailed, and we were informed that it was St. Mary Radcliff Church. We were glad of the mistake, for here the celebrated Joseph Butler—author of the renowned "Analogy," who was made Bishop of Bristol in 1738, and died at Bath, June 16, 1752—was buried. Before us was a monument to his memory, the inscription written by the poet Southey. There were other monuments of considerable antiquity, which in number and interest greatly excelled those of the real cathedral. Of most interest to the visitor is the fact that in one part of this structure the wonderful young Thomas Chatterton—who died in this city August 24, 1770, at the age of eighteen—wrote his astonishing literary forgeries.