Travellers\' Stories
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Eliza Lee Follen >> Travellers\' Stories
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TRAVELLERS' STORIES
BY
MRS. FOLLEN
Illustrated with Engravings.
TRAVELLERS' STORIES
It is the pleasant twilight hour, and Frank and Harry Chilton are in
their accustomed seat by their mother's side in the old sofa, that
same comfortable old sofa, which might have listened to many
pleasant and interesting stories that will never be told.
Mother, said Frank, you have often promised us that some time you
would tell us about your travels in Europe. This is a good stormy
evening, and no one will come in to interrupt you; so please, dear
Mother, tell us all you can remember.
It is now, boys, five years since my return from Europe. Much that I
did and saw while there I forget. However, as I have been lately
looking over my hasty journal, I will see what I can remember.
On the first of August I set sail in the steamer Caledonia for
England. At four o'clock in the afternoon, we were out of sight of
land; one by one, we had taken leave of every object which could be
seen from the departing vessel; and now nothing was visible to us
but the sky, the ocean meeting it in its wide, unbroken circle the
sun gradually sinking in the west, and our small but only house, the
ship. How strange, how sublime the scene was! so lonely, so
magnificent, so solemn! At last the sun set, gilding the clouds, and
looking, to my tearful eyes, as if that too said farewell! Then the
moon appeared; and the long, indefinite line of light from where her
rays first touched the waters to our ship, and the dancing of the
waves as they crossed it, catching the light as they passed, were so
beautiful that I was unwilling to leave the deck when the hour for
rest arrived.
The wind was against us, and we did not get on very fast; but I
enjoyed the novel scene the next day, and passed all my time on
deck, watching the sailors and the passengers, and noticing the
difference between Englishmen and Americans.
On Sunday it was very cold, and the wind, still contrary, rose
higher and higher; it was impossible to set any sail, but I still
kept on deck, and thus avoided sickness. Soon after breakfast I saw
a white foam rising in different places occasionally, and was told
that it was whales spouting; I saw a great number, and enjoyed it
highly. Presently some one called out, "An iceberg!" and, far off
against the sky, I saw this floating wonder. It was very beautiful;
such a dazzling white, so calm and majestic, and so lonely; it was
shaped, as I thought, like an old cathedral, but others thought like
a sleeping lion, taking what I called the ruined tower for his head
and mane.
Soon after this, the man on the lookout cried, "Steamship America;"
and in a few moments more we saw her coming swiftly towards us with
her sails all set, for the wind was fair for her. Captain Leitch
then told me that he should stop his vessel and send a boat on
board, and that he would send a letter by it if I would write one
quickly; to others he said the same thing. In a moment the deck was
cleared, and in a few more moments all had returned with their
letters; and never was there a more beautiful sight than these two
fine steamers manoeuvring to stop at a respectful distance from each
other; then our little boat was lowered, and O, how pretty it was to
see her dancing over the rough waves to the other steamer! We sent
to the America the sad news of the loss of the Kestrel. After what
seemed to us a long time, the boat returned and brought papers, &c.,
but no important news; and in a few moments the two steamers
courtesied to each other, and each went on her way.
After six days, the waves had risen to a terrible height; the wind
was all but a gale; the ocean, as far as one could see, was one
roaring foam; one after another the angry billows rose to the height
of twenty or thirty feet, and rolled on, curling over their green
sides, and then broke with a voice of thunder against our vessel.
I crawled out of the cabin, assisted by two gentlemen, and from the
lower deck saw the sublime commotion over the bulwarks, when the
ship rolled over on the side where I was sitting. The sea broke over
our vessel repeatedly; it went over the top of the smoke pipe, and
struck the fore-topsail in the middle but did, not hurt either of
them. The fourth officer was washed out of his berth by a sea when
he was asleep. One of the paddles broke, but in a very short time
was replaced. One of the wheels was often entirely out of water, but
no harm was done us by any of these disasters; and on we went safe
through the troubled waters.
At night, when we were planning how we should secure ourselves from
rolling about the cabin, there came a sudden lurch of the ship, and
every thing movable was sent SLAM BANG on one side of the cabin; and
such a crash of crockery in the pantry! A few minutes after came a
sound as if we had struck a rock. "What is that?" I asked of the
stewardess.
"Only a sea, ma'am," she replied. In my heart I hoped we should not
have another such box on the ear.
We had a horrid night, but the next day it grew quieter, though it
was still rough, and the wind ahead. Soon after, it grew fair, and
the captain promised us that on Monday, before twelve o'clock, we
should see Ireland; and sure enough it was so. I was on deck again
just at twelve; the sun came out of the clouds, and the mate took an
observation.
"That is worth five pounds," said he; "now I know just where we
are."
Then the captain went up on the wheel-box, and we heard the welcome
sound, "Tory Island." We were then greatly rejoiced; this was the
twelfth day of our voyage. At night, for one hour, the wind blew a
gale, and the ship rocked in a very disagreeable manner; but at six
o'clock on Tuesday morning we were on deck, and there was the
beautiful Welsh coast, and Snowdon just taking off his night-cap;
and soon we saw "England, that precious stone set in a silver sea."
Next to the thought of friends whom we had parted from for so long a
time, my mind during the voyage was occupied with the idea of
Columbus. When I looked upon the rude, boundless ocean, and
remembered that when he set out with his little vessel to go to a
land that no one knew any thing of, not even that there was such a
land, he was guided altogether by his faith in its existence; that
he had no sympathy, but only opposition; that he had no charts,
nothing but the compass, that sure but mysterious guide,--the
thought of his sublime courage, of his patient faith, was so present
to my mind, that it seemed as if I was actually sometimes in his
presence.
The other idea was the wonderful skill displayed in the construction
of the small, but wonderfully powerful and beautifully arranged and
safe home, in which we were moving on this immense and turbid ocean,
carrying within her the great central fire by which the engine was
moved, which, in spite of winds and waves, carried us safely along;
then the science which enabled the master of this curious nutshell
of man's contriving to know just in what part of this waste of
trackless waters we were. All these things I knew before, and had
often thought of them, but was never so impressed with them; it was
almost as if they were new to me.
Before I quit the ocean, I must tell you of what I saw for which I
cannot account, and, had not one of the gentlemen seen it too, I
should almost have doubted my senses. When we were entirely out of
sight of land, I saw a white butterfly hovering over the waves, and
looking as if he were at home. Where the beautiful creature came
from, or how he lived, or what would become of him, no one could
tell. He seemed to me to be there as a symbol and a declaration that
the souls of those whose bodies lay in the ocean were yet living and
present with those they had loved.
When we arrived at Liverpool, we found a very dear friend, whom we
had known in America, on the wharf ready to receive us. He took us
to his house, and we felt that we were not, after all, in a strange
land. Love and kindness are the home of all souls, and show us what
heaven must be.
The thing that impressed me most was the dim light of the English
day, the soft, undefined shadows, compared with our brilliant
sunshine and sharply defined shade--then the coloring of the houses,
the streets, the ground, of every thing; no bright colors, all
sober, some very dark,--the idea of age, gravity, and stability.
Nobody seems in a hurry. Our country seems so young and vehement;
this so grave and collected!
Now I will tell you something about my visit to my dear friend
Harriet Martineau, whose beautiful little books, "Feats on the
Fiord," "The Crofton Boys," and the others, you love so much to
read. She lives at Ambleside, in what is called the Lake Country.
Ambleside is a beautiful country town in the valley of the Rotha,
and not far from Lake Windermere. Around the town rise high hills,
which perhaps may be called mountains. These mountains are not, like
many of ours, clothed to the summit with thick wild forests, but
have fewer trees, and are often bare at the summit. The mixture of
gray rock and green grass forms such a beautiful coloring over their
graceful and sometimes grotesque outline that you would not have
them other than they are.
The Ambleside houses are of dark-gray stone, and almost all of them
have ivy and flowers about them. One small house, the oldest in the
village, was several hundred years old; and out of all the crevices
between the stones hung harebells and other wild flowers; one side
of it and much of the roof were covered with ivy. This house was
only about ten feet square, and it looked to me like a great rustic
flower pot.
I should like some time to read you a description of this lovely
place, written by Miss Martineau herself. Then you will almost hear
the murmuring sound of the Brathay and the Rotha, and breathe the
perfume of the wild heather, and catch the freshness of the morning
breeze, as she offers you these mountain luxuries in her glowing
words.
Miss Martineau lives a little out of the village. You drive up to
the house through a shrubbery of laurels, and roses, and fuschias,
and other plants,--young trees and flowers,--to the beautiful little
porch, covered with honeysuckles and creeping plants. The back of
the house is turned to the road, and the front looks out over the
loveliest green meadows, to the grand, quiet hills, sometimes clear
and sharp in their outline against the blue sky, and at others
wreathed with mist; and one might sit for hours at the large bay
window in the parlor, watching these changes, and asking no other
enjoyment.
It was also a great pleasure to witness the true and happy life of
my friend. I saw there the highest ideas of duty, usefulness, and
benevolence carried into daily practice. Miss Martineau took us one
morning to see the poet Wordsworth. He lived in a low, old-fashioned
stone house, surrounded by laurels, and roses, and fuschias, and
other flowers and flowering shrubs. The porch is all covered with
ivy. We found the venerable man in his low, dark parlor. He very
kindly showed us his study, and then took us over his grounds.
When we took our leave, I asked him to give each of us a leaf from a
fine laurel tree near him; this he did very kindly, and smiled as
kindly at my effort at a compliment, in saying to him something
about one who had received so many laurels having some to spare to
others. I thanked him for his goodness in giving me so much of his
time, and bade the venerable man good by, very much pleased with my
visit, and very grateful to the kind friend who had introduced me to
him, and insured me a welcome. I shall never forget that day.
Ambleside is a very fashionable place for travellers to visit in the
summer months, and we saw there many distinguished and agreeable
people.
I had a conversation with an intelligent lad of fourteen years of
age, which impressed me very much. He was talking with me about our
country, and finding faults with it of various kinds. While I could,
I defended it. He thought our revolution was only a rebellion. I
told him that all revolutions were only successful rebellions, and
that we bore with the tyranny of his country as long as we could. "I
don't like the Americans," said he; he blushed as he thought of the
discourtesy of saying this to me, and then added, "they are so
inconsistent; they call themselves republicans, and then hold
slaves, and that is so wicked and absurd." He went on to say all he
thought and felt about the wickedness of slavery. I heard him to the
end, and then said, "There is nothing you have said upon that
subject that I do not agree to entirely. You cannot say too much
against slavery; but I call myself an abolitionist, and while I
live, I mean to say and do all I can against it. There are many
people in America, also, who feel as I do, and we hope to see it
abolished."
While we were in Westmoreland, we made an excursion of four days
among the beautiful lakes. Miss Martineau was our guide and
companion. She knows the name of every mountain, every lake, every
glen and dale, every stream and tarn, and her guidance lent a new
charm to the scenes of grandeur and beauty through which she
conducted us.
We took a vehicle which the people call a jaunting car; it is a
square open carriage with two side seats and a door behind; and is
drawn by one horse. Two easy steps and a door easily opened let you
in and out when you please. The car holds four persons. The driver
has a seat in front, and under it he tied our carpet bag.
Never did four souls enjoy themselves more than we on this little
excursion. I could not give you an adequate idea of what we saw, or
of the pleasure we took. Think of coming down from one of these
beautiful hills into Eskdale, or Ennesdale, of walking four miles on
the banks of Ullswater, of looking with your living eyes on Derwent
Water, Grassmere, Windermere, and many other lovely spots of which
you have seen pictures and read descriptions; and of being one in
the pleasantest party in the world, as you think, stopping where,
and when, and as long as any one pleases.
It was on this journey that I first saw a real ruin. The ruins of
Calder Abbey I had never heard of; but the impression it made upon
me I can never forget; partly, perhaps, that it was the first ruin
upon which I ever gazed. One row of the pillars of the great aisle
remains standing. The answering row is gone. Two tall arches of the
body of the main building remain also, and different pieces of the
walls. It is of sandstone; the clusters of columns in the aisle look
as if they were almost held together by the ivy and honeysuckles
that wave around their mouldering capitals with every motion of the
wind. In every crevice, the harebell, the foxglove, and innumerable
other flowers peep forth, and swing in the wind. On the tops of the
arches and walls large flowering shrubs are growing; on the highest
is a small tree, and within the walls are oak trees more than a
century old. The abbey was built seven hundred years ago; and the
ruins that are now standing look as if they might stand many
centuries longer. The owner of the place has made all smooth and
nice around it, so that you may imagine the floor of the church to
look like green velvet. It seems as if the ivy and the flowers were
caressing and supporting the abbey in its beautiful old age.
As I walked under the arches and upon the soft green turf, that so
many years ago had been a cold rough stone pavement, trodden by
beings like myself; and felt the flowers and vines hanging from the
mouldering capitals touch my face; and saw, in the place where was
once a confessional, an oak tree that had taken centuries to grow,
and whose top branches mingled with the smiling crest of flowers
that crowned the tops of the highest arches,--the thought of the
littleness and the greatness of man, and the everlasting beauty of
the works of the Creator, almost overwhelmed me; and I felt that,
after all, I was not in a decaying, ruined temple, but in an
everlasting church, that would grow green and more beautiful and
perfect as time passes on.
There is a fine old park around these lovely ruins; and, not far
off, a beautiful stream of water, with a curious bridge over it. The
old monks well knew how to choose beautiful places to live in. All
harmonizes, except--I grieve to tell of it--a shocking modern house,
very near, very ugly, and, I suppose, ridiculously elegant and
comfortable inside. From this hideosity you must resolutely turn
away; and then you may say, as I did, that your mortal eyes have
never rested on any thing so lovely as the ruins of Calder Abbey.
Sometimes Miss Martineau would tell us some pretty legend, or some
good story.
This was one of the legends: Near the borders of the Ullswater is
the beautiful Ara Force, one of the most lovely falls I have seen in
England. One may stand below, and look up at the rushing stream, or
above, on the top of the fall. Here, long ago, in the time of the
crusades, stood a pair of lovers; and here grows an old oak which
was their trysting tree. The lady was of noble birth, and lived in a
castle near by; and her true knight used to come at the still hour
of evening to meet her at the Ara Force.
At length the lover was called away to the Holy Land. As he left his
lady, he vowed to be her true knight, and to return and wed her.
Many long days passed away, and the lady waited in vain for her true
knight. Though she heard often from others of his chivalrous deeds
in the East, yet no word came from him to tell her he was faithful;
and she began to fear that he was no longer true to her, but was
serving some other lady. Despair at last came upon her; and she grew
wan and pale, and slept no longer soundly: But, when the world was
at rest, she would rise in her sleep, and wander to the trysting
tree, and pluck off the green oak leaves, and throw them into the
foaming water.
The knight was all this time faithful, but was not able to send word
to his lady love. At last, he returned to England, and hastened
towards the castle where she lived.
It was late at night when he came to the Ara Force; and he sat him
down under the trysting tree to wait for the morning. When he had
been there a long time, he saw a figure approach, all in white, and
pluck off the oak leaves, and fling them into the stream. Angry to
see the sacred tree thus injured, he rose to prevent it. The figure
started and awoke. In a moment he knew his beloved lady. She was now
on the frail bridge. The sudden shock, and the roar of the Force
below, had made her giddy. He leaped forward to embrace and save
her. Alas! too late. Her foot slipped, and she fell. It was all
over. The water tumbling far down into the rocky chasm beneath told
the story of death.
The knight was inconsolable. He retired from the world forever, and
built a monastery near by, on the borders of the lake, where he
died.
The frail bridge is now gone, and a strong plank, with a railing,
supplies its place. But the water still roars down the rock as on
the fatal night; and the foam and spray look as if the white
garments of the fair lady were still fluttering over the deep below.
From Ambleside I went with some friends to visit Dr. Nichol at
Glasgow. We took coach first, and then the railroad. For the sake of
economy we took a second class carriage. The second class carriages,
on the English railroad, are, in fact, boxes with small holes for
windows, from which you may, if you are not very short, see
something of the world you are flying through, but not much. Good,
honest, hard boards are on the floor, sides, tops, and seats; in
short, all around you. The backs are not slanted at all. You must
sit bolt upright, or not sit at all. Now and then, these vehicles
have a thin leather on the seats--not often.
Nothing can be more luxurious than a first class carriage. The
floors are nicely carpeted, the seats and backs are all stuffed;
each seat is a very nice easy chair. You can sleep in them almost as
well as in a bed; but these carriages are very expensive; and on
this account many of the gentry take those of the second class, hard
as they are.
We arrived at Glasgow at eight o'clock in the evening, and were
unfortunate enough to have a driver to the vehicle we took, who did
not know where the Observatory was. We knew that it was three miles
from the city, and not much more. We were advised by a gentleman,
who was in the same railroad box with us, to take a noddy, or a
minibus, to the Observatory. What these things were, of course, we
could only guess, and we did not care much, so we could only get out
of our wooden box. We came to the conclusion that we could
sympathize tolerably well with poor Box Brown.
We, as we had been advised, took a noddy. A minibus is only a small
omnibus. A noddy is a contrivance that holds four, and has a door at
the end, and only one horse,--very like a Yankee cab.
Glasgow, as every one knows, is one of the greatest manufacturing
cities in the world. Before we arrived, we were astonished at the
great fires from the iron works in the environs; and, as the streets
were well lighted, our eyes were dazzled and delighted with the
whole scene, and we were so pleased with the comfort of our noddy,
that we did not at first feel troubled at the fact that neither our
driver nor we knew where Dr. Nichol's house was. Presently we found
ourselves left in the middle of the street, and saw our noddy man,
in a shop as bright as day, poring over a directory. All he could
learn was what we had already told him, and so on he went, not
knowing whether right or wrong, giving us a fine opportunity of
seeing the city in the evening. At last, he came to the bridge over
the Clyde, and there the tollman directed us to the Observatory.
After a long drive, evidently over not a very good road, the driver
stopped, and told us that here was Dr. Nichol's house. He began to
take off our luggage. We insisted upon his inquiring, first, if that
was Dr. Nichol's. He took off our trunk, and would have us go in; we
resisted; and after a while he rang the bell, and the answer was,
"Dr. Nichol lives in the next house." Still higher we had to climb,
and at last stopped at the veritable Observatory, where our friend,
who was expecting us, lived. Nothing could exceed the hospitality
with which we were received.
Early, one misty, smoky morning, I embarked in one of the famous
little Clyde steamers, and set out on a Highland tour. I had heard
of old Scotia's barren hills, clothed with the purple heather and
the yellow gorse, of her deep glens, of her romantic streams; but
the reality went far beyond the description, or my imagination. The
hills are all bare of trees, but their outline is very beautiful and
infinitely varied. Picture to yourself a ridge of hills or mountains
all purple with the heather, relieved with the silver-gray of the
rocks and with patches of the bright yellow gorse, and all this
harmony of color reflected in the green sea water which runs winding
far in among the hills. As the light changes, these colors are
either brought out more strongly, or mingle into one soft lilac
color, or sometimes a sort of purple-gray. Your eye is enchanted,
and never weary of looking and admiring. I would not have any trees
on the Scotch hills; I would not have them other than they are. If I
were dying I could look at them with joy; they are lovely beyond
words to tell.
I was on all the most celebrated and beautiful lakes. I was rowed in
an open boat, by two Highland youths, from one end of Loch Katrine
to the other, and through those beautiful, high, heathery, rocky
banks at one end of the lake, called the Trosachs. These exquisite
rocks are adorned, and every crevice fringed and festooned with
harebells, heather, gorse, and here and there beautiful evergreen
trees. We passed by "Ellen's Isle," as it is called, the most
exquisite little island ever formed, a perfect oval, and all covered
with the purple heather, the golden gorse, and all sorts of flowers
and exquisitely beautiful trees. O, what a little paradise it is! A
number of little row-boats, with fine-looking Highland rowers and
gay companies of ladies and gentlemen, were visiting the island as
we passed. They show the oak tree to which they say Ellen fastened
her boat. It was beautiful to see the glancing of the sunlight on
the oars of these boats, and the bright colors of the shawls and
bonnets of the ladies in them, and to witness this homage to nature
and genius which they were paying in their visit to Ellen's Isle. I
was glad to join them, and do reverence too. The heather is usually
not more than two feet high,--sometimes higher, but often shorter;
but on Ellen's Isle it grows to the height of four and five feet.
Just before we came to Oban, we passed the estate of Lord Heigh,
where we heard the following story. The origin of his name and rank
is this: When King Kenneth ruled in Scotland, he was beaten in a
great battle by the Danes, and his army scattered among the hills,
while the enemy was marching home in triumph. A man in the Scottish
army said that he knew a pass through which the victor must go,
where one man might stop a thousand, and offered himself and his two
sons to defend it. He came to the pass armed only with an ox-yoke,
but made such use of his weapon that the Danes were kept at bay,
till the Scots rallied and cut them to pieces. When Kenneth reached
the pass, he found his brave subject lying in truth quite exhausted.
He raised him up, and inquired his name; the fainting man could only
gasp, "Heigh-ho, heigh!" From that moment he was called the Lord of
Heigh, and the king gave him as much land as an eagle could fly over
without alighting. The family arms are an eagle on the wing over an
ox-yoke.