Adieu to Kenilworth, and on to Warwick, which is of itself a village of considerable size. Warwick Castle is the finest baronial residence in all England. The approach to it is charming. We passed under the arched and massive gateways into a winding avenue cut out of solid, unbroken rock, and on which the castle itself is built; each side the rocks tower far above our heads and are covered with ivy and other vines, and oh so cool and beautiful it looks; so refreshing to us. All at once, and at an unexpected turn, the magnificent castle is in sight. The lawn in front of it, with its rare plants and parterres of gorgeous blossoms, the sparkling fountains, and the many peacocks strutting about on the velvet sward, with their gay plumage spread to its utmost extent, as if for our especial admiration, almost dazzled us. We paused to take in the scene before us, exhausting our vocabulary of adjectives in expressions of delight. Every feature of the aspect was bright, winning, and delightful. Some aristocratic terriers were grouped under the shade of a white lilac, as if holding council. Dignified swans were lazily swimming in the lake, and the red and gold uniformed Guards seemed perfectly satisfied to spend the rest of their lives in slowly pacing up and down the gravelled walks. The castle is in complete preservation, and its long list of halls, libraries, and drawing-rooms are filled with rare objects of beauty and interest, of great value. The guide who showed us through the rooms carried himself in a most stately manner: his backbone was surely made of iron, and ran up to the top of his head to hold on his bushy wig, for he could not bend his body or turn his neck. Not hearing one of his explanations in regard to a mosaic table, formerly owned by Queen Elizabeth, I asked him what he said. This ‘Grand Mogul’ slowly whirled his entire breadth toward me, and articulated in a monotone these words, ‘The explanation I have once rendered.’ I said, ‘I am sorry I did not comprehend it, but, as you are here for the purpose of explaining, will you please tell me the story of the table again.’ F. was dazed, but the man changed his superior attitude, and from that on through the entire castle he gave me his devoted attention. In one of the halls is a wonderful table, entirely formed of precious stones, which once belonged to the ill-fated Queen Marie Antoinette. Statues and original busts of many old warriors and kings are here. There is a red, a gilt, and a cedar drawing-room, all filled with really magnificent paintings. I took great interest in studying the portraits of Queen Elizabeth, the Earl of Leicester, and others who participated in the gay life led near this spot.
In the grounds are Guy’s and Cæsar’s Towers, and in one of the greenhouses we saw the celebrated Warwick Vase, which was found in the bottom of a lake in Rome, as long ago as 1770, I think. The Earl and family live here a part of the year, but are now in London. This estate must bring the Earl quite a revenue, as from fifty to one hundred persons visit it every day, and each one leaves a shilling or more.
Near the castle gate is the house where Walter Savage Landor was born, and this whole Warwickshire is rich in the genius it has given to the world. Green and Drayton opened their eyes on its illustrious soil, and George Eliot, whose talent has enriched this age, here first saw light. How can one feel like a common mortal, or lead an everyday life in a country like this, so hallowed with historic and artistic associations.
‘Step out of the past now into the present,’ said F., ‘and I will tell you a story of Queen Elizabeth and Queen Mary. Did I ever tell it to you?’
‘I do not recollect any such story that you ever told. Was it a good one?’
‘O yes!’
‘Then you never told it.’ I did not get the story.
Not far from the castle is a cathedral of considerable pretensions, after visiting which, we were driven back to Leamington, having spent a most delightful day. Finding that an express train would get us to London to-night, we paid our bills, took our bags, bade good-by to the pretty Spa and our pleasant landlady, and were soon off.
Edwards Hotel, George St., Hanover Sq.,
London, June 20.
Our rooms we had telegraphed for, so upon reaching the city we had nothing to do but enter a cab and be driven to them. We have homelike accommodations, and our meals served in our own private parlor. Everything in the house is so quiet that I did not know but we had made a mistake and got into a retreat for the deaf and dumb. F. thinks it fine, but I must say that when I am at a hotel I like the bustle and excitement of one.
The ‘office’ is a small room, presided over by two pretty young ladies, who I imagine look upon us as intruders, but I talk at them so much, they are obliged to speak occasionally, although it seems an effort. They drop their h’s, and I am sometimes puzzled to understand the little information they condescend to give us.
‘Boots,’ too, is equally taciturn so far: I think we shall have to be more liberal with our English shillings!
We hire our rooms here at a fair price, and make extra arrangements for our meals. For breakfast, F. desired boiled eggs, and I chose fried. Upon asking why my bill was more than hers, I was told that it was more work to fry eggs than to boil them, and that is so. I look in vain for ice-water: there is surely none around. I ask for some; and after waiting long enough for water to freeze, am served with a pitcher of water and a few small bits of ice in a glass. The Yankee ice-pitcher, kept well filled, is an article unknown here.
Out into the streets of London! What a crowd, what a bustle! What fine-looking gentlemen, every one with a button-hole bouquet! The streets crowded with handsome turnouts dashing quickly along; why, we cannot cross the streets without assistance. Boston is a quiet village compared to this. Groups of ladies, and rosy-cheeked girls laughing and chatting, all wearing flowers; even the horses and carriages are trimmed with them. Lines of hansoms, with generally a lady in each. Little children, with overpowering big hats and bonnets, trotting along with their nurses. Showily uniformed Guards as thick as flies at a summer hotel—and this is London to-day.
Here is St. George’s Church, where so many of the aristocracy have taken each other for better or for worse. And here in Hanover square is a fine bronze statue of William Pitt. It looks to me like extraordinary good work, but F. calls, ‘Come, you cannot spend much time cogitating over any one man in this big place, dead or alive. If you want to soliloquize over statues, come to St. Paul.’ And to St. Paul’s we went. There are but two churches in the world larger than this: St. Peter’s at Rome and the Cathedral at Milan. As I tried to realize its immense proportions before entering, I thought of the Yorkshire-man who brought his better half to see the sights of London. ‘There, lass,’ said he, ‘there be Paul’s Church. Ecod, he be a soizable one, he be.’ And we agreed with him long before we finished seeing the interior and its contents. There are many, many monuments, and some exceedingly costly and beautiful, but it is utterly impossible to comprehend so much at once. Some of the sculptures of the church, telling the touching story of the incarnation and life of our Saviour, were sadly beautiful, especially the figure of Mary with the child in her arms, and the ideal figure of the ‘Risen Christ.’ The ornamentations of the church are greatly in gilt and marble, but the most of the latter material looked as if it needed ‘scrubbing.’ The huge organ, which seemed