The Complete Autobiographical Writings of Sir Walter Scott. Walter Scott
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Now they approach so much nearer the splendour of Thunder-ten-tronckh, as to have a door at least, if not windows. They are, in short, preserved and protected. So much for the novels. I observed decent children begging here, a thing uncommon in England: and I recollect the same unseemly practice formerly.
We went to Warwick Castle. The neighbourhood of Leamington, a watering-place of some celebrity, has obliged the family to decline showing the Castle after ten o’clock. I tried the virtue of an old acquaintance with Lord Warwick and wrote to him, he being in the Courthouse where the assizes were sitting. After some delay we were admitted, and I found my old friend Mrs. Hume, in the most perfect preservation, though, as she tells me, now eighty-eight. She went through her duty wonderfully, though now and then she complained of her memory. She has laid aside a mass of black plumes which she wore on her head, and which resembled the casque in the Castle of Otranto. Warwick Castle is still the noblest sight in England. Lord and Lady Warwick came home from the Court, and received us most kindly. We lunched with them, but declined further hospitality. When I was last here, and for many years before, the unfortunate circumstances of the late Lord W. threw an air of neglect about everything. I believe the fine collection of pictures would have been sold by distress, if Mrs. Hume, my friend, had not redeemed them at her own cost. I was pleased to see Lord Warwick show my old friend kindness and attention. We visited the monuments of the Nevilles and Beauchamps, names which make the heart thrill. The monuments are highly preserved. We concluded the day at Stratford-upon-Avon.
April 8. — We visited the tomb of the mighty wizard. It is in the bad taste of James the First’s reign; but what a magic does the locality possess! There are stately monuments of forgotten families; but when you have seen Shakspeare’s what care we for the rest. All around is Shakspeare’s exclusive property. I noticed the monument of his friend John a Combe immortalised as drawing forth a brief satirical notice of four lines.
After breakfast I asked after Mrs. Ormsby, the old mad woman who was for some time tenant of Shakspeare’s house, and conceived herself to be descended from the immortal poet. I learned she was dying. I thought to send her a sovereign; but this extension of our tour has left me no more than will carry me through my journey, and I do not like to run short upon the road. So I take credit for my good intention, and — keep my sovereign — a cheap and not unusual mode of giving charity.
Learning from Washington Irving’s description of Stratford that the hall of Sir Thomas Lucy, the justice who rendered Warwickshire too hot for Shakspeare, and drove him to London, was still extant, we went in quest of it.
Charlcote is in high preservation, and inhabited by Mr. Lucy, descendant of the worshipful Sir Thomas. The Hall is about three hundred years old, an old brick structure with a gatehouse in advance. It is surrounded by venerable oaks, realising the imagery which Shakspeare loved so well to dwell upon; rich verdant pastures extend on every side, and numerous herds of deer were reposing in the shade. All showed that the Lucy family had retained their “land and beeves.” While we were surveying the antlered old hall, with its painted glass and family pictures, Mr. Lucy came to welcome us in person, and to show the house, with the collection of paintings, which seems valuable, and to which he had made many valuable additions.
He told me the park from which Shakspeare stole the buck was not that which surrounds Charlcote, but belonged to a mansion at some distance where Sir Thomas Lucy resided at the time of the trespass. The tradition went that they hid the buck in a barn, part of which was standing a few years ago, but now totally decayed. This park no longer belongs to the Lucys. The house bears no marks of decay, but seems the abode of ease and opulence. There were some fine old books, and I was told of many more which were not in order. How odd if a folio Shakspeare should be found amongst them! Our early breakfast did not prevent my taking advantage of an excellent repast offered by the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Lucy, the last a lively Welshwoman. This visit gave me great pleasure; it really brought Justice Shallow freshly before my eyes; the luces in his arms “which do become an old coat well” were not more plainly portrayed in his own armorials in the hall-window than was his person in my mind’s eye. There is a picture shown as that of the old Sir Thomas, but Mr. Lucy conjectures it represents his son. There were three descents of the same name of Thomas. The party hath “the eye severe, and beard of formal cut,” which fills up with judicial austerity the otherwise social physiognomy of the worshipful presence, with his “fair round belly with fat capon lined.”
We resumed our journey. I may mention among the pictures at Charlcote one called a Roman Knight, which seemed to me very fine; Teniers’ marriage, in which, contrary to the painter’s wont, only persons of distinction are represented, but much in the attitude in which he delights to present his boors; two hawking pieces by Wouvermans, very fine specimens, cum aliis.
We took our way by Edgehill, and looked over the splendid richness of the fine prospect from a sort of gazeeboo or modern antique tower, the place of a Mr. Miller. It is not easy to conceive a richer and more peaceful scene than that which stretched before us, and [one with which] strife, or the memory of strife, seems to have nothing to do.
“But man records his own disgrace,
And Edgehill lives in history.”
We got on to Buckingham, an ugly though I suppose an ancient town. Thence to Aylesbury through the wealth of England, in the scene of the old ballad —
“Neither drunk nor sober, but neighbour to both,
I met with a man in Aylesbury vale;
I saw by his face that he was in good case,
To speak no great harm of a pot of good ale.”
We slept at Aylesbury. The landlord, who seemed sensible, told me that the land round the town, being the richest in England, lets at £3, or £3, 10s. and some so high as £4 per acre. But the poor-rates are 13s. to the pound. Now, my Whitehaugh at Huntly Burn yielded at last set £4 per acre.
April 9, [London], — We got to town about mid-day, and found Sophia, Lockhart, and the babies quite well — delighted with their companion Charles, and he enchanted with his occupation in the Foreign Office. I looked into my cash and found £53 had diminished on the journey down to about £3. In former days a journey to London cost about £30 or thirty guineas. It may now cost onefourth more. But I own I like to pay postilions and waiters rather more liberally than perhaps is right. I hate grumbling and sour faces; and the whole saving will not exceed a guinea or two for being cursed and damned from Dan to Beersheba. We had a joyful meeting, I promise you.
April 10. — I spent the morning in bringing up my journal; interrupted by two of these most sedulous visitants who had objects of their own to serve, and smelled out my arrival as the raven scents carrion — a vile comparison, though what better is an old fellow, mauled with rheumatism and other deplorables? Went out at two and saw Miss Dumergue and other old friends; Sotheby in particular, less changed than any one I have seen. Looked in at Murray’s and renewed old habits. This great city seems almost a waste to me, so many of my friends are gone; Walter and Jane coming up, the whole family dined together, and were very happy. The children joined in our festivity. My name-son, a bright and blue-eyed rogue, with flaxen hair, screams and laughs like an April morning; and the baby is that species of dough which is called a fine baby. I care not for children till they care a little for me.
April 11. — Made calls, walked myself tired; saw Rogers, Sharp, Sotheby, and other old friends.
April 12. — Dinner at home; a little party of Sophia’s in the evening. Sharp told me that one evening being at Sheridan’s house with a large party, Tom S. came to him as the night drew late, and said in a whisper, “I advise you to secure a wax-light to go to bed with,” shewing him at the same time a morsel which he had stolen from a sconce. Sharp followed his advice, and had reason to be thankful for the hint. Tired and sleepy, I make a bad night watcher.
April 13. — Amused myself by converting the Tale of the Mysterious Mirror into Aunt Margaret’s Mirror, designed for Heath’s what-dye-call-it. Cadell will not like this, but I cannot afford to have my goods thrown back upon my hands. The tale is a good one, and is said actually to have happened