Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands V2 by Harriet Beecher Stowe

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Skip Doughty, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed

SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS.

BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE,
Author of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Etc.

..... "When thou haply seest
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travels,
Make me partake of thy happiness."
SHAKESPEARE

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

LETTER XIX.
Breakfast.--Macaulay.--Hallam.--Milman.--Sir R. Inglis.--
Lunch at Surrey Parsonage.--Dinner at Sir E. Buxton's.

LETTER XX.
Dinner at Lord Shaftesbury's.

LETTER XXI.
Stoke Newington.--Exeter Hall.--Antislavery Meeting.

LETTER XXII.
Windsor.--The Picture Gallery.--Eton.--The Poet Gray.

LETTER XXIII. Rev. Mr. Gurney.--Richmond, the Artist.--Kossuth.--
Pembroke Lodge.--Dinner at Lord John Russell's.--Lambeth Palace.

LETTER XXIV.
Playford Hall.--Clarkson.

LETTER XXV.
Joseph Sturge.--The "Times" upon Dressmaking.--Duke of Argyle.--
Sir David Brewster.--Lord Mahon.--Mr. Gladstone.

LETTER XXVI.
London Milliners.--Lord Shaftesbury.

LETTER XXVII. Archbishop of Canterbury's Sermon to the Ragged
Scholars.--Mr. Cobden.--Miss Greenfield's Concert.--Rev. S. R. Ward.
--Lady Byron.--Mrs. Jameson.--George Thompson.--Ellen Crafts.

LETTER XXVIII.
Model Lodging Houses.--Lodging House Act.--Washing Houses.

LETTER XXIX. Benevolent Movements.--The Poor Laws.--The Insane.--
Factory Operatives.--Schools, &c.

LETTER XXX. Presentation at Surrey Chapel.--House of Parliament.--
Miss Greenfield's Second Concert.--Sir John Malcolm.--The Charity
Children.--Mrs. Gaskell.--Thackeray.

JOURNAL.
London to Paris.--Church Music.--The Shops.--The Louvre.--Music at
the Tuileries.--A Salon.--Versailles.--M. Belloc.

LETTER XXXI.
The Louvre.--The Venus de Milon.

JOURNAL.
M. Belloc's Studio.--M. Charpentier.--Salon Musicale.--Peter
Parley.--Jardin Mabille.--Remains of Nineveh.--The Emperor.--
Versailles.--Sartory.--Pere la Chaise.--Adolphe Monod.--Paris to
Lyons.--Diligence to Geneva.--Mont Blanc.--Lake Leman.

LETTER XXXII.
Route to Chamouni.--Glaciers.

LETTER XXXIII.
Chamouni.--Rousse, the Mule.--The Ascent.

JOURNAL.
The Alps.

LETTER XXXIV.
The Ice Fields.

JOURNAL.
Chamouni to Martigny.--Humors of the Mules.

LETTER XXXV.
Alpine Flowers.--Pass of the Tete Noir.

JOURNAL.
The Same.

LETTER XXXVI.
Ascent to St. Bernard.--The Dogs.

LETTER XXXVII.
Castle Chillon.--Bonnevard.--Mont Blanc from Geneva.--Luther and
Calvin.--Madame De Wette.--M. Fazy.

JOURNAL.
A Serenade.--Lausanne.--Freyburg.--Berne.--The Staubbach.--
Grindelwald.

LETTER XXXVIII.
Wengern Alps.--Flowers.--Glaciers.--The Eiger.

JOURNAL.
Glaciers.--Interlachen.--Sunrise in the Mountains.--Monument to the
Swiss Guards of Louis XVI.--Basle.--Strasbourg.

LETTER XXXIX.
Strasbourg.

LETTER XL.
The Rhine.--Heidelberg.

JOURNAL.
To Frankfort.

LETTER XLI.
Frankfort.--Lessing's "Trial of Huss."

JOURNAL.
To Cologne.--The Cathedral.

LETTER XXII.
Cologne.--Church of St. Ursula.--Relics.--Dusseldorf.

JOURNAL.
To Leipsic.--M. Tauchnitz.--Dresden.--The Gallery.--Berlin.

LETTER XLIII.
The Dresden Gallery.--Schoeffer.

LETTER XLIV.
Berlin.--The Palace.--The Museum.

LETTER XLV.
Wittenberg.--Luther's House.--Melanchthon's House.

LETTER XLVI.
Erfurt.--The Cathedral.--Luther's Cell.--The Wartburg.

JOURNAL.
The Smoker discomfited.--Antwerp.--The Cathedral Chimes.--To Paris.

LETTER XLVII.
Antwerp.--Rubens.

LETTER XLVIII.

Paris.--School of Design.--Egyptian and Assyrian Remains.--Mrs. S. C.
Hall.--The Pantheon.--The Madeleine.--Notre Dame.--Beranger.--French
Character.--Observance of Sunday.

JOURNAL.
Seasickness on the Channel.

LETTER XLIX.

York.--Castle Howard.--Leeds.--Fountains Abbey.--Liverpool.--Irish
Deputation.--Departure.

LETTER XIX.

May 19.

Dear E.:--

This letter I consecrate to you, because I know that the persons and
things to be introduced into it will most particularly be appreciated
by you.

In your evening reading circles, Macaulay, Sidney Smith, and Milman
have long been such familiar names that you will be glad to go with me
over all the scenes of my morning breakfast at Sir Charles Trevelyan's
yesterday. Lady Trevelyan, I believe I have said before, is the sister
of Macaulay, and a daughter of Zachary Macaulay--that undaunted
laborer for the slave, whose place in the hearts of all English
Christians is little below saintship.

We were set down at Welbourne Terrace, somewhere, I believe, about
eleven o'clock, and found quite a number already in the drawing room.
I had met Macaulay before, but as you have not, you will of course ask
a lady's first question, "How does he look?"

Well, my dear, so far as relates to the mere outward husk of the soul,
our engravers and daguerreotypists have done their work as well as
they usually do. The engraving that you get in the best editions of
his works may be considered, I suppose, a fair representation of how
he looks, when he sits to have his picture taken, which is generally
very different from the way any body looks at any other time. People
seem to forget, in taking likenesses, that the features of the face
are nothing but an alphabet, and that a dry, dead map of a person's
face gives no more idea how one looks than the simple presentation of
an alphabet shows what there is in a poem.

Macaulay's whole physique gives you the impression of great strength
and stamina of constitution. He has the kind of frame which we usually
imagine as peculiarly English; short, stout, and firmly knit. There is
something hearty in all his demonstrations. He speaks in that full,
round, rolling voice, deep from the chest, which we also conceive of
as being more common in England than America. As to his conversation,
it is just like his writing; that is to say, it shows very strongly
the same qualities of mind.

I was informed that he is famous for a most uncommon memory; one of
those men to whom it seems impossible to forget any thing once read;
and he has read all sorts of things that can be thought of, in all
languages. A gentleman told me that he could repeat all the old
Newgate literature, hanging ballads, last speeches, and dying
confessions; while his knowledge of Milton is so accurate, that, if
his poems were blotted out of existence, they might be restored simply
from his memory. This same accurate knowledge extends to the Latin and
Greek classics, and to much of the literature of modern Europe. Had
nature been required to make a man to order, for a perfect historian,
nothing better could have been put together, especially since there is
enough of the poetic fire included in the composition, to fuse all
these multiplied materials together, and color the historical
crystallization with them.

Macaulay is about fifty. He has never married; yet there are
unmistakable evidences in the breathings and aspects of the family
circle by whom he was surrounded, that the social part is not wanting
in his conformation. Some very charming young lady relatives seemed to
think quite as much of their gifted uncle as you might have done had
he been yours.

Macaulay is celebrated as a conversationalist; and, like Coleridge,
Carlyle, and almost every one who enjoys this reputation, he has
sometimes been accused of not allowing people their fair share in
conversation. This might prove an objection, possibly, to those who
wish to talk; but as I greatly prefer to hear, it would prove none to
me. I must say, however, that on this occasion the matter was quite
equitably managed. There were, I should think, some twenty or thirty
at the breakfast table, and the conversation formed itself into little
eddies of two or three around the table, now and then welling out into
a great bay of general discourse. I was seated between Macaulay and
Milman, and must confess I was a little embarrassed at times, because
I wanted to hear what they were both saying at the same time. However,
by the use of the faculty by which you play a piano with both hands, I
got on very comfortably.

Milman's appearance is quite striking; tall, stooping, with a keen
black eye and perfectly white hair--a singular and poetic contrast. He
began upon architecture and Westminster Abbey--a subject to which I am
always awake. I told him I had not yet seen Westminster; for I was now
busy in seeing life and the present, and by and by I meant to go there
and see death and the past.

Milman was for many years dean of Westminster, and kindly offered me
his services, to indoctrinate me into its antiquities.

Macaulay made some suggestive remarks on cathedrals generally. I said
that I thought it singular that we so seldom knew who were the
architects that designed these great buildings; that they appeared to
me the most sublime efforts of human genius.

He said that all the cathedrals of Europe were undoubtedly the result
of one or two minds; that they rose into existence very nearly
contemporaneously, and were built by travelling companies of masons,
under the direction of some systematic organization. Perhaps you knew
all this before, but I did not; and so it struck me as a glorious
idea. And if it is not the true account of the origin of cathedrals,
it certainly ought to be; and, as our old grandmother used to say,
"I'm going to believe it."

Looking around the table, and seeing how every body seemed to be
enjoying themselves, I said to Macaulay, that these breakfast parties
were a novelty to me; that we never had them in America, but that I
thought them the most delightful form of social life.

He seized upon the idea, as he often does, and turned it playfully
inside out, and shook it on all sides, just as one might play with the
lustres of a chandelier--to see them glitter. He expatiated on the
merits of breakfast parties as compared with all other parties. He
said dinner parties are mere formalities. You invite a man to dinner
because you _must_ invite him; because you are acquainted with
his grandfather, or it is proper you should; but you invite a man to
breakfast because you want to see _him_. You may be sure, if you
are invited to breakfast, there is something agreeable about you. This
idea struck me as very sensible; and we all, generally having the fact
before our eyes that _we_ were invited to breakfast, approved the
sentiment.

"Yes," said Macaulay, "depend upon it; if a man is a bore he never
gets an invitation to breakfast."

"Rather hard on the poor bores," said a lady.

"Particularly," said Macaulay, laughing, "as bores are usually the
most irreproachable of human beings. Did you ever hear a bore
complained of when they did not say that he was the best fellow in the
world? For my part, if I wanted to get a guardian for a family of
defenceless orphans, I should inquire for the greatest bore in the
vicinity. I should know that he would be a man of unblemished honor
and integrity."

The conversation now went on to Milton and Shakspeare. Macaulay made
one remark that gentlemen are always making, and that is, that there
is very little characteristic difference between Shakspeare's women.
Well, there is no hope for that matter; so long as men are not women
they will think so. In general they lump together Miranda, Juliet,
Desdemona, and Viola,

"As matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguished as black, brown, or fair."

It took Mrs. Jameson to set this matter forth in her Characteristics
of Women; a book for which Shakspeare, if he could get up, ought to
make her his best bow, especially as there are fine things ascribed to
him there, which, I dare say, he never thought of, careless fellow
that he was! But, I take it, every true painter, poet, and artist is
in some sense so far a prophet that his utterances convey more to
other minds than he himself knows; so that, doubtless, should all the
old masters rise from the dead, they might be edified by what
posterity has found in their works.

Some how or other, we found ourselves next talking about Sidney Smith;
and it was very pleasant to me, recalling the evenings when your
father has read and we have laughed over him, to hear him spoken of as
a living existence, by one who had known him. Still, I have always had
a quarrel with Sidney, for the wicked use to which he put his wit, in
abusing good old Dr. Carey, and the missionaries in India; nay, in
some places he even stooped to be spiteful and vulgar. I could not
help, therefore, saying, when Macaulay observed that he had the most
agreeable wit of any literary man of his acquaintance, "Well, it was
very agreeable, but it could not have been very agreeable to the
people who came under the edge of it," and instanced his treatment of
Dr. Carey. Some others who were present seemed to feel warmly on this
subject, too, and Macaulay said,--

"Ah, well, Sidney repented of that, afterwards." He seemed to cling to
his memory, and to turn from every fault to his joviality, as a thing
he could not enough delight to remember.

Truly, wit, like charity, covers a multitude of sins. A man who has
the faculty of raising a laugh in this sad, earnest world is
remembered with indulgence and complacency, always.

There were several other persons of note present at this breakfast,
whose conversation I had not an opportunity of hearing, as they sat at
a distance from me. There was Lord Glenelg, brother of Sir Robert
Grant, governor of Bombay, whose beautiful hymns have rendered him
familiar in America. The favorite one, commencing "When gathering
clouds around I view," was from his pen. Lord Glenelg, formerly Sir
Charles Grant, himself has been the author of several pieces of
poetry, which were in their time quite popular.

The historian Hallam was also present, whose Constitutional History,
you will remember, gave rise to one of Macaulay's finest reviews; a
quiet, retiring man, with a benignant, somewhat sad, expression of
countenance. The loss of an only son has cast a shadow over his life.
It was on this son that Tennyson wrote his "_In Memoriam_."

Sir Robert H. Inglis was also present, and Mr. S. held considerable
conversation with him. Knowing that he was both high tory and high
church, it was an agreeable surprise to find him particularly gentle
and bland in manners, earnest and devout in religious sentiment. I
have heard him spoken of, even among dissenters, as a devout and
earnest man. Another proof this of what mistakes we fall into when we
judge the characters of persons at a distance, from what we suppose
likely to be the effect of their sentiments. We often find the
professed aristocrat gentle and condescending, and the professed
supporter of forms spiritual.

I think it very likely there may have been other celebrities present,
whom I did not know. I am always finding out, a day or two after, that
I have been with somebody very remarkable, and did not know it at the
time.

After breakfast we found, on consulting our list, that we were to
lunch at Surrey parsonage.

Of all the cities I was ever in, London is the most absolutely
unmanageable, it takes so long to get any where; wherever you want to
go it seems to take you about two hours to get there. From the West
End down into the city is a distance that seems all but interminable.
London is now more than ten miles long. And yet this monster city is
stretching in all directions yearly, and where will be the end of it
nobody knows. Southey says, "I began to study the map of London,
though dismayed at its prodigious extent. The river is no assistance
to a stranger in finding his way; there is no street along its banks,
and no eminence from whence you can look around and take your
bearings."

You may take these reflections as passing through my mind while we
were driving through street after street, and going round corner after
corner, towards the parsonage.

Surrey Chapel and parsonage were the church and residence of the
celebrated Kowland Hill. At present the incumbent is the Rev. Mr.
Sherman, well known to many of our American clergy by the kind
hospitalities and attentions with which he has enriched their stay in
London. The church maintains a medium rank between Congregationalism
and Episcopacy, retaining part of the ritual, but being independent in
its government. The kindness of Mr. Sherman had assembled here a very
agreeable company, among whom were Farquhar Tupper, the artist
Cruikshank, from whom I received a call the other morning, and Mr.
Pilatte, M. P. Cruikshank is an old man with gray hair and eyebrows,
strongly marked features, and keen eyes. He talked to me something
about the promotion of temperance by a series of literary sketches
illustrated by his pencil.

I sat by a lady who was well acquainted with Kingsley, the author of
Alton Locke, Hypatia, and other works, with whom I had some
conversation with regard to the influence of his writings.

She said that he had been instrumental in rescuing from infidelity
many young men whose minds had become unsettled; that he was a devoted
and laborious clergyman, exerting himself, without any cessation, for
the good of his parish.

After the company were gone I tried to get some rest, as my labors
were not yet over, we being engaged to dine at Sir Edward Buxton's.
This was our most dissipated day in London. We never tried the
experiment again of going to three parties in one day.

By the time I got to my third appointment I was entirely exhausted. I
met here some, however, whom I was exceedingly interested to see;
among them Samuel Gurney, brother of Elizabeth Fry, with his wife and
family. Lady Edward Buxton is one of his daughters. All had that air
of benevolent friendliness which is characteristic of the sect.

Dr. Lushington, the companion and venerable associate of Wilberforce
and Clarkson, was also present. He was a member of Parliament with
Wilberforce forty or fifty years ago. He is now a judge of the
admiralty court, that is to say, of the law relating to marine
affairs. This is a branch of law which the nature of our government in
America makes it impossible for us to have. He is exceedingly
brilliant and animated in conversation.

Dr. Cunningham, the author of World without Souls, was present. There
was there also a master of Harrow School.

He told me an anecdote, which pleased me for several reasons; that
once, when the queen visited the school, she put to him the inquiry,
"whether the educational system of England did not give a
disproportionate attention to the study of the ancient classics." His
reply was, "that her majesty could best satisfy her mind on that point
by observing what men the public schools of England had hitherto
produced;" certainly a very adroit reply, yet one which would be
equally good against the suggestion of any improvement whatever. We
might as well say, see what men we have been able to raise in America
without any classical education at all; witness Benjamin Franklin,
George Washington, and Roger Sherman.

It is a curious fact that Christian nations, with one general consent,
in the early education of youth neglect the volume which they consider
inspired, and bring the mind, at the most susceptible period, under
the dominion of the literature and mythology of the heathen world; and
that, too, when the sacred history and poetry are confessedly superior
in literary quality. Grave doctors of divinity expend their forces in
commenting on and teaching things which would be utterly scouted, were
an author to publish them in English as original compositions. A
Christian community has its young men educated in Ovid and Anacreon,
but is shocked when one of them comes out in English with Don Juan;
yet, probably, the latter poem is purer than either.

The English literature and poetry of the time of Pope and Dryden
betray a state of association so completely heathenized, that an old
Greek or Roman raised from the dead could scarce learn from them that
any change had taken place in the religion of the world; and even
Milton often pains one by introducing second-hand pagan mythology into
the very shadow of the eternal throne. In some parts of the Paradise
Lost, the evident imitations of Homer are to me the poorest and most
painful passages.

The adoration of the ancient classics has lain like a dead weight on
all modern art and literature; because men, instead of using them
simply for excitement and inspiration, have congealed them into fixed,
imperative rules. As the classics have been used, I think, wonderful
as have been the minds educated under them, there would have been more
variety and originality without them.

With which long sermon on a short text, I will conclude my letter.

LETTER XX.

Thursday, May 12. My dear I.:--

Yesterday, what with my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I was, as the
fashionable saying is, "fairly knocked up." This expression, which I
find obtains universally here, corresponds to what we mean by being
"used up." They talk of Americanisms, and I have a little innocent
speculation now and then concerning Anglicisms. I certainly find
several here for which I can perceive no more precedent in the well of
"English undefiled," than for some of ours; for instance, this being
"knocked up," which is variously inflected, as, for example, in the
form of a participial adjective, as a "knocking up" affair; in the
form of a noun, as when they say "such a person has got quite a
knocking up," and so on.

The fact is, if we had ever had any experience in London life we
should not have made three engagements in one day. To my simple eye it
is quite amusing to see how they manage the social machine here.
People are under such a pressure of engagements, that they go about
with their lists in their pockets. If A wants to invite B to dinner,
out come their respective lists. A says he has only Tuesday and
Thursday open for this week. B looks down his list, and says that the
days are all closed. A looks along, and says that he has no day open
till next Wednesday week. B, however, is going to leave town Tuesday;
so that settles the matter as to dining; so they turn back again, and
try the breakfasting; for though you cannot dine in but one place a
day, yet, by means of the breakfast and the lunch, you can make three
social visits if you are strong enough.

Then there are evening parties, which begin at ten o'clock. The first
card of the kind that was sent me, which was worded, "At home at ten
o'clock," I, in my simplicity, took to be ten in the morning.

But here are people staying out night after night till two o'clock,
sitting up all night in Parliament, and seeming to thrive upon it.
There certainly is great apology for this in London, if it is always
as dark, drizzling, and smoky in the daytime as it has been since I
have been here. If I were one of the London people I would live by
gaslight as they do, for the streets and houses are altogether
pleasanter by gaslight than by daylight. But to ape these customs
under our clear, American skies, so contrary to our whole social
system, is simply ridiculous.

This morning I was exceedingly tired, and had a perfect longing to get
but of London into some green fields--to get somewhere where there was
nobody. So kind Mrs. B. had the carriage, and off we drove together.
By and by we found ourselves out in the country, and then I wanted to
get out and walk.

After a while a lady came along, riding a little donkey. These donkeys
have amused me so much since I have been here! At several places on
the outskirts of the city they have them standing, all girt up with
saddles covered with white cloth, for ladies to ride on. One gets out
of London by means of an omnibus to one of these places, and then, for
a few pence, can have a ride upon one of them into the country. Mrs.
B. walked by the side of the lady, and said to her something which I
did not hear, and she immediately alighted and asked me with great
kindness if I wanted to try the saddle; so I got upon the little
beast, which was about as large as a good-sized calf, and rode a few
paces to try him. It is a slow, but not unpleasant gait, and if the
creature were not so insignificantly small, as to make you feel much
as if you were riding upon a cat, it would be quite a pleasant affair.
After dismounting I crept through a hole in a hedge, and looked for
some flowers; and, in short, made the most that I could of my
interview with nature, till it came time to go home to dinner, for our
dinner hour at Mr. B.'s is between one and two; quite like home. In
the evening we were to dine at Lord Shaftesbury's.

After napping all the afternoon we went to Grosvenor Square. There was
only a small, select party, of about sixteen. Among the guests were
Dr. McAll, Hebrew professor in King's College, Lord Wriothesley
Russell, brother of Lord John, and one of the private chaplains of the
queen, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Dr. McAll is a millenarian.
He sat next to C. at table, and they had some conversation on that
subject. He said those ideas had made a good deal of progress in the
English mind.

While I was walking down to dinner with Lord Shaftesbury, he pointed
out to me in the hall the portrait of his distinguished ancestor,
Antony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, whose name he bears. This
ancestor, notwithstanding his sceptical philosophy, did some good
things, as he was the author of the habeas corpus act.

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