Set in Silver
conscientiously desiring to be interested; the girl's rapt, radiant.
And, indeed, these remnants of beauty are pathetically fair enough to
draw tears to such young eyes as hers. They are even more majestic in
ruin than they could have been in noblest prime, I think, because those
broken arches have the splendour of classic tragedy. They are like a
poem of which a few immortal lines are lost.
In the warm light of the August afternoon the old stones, pillars, and
arches of Glastonbury Abbey seemed to be carved in stained ivory, a bas
relief on lapis lazuli. We lingered until our pretty Mrs. Senter got the
look in her eyes of one who has stood too long in high-heeled boots, and
Emily asked plaintively whether we were not going to see the Glastonbury
Thorn. It appeared that she had promised to write her tame parson about
it, and send him a sprig for planting; and she was much disappointed
when she heard that the "original thorn," Joseph of Arimathea's
blossoming staff, had been destroyed centuries ago on Weary-All Hill,
where the saintly band rested on the way to Glastonbury. One trunk of
the famous tree was hewed down by a Puritan in Elizabeth's day (I'm
happy to tell you he lost a leg and an eye in the act), while the second
and only remaining one was destroyed by a "military saint" in the great
rebellion. "What disagreeable things saints have done!" exclaimed
Ellaline, which shocked Emily. "There have been very few _military_
ones, anyhow," my sister returned, mildly, with a slightly reproachful
glance at me, aimed at my spiritual failures. I cheered her up by
promising that I would get her a sprig of thorn at Wells, and telling
her how all the transplanted slips have the habit of blossoming on
Christmas Day, old style--January 6th, isn't it?
Our next "sight" was the museum in the Market Place; and you may take my
word for it, Pat, there's nothing much more interesting to be found the
world over, if you're interested in antiquities, as you and I are.
There's the Alfred jewel, which, of course, the women liked best; and
next in their estimation came the bronze mirrors, the queer pins and big
needles, the rouge pots and the hair curlers (which Emily gravely
pronounced to be curiously like Hinde's) of the Celtic beauties who
lived before the visits of those clever commercial travellers, the
Phoenicians. These relics were taken from the prehistoric village at
Godnet Marsh, discovered only about sixteen years ago, and they were
found with others far more important; for instance, a big, clumsy canoe
of black oak, which was soft as soap when it first came up out of its
hiding-place in the thick peat bog, but was hardened afterward by
various scientific tricks. I confess to more interest in the dice boxes
and dice, some of which the sly old Celtic foxes had loaded. Cheating
isn't precisely a modern device, it seems!
After the museum, I took the party to a jeweller's I'd heard of, and bought
some copies of the sacred treasures: a replica of the Alfred jewel; a
silver bowl, exactly imitating a bronze one from the lake village--probably
of Greek manufacture, brought over by Phoenicians--and other quaint
and interesting things. Ellaline is to have the jewel; the silver bowl
is to be a "sop" to Mrs. Senter; and for Emily is a tiny model oven,
such as the Phoenicians taught the Celts to make and Cornish cottagers
bake their bread in to this day.
There was the old Red Lion Inn to see, too, where Abbot Whiting lay the
night before his execution, which was a murder; and the Women's
Almshouses, and a dozen other things which tourists are expected to see
besides many dozen which they are not; and it is for the latter that
Ellaline and I have a predilection. She and I are also fond of believing
any story which is interesting, therefore we are both invaluable victims
to the custodians of museums and other show places. The nice old fellow
in the Glastonbury museum was delighted with our faith, which would not
only have moved mountains, but transported to such mountains any
historic celebrity necessary to impress the picture. We believed in the
burying of the original Chalice, from which to this hour flows a pure
spring, the Holy, or Blood Spring. We believe that St. Patrick was born,
and died on the Isle of Avalon; and more firmly than all, that both
Arthur and Guinevere were buried under St. Mary's (or St. Joseph's)
Chapel. Why, didn't the custodian point out to us, in the picture of an
ancient plan of the chapel, the actual spot where their bodies lay? What
could we ask more than that? But if we go to Scotland next year, we
shall doubtless believe just as firmly that Arthur rests there, in spite
of the record at Glastonbury, in spite even of Tennyson:
"... the island valley of Avilon;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
Does that come back to you, from Arthur's speech to Bedevere? but he
died of the "grievous wound" after all; and the custodian goes so far as
to assert, solemnly, that when the coffins were opened in the days of
Henry II. the bodies of the king and queen were "very beautiful to see,
for a moment, untouched by time; but that in a second, as the people
looked, their dust crumbled away, all except the splendid golden hair of
Guinevere, which remained to tell of her glory, for many a long year,
until it was stolen, and disappeared forever."
That is a good story, anyhow, and adds to the curious, almost magical
enchantment of Glastonbury. Ellaline says that the very name of
Glastonbury will after this ring in her ears like the sound of fairy
bells, chiming over the lost lake that ringed the Isle of Avalon. You
know, I dare say, that Glastonbury is supposed to have its derivation
from British "Ynyswytryn," "Inis vitrea," the "Island of Glass," because
the water surrounding it was blue and clear as crystal. So many golden
apples grew in the island orchards, that it became also the Isle of
Avalon, from "Avalla" an apple.
Even now, the queer conical, isolated hills of the neighbourhood are
called islands, and it is easy to picture Glastonbury as an isle rising
among lesser ones out of a bright, azure estuary stretching away and
away to the Bristol Channel. The Saxon king, Edgar, whose royal castle
has given the name to the town of Edgarly, must have had a fine view in
his day. And now you have only to go up Tor Hill (a landmark for miles
round, with its tower of St. Michael on top like the watch-dog of a dead
king) to see Wells Cathedral to the north, the blue Mendips east and
west, and cutting the range, a mysterious break, like a door, which
means the wild pass of Cheddar; far in the west, a gleam of the Bristol
Channel; south, the Polden Hills, the Dorset heights beyond, and the
Quantocks overtopped by the peak of Dunkery Beacon. I think one would
have to go far to see more of England in one sweep of the eye. Indeed,
foreigners might come, make a hasty ascent of Tor Hill, and take the
next boat back to their own country, telling their friends not
untruthfully that they had "seen England."
At night, in the room of Henry VIII., I dreamed I saw Anne Boleyn, with
Ellaline's face, which smiled at me, the lips saying: "I'll forgive you,
if you'll forgive me." I hope that's a good omen?
We gave ourselves twenty-four hours in Glastonbury and the
neighbourhood, running out to the prehistoric village at Godney Marsh,
to see the excavations, and to Meare (by the by, the very causeway over
which our motor spun was built of stones from the Abbey!) then on,
toward evening, to Wells. There have been surprisingly blue evenings
lately, to which Ellaline has drawn my attention; and her simile on the
way to Wells, that we seemed to be driving through a pelting rain of
violets, I thought rather pretty. What shall I do, I wonder, if I have
to part with her--give her to some other man, perhaps? It hardly bears
thinking of. And yet it may easily happen. It seems to me that every man
who sees her must want her; and the feeling doesn't make for peace or
comfort. I suppose I might be different, and less the brute, if I hadn't
lived so long in the East, growing used to Eastern customs; but as it
is, when I see some man's eyes light upon her face and rest there in
surprised admiration, I want to snatch her up, wrap her in a veil, and
run off with her in my arms. Beastly, isn't it? I have no such feeling,
however, in connection with Mrs. Senter, although she is very striking,
and excites a good deal of attention wherever we go.
I haven't seen Emily so happy since we have been motoring as she is at
Wells, and it seems almost criminal to tear her away, though I fear I
shall have to do so to-morrow. She says that, except at home, she has
never felt such "an air of religious calm" as at Wells; and there's
something in the feeling which I can understand, though I must admit I
don't go about the world searching for religious calm.
Certainly one can't imagine a crime being committed at Wells, and a
wicked thought would be rather wickeder here than elsewhere. Not that
the Cathedral is to me alluringly beautiful (I believe it ranks high,
and is even exalted as the "best secular church" to be found the world
over, the west front being glorified as a masterpiece beyond all others
in England); at first sight it vaguely disappointed me. I am no expert
judge of architecture, and don't pretend to be; still, I dare to have my
likes and dislikes; and it was not until I'd walked round the cathedral
many times, stood and stared at it, and gone up heights to survey it
from different points of view, that I began to warm toward it mightily.
Now, I find it eminently noble, yet not so lovable as some which my
memory cherishes, some not perhaps as architecturally or artistically
perfect. But you know what individuality buildings have, especially
those which are vast and dominating; and Wells is unique. As the common
people say, it "wants knowing."
Emily, usually sparing of adjectives, pronounces the Lady Chapel "a
dream," and I don't think she exaggerates; but for myself, the things
least forgettable in the Cathedral will be the Chapter House Stairs and
the beautiful fourteenth century glass. The ascent of the staircase is
an exquisite experience, and, as Ellaline cried out in her joy, "it must
be like going up a snow mountain by moonlight." The old clock in the
transept, too, holds one hypnotized, waiting always to see what will
happen next. Peter Lightfoot, the Glastonbury monk, who made it in the
fourteenth century, must have had a lively imagination, and have loved
excitement--"something doing," as Americans say. Ellaline and I are
overcome with sympathy for one of four desperately fighting knights who
never gets the colours. Hard luck to work like that for hundreds of
years, and never succeed!
At last Emily has seen the Glastonbury Thorn, and obtained her slip, as
an exceptional favour. She longs for Christmas to come, to know if it
will bloom, as it does regularly every year in the gardens of the
Bishop's palace.
Until now I couldn't have imagined envying a bishop, but to live in the
palace at Wells, and own the palace gardens for life, would be worth a
few sacrifices. I should think there could have been never a more
poetical or charming garden on earth--not excepting Eden or a few Indian
gardens I have admired. It is perfect; as Ellaline says, even
pluperfect, in its contrast with the gray ruins, and the mellow, ancient
house. There is an embattled wall, which makes a terrace walk, above the
fair lawns and jewelled flower beds, and from the top as you walk, the