The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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HADDON HALL. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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HADDON HALL.
There is an air about these terraces
Of long neglect and absence. Since the yews
Rejoiced to gain their natural liberty,
And stretched their arms across the garden beds,
And shaking hands, forgot the cruel shears,
A hundred years have passed; and I rejoice
With them; and walking here in pleasant shade,
Through which the sunshine falls in scattered spots
Upon the mossy walks, congratulate
These ancient brethren that unnatural customs
Which man delights in now no longer mar
Their fair proportions.
Of long neglect and absence. Since the yews
Rejoiced to gain their natural liberty,
And stretched their arms across the garden beds,
And shaking hands, forgot the cruel shears,
A hundred years have passed; and I rejoice
With them; and walking here in pleasant shade,
Through which the sunshine falls in scattered spots
Upon the mossy walks, congratulate
These ancient brethren that unnatural customs
Which man delights in now no longer mar
Their fair proportions.
With their sheddings tinged,
The beds are full of weeds, whose humble beauty
Adorns waste places. In abundance here
Are primroses and wild anemones,
That ask no tending from a human hand,
For God himself regards them; and I think
We need not wish these gardens as they were,
With yews all clipped and tortured, and square beds
Bordered with chiselled stones. See how the roots
Of the old trees have burst their narrow bounds,
And kicked away the stones with scornful feet!
The beds are full of weeds, whose humble beauty
Adorns waste places. In abundance here
Are primroses and wild anemones,
That ask no tending from a human hand,
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We need not wish these gardens as they were,
With yews all clipped and tortured, and square beds
Bordered with chiselled stones. See how the roots
Of the old trees have burst their narrow bounds,
And kicked away the stones with scornful feet!
Dark are the fifteen yews—fifteen are they,
And two poor trees besides, unkindly thrust
Behind an oaken summer-house, whose frame
Mars their free growth and parts them from the rest.
Dark are the yews, but, like a hill of snow,
Behind them towers a noble cherry-tree,
Covered with blossom; and still farther back,
The highest terrace with its avenue
Of planes, whose fresh and bright unsullied green
Contrasts as strongly with the sombre yews.
And even those old stones about the roots
Are an intense light green that dazzles you.
So well does Nature study to display
Her scale of colour, from a depth of gloom
Rich, shadowy, grave, and dark as ebony,
To brilliant leafage, whose transparent structure
Colours the golden sunbeams falling through.
And two poor trees besides, unkindly thrust
Behind an oaken summer-house, whose frame
Mars their free growth and parts them from the rest.
Dark are the yews, but, like a hill of snow,
Behind them towers a noble cherry-tree,
Covered with blossom; and still farther back,
The highest terrace with its avenue
Of planes, whose fresh and bright unsullied green
Contrasts as strongly with the sombre yews.
And even those old stones about the roots
Are an intense light green that dazzles you.
So well does Nature study to display
Her scale of colour, from a depth of gloom
Rich, shadowy, grave, and dark as ebony,
To brilliant leafage, whose transparent structure
Colours the golden sunbeams falling through.
Next to the yews I love the balustrade,
With lichen-blotted spheres at intervals,
And little arches. It adapts itself
With ease to change of level in the slope
Of the broad flight of gentle, shallow stairs,
Descending with them to the garden square.
Its spheres and arches seen betwixt the yews,
Lead the eye onward to the hall itself;
And then it wanders down the garden front
From oriel to ivied oriel,
Down to the chapel window, where it rests,
A traceried window, beautiful, half-seen.
With lichen-blotted spheres at intervals,
And little arches. It adapts itself
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Of the broad flight of gentle, shallow stairs,
Descending with them to the garden square.
Its spheres and arches seen betwixt the yews,
Lead the eye onward to the hall itself;
And then it wanders down the garden front
From oriel to ivied oriel,
Down to the chapel window, where it rests,
A traceried window, beautiful, half-seen.
This garden is a platform well sustained
By buttresses of masonry. Below,
The river waters many noble trees,
Passing beneath the arches of a bridge—
A little two-arched bridge, whose narrow path
Two horsemen could not ride upon abreast.
Down to this bridge from the high table-land
Whereon the spacious quadrangles are built,
Long flights of stairs descend—old mossy stairs.
By buttresses of masonry. Below,
The river waters many noble trees,
Passing beneath the arches of a bridge—
A little two-arched bridge, whose narrow path
Two horsemen could not ride upon abreast.
Down to this bridge from the high table-land
Whereon the spacious quadrangles are built,
Long flights of stairs descend—old mossy stairs.
The silent chapel is all grey within;
Its gilded mouldings have a yellower tint
Than the plain oak itself—but nothing more.
The windows still retain some painted glass,
Coloured with gold, and delicately drawn:
But in one night, some years ago, there came
Vile thieves, who stole the rest of it away,
And only left these fragments—so I look
On the cold, cheerless panes, with bitter thoughts,
Mourning a loss that nothing can replace.
Its gilded mouldings have a yellower tint
Than the plain oak itself—but nothing more.
The windows still retain some painted glass,
Coloured with gold, and delicately drawn:
But in one night, some years ago, there came
Vile thieves, who stole the rest of it away,
And only left these fragments—so I look
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Mourning a loss that nothing can replace.
These chapels as appendages of state
Are chiefly valued. Here the household met.
But though our dwellings have no household altar,
They are not therefore “godless.” 'Tis the vice
Of narrow systems thus to separate
The sacred and profane. All truth is sacred;
And the bare chambers of a poor man's home
May be fair temples very dear to God.
Are chiefly valued. Here the household met.
But though our dwellings have no household altar,
They are not therefore “godless.” 'Tis the vice
Of narrow systems thus to separate
The sacred and profane. All truth is sacred;
And the bare chambers of a poor man's home
May be fair temples very dear to God.
There are two silent quadrangles, antique
As college “quads.” Each has its entrance tower;
The one a feudal pile of ancient strength,
With battlement and turret for the watch,
And archway closed with massive gates of oak,
By which you enter a deserted court—
A quaint enclosure fenced from modern times,
And their destructive influences—ground
Held sacred to the past. Its dampest nooks
Are green with moss, and rusty with red gold
Of coloured lichens such as painters love.
All round it quaint old windows look upon you
With diamond-leaded panes of dingy glass,
Mullions and transoms—that which lights the hall
Is older than the rest, and traceried.
As college “quads.” Each has its entrance tower;
The one a feudal pile of ancient strength,
With battlement and turret for the watch,
And archway closed with massive gates of oak,
By which you enter a deserted court—
A quaint enclosure fenced from modern times,
And their destructive influences—ground
Held sacred to the past. Its dampest nooks
Are green with moss, and rusty with red gold
Of coloured lichens such as painters love.
All round it quaint old windows look upon you
With diamond-leaded panes of dingy glass,
Mullions and transoms—that which lights the hall
Is older than the rest, and traceried.
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But round the lower quadrangle you see
A larger range of offices, and there
The pavement is compact and well preserved,
Though all uneven, for the builders sloped
Their very floors, but we make all things level
As glassy water. In this larger court
The belfry stands, an airy octagon,
Whose roof is borne by slender tracery,
Through which the winds might blow when the bell swung,
And take its music down the quiet vale.
A relic room you enter from this court
Contains the bell dethroned; and giant boots
Of massive structure, high and strong enough
For soldiers in the trenches; firedogs, too,
Of brass, enamelled with antique designs.
A larger range of offices, and there
The pavement is compact and well preserved,
Though all uneven, for the builders sloped
Their very floors, but we make all things level
As glassy water. In this larger court
The belfry stands, an airy octagon,
Whose roof is borne by slender tracery,
Through which the winds might blow when the bell swung,
And take its music down the quiet vale.
A relic room you enter from this court
Contains the bell dethroned; and giant boots
Of massive structure, high and strong enough
For soldiers in the trenches; firedogs, too,
Of brass, enamelled with antique designs.
The gateway tower has two delightful chambers,
Both of them richly wainscotted and ceiled,
Lighted by little windows, none alike,
Whence you look down upon the fair demesne
Where the sweet Wye, with freely-rambling course,
Wanders between rich banks and birchen isles,
Then flows beneath the arches of the bridge.
This gateway has a curious evidence
That many feet have entered it before.
There is a little wicket in the gate;
And under it the step of solid stone
Is worn right through—and there the foot sinks deep,
As in a sunken footprint in the snow.
Both of them richly wainscotted and ceiled,
Lighted by little windows, none alike,
Whence you look down upon the fair demesne
Where the sweet Wye, with freely-rambling course,
Wanders between rich banks and birchen isles,
Then flows beneath the arches of the bridge.
This gateway has a curious evidence
That many feet have entered it before.
There is a little wicket in the gate;
And under it the step of solid stone
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As in a sunken footprint in the snow.
Around these courts are all the offices
Wherein the Vernon's retinue were lodged,
Seven score well-fed domestics. I explored
Their empty barrack on a rainy day,
When heavy drops had dabbled all my work
As tears deface the manuscripts of grief.
I found a hidden key beneath a door,
Which opened and disclosed a flight of stairs,
Great solid logs of oak, like quarried blocks
Built by rude masons. Having locked the door
Behind me, and ascended these rough steps,
I wandered on through suites of silent rooms—
Some lined with wainscot and old tapestry,
Whose ghostlike shapes looked on me as I passed
With sleepless, vacant stare. Through many such
I wandered—chambers like those gloomy ones,
Dilapidated, haunted, and disused,
In that most dread erection of Romance,
The Castle of Udolpho, where with awe
We strayed before the mind had lost that touch
Of fearful superstition that sublimes
Such phantasies. But I, whose constant aim
Has been to tune myself in unison
With what my own age is, or strives to be,
And tame wild fancy to the sovereign rule
Of Fact and Nature, cannot now recall
The marvellous of boyhood. I have come
Hither some years too late; my heart is cold
To all that would have influenced me once
In these old chambers. Disenchanted now,
They speak another language, deeper far,
Yet not a voice of mystery and awe
Simply of common life, which we may find
About us still in forms as wonderful.
And there is nothing quaint nor strange to me,
Nor ancient any longer. If you live
Enslaved by present customs, and perceive
No quaintness in our life, the past excites
A sort of idle wonder, being strange;
But thoughtful men who find within themselves
Germs which another culture would have trained
To old Assyrian forms, are not disposed
To wonder at remains of bygone manners
Only because they differed from our own.
Wherein the Vernon's retinue were lodged,
Seven score well-fed domestics. I explored
Their empty barrack on a rainy day,
When heavy drops had dabbled all my work
As tears deface the manuscripts of grief.
I found a hidden key beneath a door,
Which opened and disclosed a flight of stairs,
Great solid logs of oak, like quarried blocks
Built by rude masons. Having locked the door
Behind me, and ascended these rough steps,
I wandered on through suites of silent rooms—
Some lined with wainscot and old tapestry,
Whose ghostlike shapes looked on me as I passed
With sleepless, vacant stare. Through many such
I wandered—chambers like those gloomy ones,
Dilapidated, haunted, and disused,
In that most dread erection of Romance,
The Castle of Udolpho, where with awe
We strayed before the mind had lost that touch
Of fearful superstition that sublimes
Such phantasies. But I, whose constant aim
Has been to tune myself in unison
With what my own age is, or strives to be,
And tame wild fancy to the sovereign rule
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The marvellous of boyhood. I have come
Hither some years too late; my heart is cold
To all that would have influenced me once
In these old chambers. Disenchanted now,
They speak another language, deeper far,
Yet not a voice of mystery and awe
Simply of common life, which we may find
About us still in forms as wonderful.
And there is nothing quaint nor strange to me,
Nor ancient any longer. If you live
Enslaved by present customs, and perceive
No quaintness in our life, the past excites
A sort of idle wonder, being strange;
But thoughtful men who find within themselves
Germs which another culture would have trained
To old Assyrian forms, are not disposed
To wonder at remains of bygone manners
Only because they differed from our own.
In one small chamber looking to the west,
The walls are lined throughout with tapestry—
The best in all the building. Fifty boys,
With supple, fleshy forms and golden hair,
Are gathering grapes and apples overripe,
With cheeks as bright and rosy as their own.
Most full of life are they, not stiff nor quaint,
But grouped as Nature groups her sons in sport.
They climb the loaded trees, and hand the produce
By basketfuls to those who wait below.
One bends, that on his shoulders soft and broad
His little friend may climb and reach the fruit;
Meanwhile his playmate slaps him heartily.
Clasping a bough, another swings in air.
Take heed, bold youngster! In my boyhood once,
When we were bathing on a summer's day,
I climbed a tree that bent above the stream,
And hid myself all naked in the branches;
But, in descending, bruised my tender skin,
And found that it was softer than the bark.
Here, too, a river winds, wherein they plunge,
And one is half across. O, happy boys!
Are you the babes who died in infancy,
And were translated to the orchard groves,
The vineyards, and the streams of Paradise?
The walls are lined throughout with tapestry—
The best in all the building. Fifty boys,
With supple, fleshy forms and golden hair,
Are gathering grapes and apples overripe,
With cheeks as bright and rosy as their own.
Most full of life are they, not stiff nor quaint,
But grouped as Nature groups her sons in sport.
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By basketfuls to those who wait below.
One bends, that on his shoulders soft and broad
His little friend may climb and reach the fruit;
Meanwhile his playmate slaps him heartily.
Clasping a bough, another swings in air.
Take heed, bold youngster! In my boyhood once,
When we were bathing on a summer's day,
I climbed a tree that bent above the stream,
And hid myself all naked in the branches;
But, in descending, bruised my tender skin,
And found that it was softer than the bark.
Here, too, a river winds, wherein they plunge,
And one is half across. O, happy boys!
Are you the babes who died in infancy,
And were translated to the orchard groves,
The vineyards, and the streams of Paradise?
Not all these chambers are so richly hung;
But there are suites of naked, whitewashed rooms,
Cheerless as empty barracks. Here you see
Renaissance art in all its worthlessness;
Whole heaps of canvass torn and cast aside
Out of the faded frames. With subjects such
As Etty's knowledge could not dignify,
These wretched painters worked without an aim,
Lost and degraded. Let us mourn for them.
They had no solid pleasure in their art,
No serious thought nor purpose. They had lost
The earnest spirit of the elder time,
But had not gained that firm and settled faith
In Nature which supplies its place with us:
So they went back to worn and bygone creeds,
And thence grew insincere, and left the truth,
And all their work is worthless. The young lord
Who stands behind his horse and looks at you
From the great picture on the staircase wall,
Is worth a Louvre of immortal gods;
So is the stalwart keeper of the deer
Who stands in the great hall.
But there are suites of naked, whitewashed rooms,
Cheerless as empty barracks. Here you see
Renaissance art in all its worthlessness;
Whole heaps of canvass torn and cast aside
Out of the faded frames. With subjects such
As Etty's knowledge could not dignify,
These wretched painters worked without an aim,
Lost and degraded. Let us mourn for them.
They had no solid pleasure in their art,
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The earnest spirit of the elder time,
But had not gained that firm and settled faith
In Nature which supplies its place with us:
So they went back to worn and bygone creeds,
And thence grew insincere, and left the truth,
And all their work is worthless. The young lord
Who stands behind his horse and looks at you
From the great picture on the staircase wall,
Is worth a Louvre of immortal gods;
So is the stalwart keeper of the deer
Who stands in the great hall.
I sat and worked
Beneath his eye on cold and rainy days,
Painting the antlered screen, which still retains
The hasp, strange relic of a ruder age!
Convivial usage was a tyrant then,
And if a manly soul would not submit
To wallow in the mire of drunkenness,
They fixed him in this pillory with shouts
Of jeering laughter, and, like boys at school,
Poured down his sleeve what he refused to drink.
This iron wristlock is the very type
And symbol of the boyhood of mankind,
When custom is despotic, and unites
All its adherents in confederate bands
To persecute the recusant. But thou,
Brave soul, whom all thy comrades turn against
With scornful laughter or profounder hate,
For some unyielding nobleness of thine,—
Bear it serenely; be urbane and calm;
But hold thy true convictions, and obey
The God within thy breast! We have advanced
Since these old customs ruled the banquets here;
And at the brilliant tables of the great
Rich wines are offered by a friendly host,
As Nature offers springs of fairest water
For those to drink who thirst, yet does not take
Offence at our refusal—but to cram
Your guests with food or wine against their will,
As the great monkey did poor Gulliver,
Is most unfriendly. Let our object be
To make our neighbours happy in our home,
And there allow them perfect liberty,
So that the hour may pass without restraint.
Beneath his eye on cold and rainy days,
Painting the antlered screen, which still retains
The hasp, strange relic of a ruder age!
Convivial usage was a tyrant then,
And if a manly soul would not submit
To wallow in the mire of drunkenness,
They fixed him in this pillory with shouts
Of jeering laughter, and, like boys at school,
Poured down his sleeve what he refused to drink.
This iron wristlock is the very type
And symbol of the boyhood of mankind,
When custom is despotic, and unites
All its adherents in confederate bands
To persecute the recusant. But thou,
Brave soul, whom all thy comrades turn against
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For some unyielding nobleness of thine,—
Bear it serenely; be urbane and calm;
But hold thy true convictions, and obey
The God within thy breast! We have advanced
Since these old customs ruled the banquets here;
And at the brilliant tables of the great
Rich wines are offered by a friendly host,
As Nature offers springs of fairest water
For those to drink who thirst, yet does not take
Offence at our refusal—but to cram
Your guests with food or wine against their will,
As the great monkey did poor Gulliver,
Is most unfriendly. Let our object be
To make our neighbours happy in our home,
And there allow them perfect liberty,
So that the hour may pass without restraint.
There is a massive table in the hall,
At which the host presided long ago,
And dined with all his servants, not without
Some signs of rank more strongly marked than now.
And in his place at Christmas, after floods
Of ale had borne his hearers to that shore
Of bliss that I, alas! have never known,
He sang a song of welcome. Well received
That song would be: the voice of Mario
Is not so grateful to a perfect ear
As that old Earl's to his dependent guests.
At which the host presided long ago,
And dined with all his servants, not without
Some signs of rank more strongly marked than now.
And in his place at Christmas, after floods
Of ale had borne his hearers to that shore
Of bliss that I, alas! have never known,
He sang a song of welcome. Well received
That song would be: the voice of Mario
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As that old Earl's to his dependent guests.
I sat at work upon the antlered screen;
And through the hall came parties every hour,
Led by a little maiden as their guide.
They see the great, rough kitchens. Afterwards
They cross the hall, and in the dining-room
Learn that our modern homes, with all their faults,
If not so rudely picturesque and quaint,
Have more true comfort. I would rather spend
A fortnight at the Peacock than in state
Visit the petty king, if it might be,
Who held his court three hundred years ago
In this old mansion. He, with all his power,
Had not a cup of tea to offer one—
No billiard-room, nor pleasant library,
Whose cool recesses on a summer noon
The silent student haunts—no statue, bust,
Nor gallery of pictures. Those rewards
That Nature gives so freely to mankind
For their pursuit of knowledge were not his—
The cheap and punctual newspaper—the train
That brought me down to Rowsley, whilst I sat
And read a shilling volume. At his feasts
He had no music I should care to hear,
For all the great composers were unborn,
All instruments imperfect. He might read
Old Chaucer, but our Shakspeare was not known
To those with whom he sojourned.
And through the hall came parties every hour,
Led by a little maiden as their guide.
They see the great, rough kitchens. Afterwards
They cross the hall, and in the dining-room
Learn that our modern homes, with all their faults,
If not so rudely picturesque and quaint,
Have more true comfort. I would rather spend
A fortnight at the Peacock than in state
Visit the petty king, if it might be,
Who held his court three hundred years ago
In this old mansion. He, with all his power,
Had not a cup of tea to offer one—
No billiard-room, nor pleasant library,
Whose cool recesses on a summer noon
The silent student haunts—no statue, bust,
Nor gallery of pictures. Those rewards
That Nature gives so freely to mankind
For their pursuit of knowledge were not his—
The cheap and punctual newspaper—the train
That brought me down to Rowsley, whilst I sat
And read a shilling volume. At his feasts
He had no music I should care to hear,
For all the great composers were unborn,
All instruments imperfect. He might read
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To those with whom he sojourned.
After all,
The animal must first be satisfied;
And it might be a wholesome change for us
To live as they did for a year or two—
To hunt with that old huntsman in the hall,
And break our fast at six on beef and ale,
And dance in the long ball-room every night,
And throw all weak refinements to the winds.
The animal must first be satisfied;
And it might be a wholesome change for us
To live as they did for a year or two—
To hunt with that old huntsman in the hall,
And break our fast at six on beef and ale,
And dance in the long ball-room every night,
And throw all weak refinements to the winds.
That long, quaint ball-room! When the evening sun
Looks through the mullioned windows in the court,
And throws strong lights upon the oaken floor,
I walk there like a monk in cloisters old
In meditation; lingering, as I go,
To stand in the great oriels, and look up
To those proud shields that in the diamond panes
Recall the golden time of history,
The glorious reign of brave Elizabeth.
Beneath this noble ceiling dancers held
Gay revellings; and here amongst a crowd
Of maskers danced two lovers long ago,
Then sauntered towards the ante-room for air;
And, unsuspected, through the folding doors
That open on the terrace, down the steps
Went forth into the moonlight, and escaped.
The scene of this elopement is indeed
Full of romance, when from the ante-room
You look down the old stairs, whose balustrades
And spheres of stone are exquisite in colour,
Tinted by Nature; and the dark green yews,
And great bay-window with its ivied base,
Shut in the narrow picture.
Looks through the mullioned windows in the court,
And throws strong lights upon the oaken floor,
I walk there like a monk in cloisters old
In meditation; lingering, as I go,
To stand in the great oriels, and look up
To those proud shields that in the diamond panes
Recall the golden time of history,
The glorious reign of brave Elizabeth.
Beneath this noble ceiling dancers held
Gay revellings; and here amongst a crowd
Of maskers danced two lovers long ago,
Then sauntered towards the ante-room for air;
And, unsuspected, through the folding doors
That open on the terrace, down the steps
Went forth into the moonlight, and escaped.
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Full of romance, when from the ante-room
You look down the old stairs, whose balustrades
And spheres of stone are exquisite in colour,
Tinted by Nature; and the dark green yews,
And great bay-window with its ivied base,
Shut in the narrow picture.
Hence you pass
Into the lordly bedchamber of state,
Where, hung with faded velvet richly lined,
Still stands the royal bed—the only one
Left in the building. In the oriel
There is a mirror framed with tortoise-shell,
Wherein, they say, the lovely Queen of Scots
Was once reflected. Oh, that it had been
Like wondrous silver, sensitive enough
To hold her form for ever!
Into the lordly bedchamber of state,
Where, hung with faded velvet richly lined,
Still stands the royal bed—the only one
Left in the building. In the oriel
There is a mirror framed with tortoise-shell,
Wherein, they say, the lovely Queen of Scots
Was once reflected. Oh, that it had been
Like wondrous silver, sensitive enough
To hold her form for ever!
You ascend
The watch-tower next, and from its lofty turret
Look down upon the leads. Beneath you lies
All the great house, with quadrangles and towers,
Long, leaded roofs, and lines of battlement,
Reposing in the heat of summer noon
Like an old-steed, that, having served its master
Well in its prime, is freed at last from duty,
And sleeps in sunny pastures.
The watch-tower next, and from its lofty turret
Look down upon the leads. Beneath you lies
All the great house, with quadrangles and towers,
Long, leaded roofs, and lines of battlement,
Reposing in the heat of summer noon
Like an old-steed, that, having served its master
Well in its prime, is freed at last from duty,
And sleeps in sunny pastures.
I have seen
Old houses, where the men of former time
Have lived and died, so wantonly destroyed
By their descendants, that a place like this,
Preserved with pious care, but not “restored”
By rude, presumptuous hands, nor modernised
To suit convenience, seems a precious thing;
And I would thank its owner for the hours
That I have spent there; and I leave it now,
Hoping that his successors may preserve
Its roof with equal tenderness. It gave
Good shelter to their fathers many a year.
Old houses, where the men of former time
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By their descendants, that a place like this,
Preserved with pious care, but not “restored”
By rude, presumptuous hands, nor modernised
To suit convenience, seems a precious thing;
And I would thank its owner for the hours
That I have spent there; and I leave it now,
Hoping that his successors may preserve
Its roof with equal tenderness. It gave
Good shelter to their fathers many a year.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |