church.  Proceeding to the high altar, we found it surrounded with many
very curious old monuments and memorials, some in carved oak, some in
marble; grim old worthies, mostly in the costume of Queen Elizabeth's
time.  Here was the bust of Speed, the historian; here was the monument
of Fox, author of The Book of Martyrs.  High up on the wall, beside the
altar, there was a black wooden coffin, and a lady sitting upright within
it, with her hands clasped in prayer, it being her awakening moment at
the Resurrection.  Thence we passed down the centre aisle, and about
midway we stopped before a marble bust, fixed against one of the pillars.
And this was the bust of Milton!  Yes, and Milton's bones lay beneath our
feet; for he was buried under the pew over the door of which I was
leaning.  The bust, I believe, is the original of the one in Westminster
Abbey.

Treading over the tombstones of the old citizens of London, both in the
aisles and the porch, and within doors and without, we went into the
churchyard, one side of which is fenced in by a portion of London Wall,
very solid, and still high, though the accumulation of human dust has
covered much of its base.  This is the most considerable portion now
remaining of the ancient wall of London.  The sexton now asked us to go
into the tower of the church, that he might show us the oldest part of
the structure, and we did so, and, looking down from the organ gallery, I
saw a woman sitting alone in the church, waiting for the rector, whose
ghostly consolation, I suppose, she needed.

This old church-tower was formerly lighted by three large windows,--one
of them of very great size; but the thrifty church-wardens of a
generation or two ago had built them up with brick, to the great
disfigurement of the church.  The sexton called my attention to the
organ-pipe, which is of sufficient size, I believe, to admit three men.

From Cripplegate we went to Milton Street (as it is now called), through
which we walked for a very excellent reason; for this is the veritable
Grub Street, where my literary kindred of former times used to
congregate.  It is still a shabby-looking street, with old-fashioned
houses, and inhabited chiefly by people of the poorer classes, though not
by authors.  Next we went to Old Broad Street, and, being joined by
Mr. B------, we set off for London Bridge, turning out of our direct
course to see London stone in Watling Street.  This famous stone appears
now to be built into the wall of St. Swithin's Church, and is so encased
that you can only see and touch the top of it through a circular hole.
There are one or two long cuts or indentations in the top, which are said
to have been made by Jack Cade's sword when he struck it against the
stone.  If so, his sword was of a redoubtable temper.  Judging by what I
saw, London stone was a rudely shaped and unhewn post.

At the London Bridge station, we took the rail for Greenwich, and, it
being only about five miles off, we were not long in reaching the town.
It was Easter Monday; and during the first three days of Easter, from
time immemorial, a fair has been held at Greenwich, and this was what we
had come to see.

[This fair is described in Our Old Home, in "A Loudon Suburb."]

Reaching Mr. Bennoch's house, we found it a pretty and comfortable one,
and adorned with many works of art; for he seems to be a patron of art
and literature, and a warm-hearted man, of active benevolence and vivid
sympathies in many directions.  His face shows this.  I have never seen
eyes of a warmer glow than his.  On the walls of one room there were a
good many sketches by Haydon, and several artists' proofs of fine
engravings, presented by persons to whom he had been kind.  In the
drawing-room there was a marble bust of Mrs. ------, and one, I think, of
himself, and one of the Queen, which Mr. Bennoch said was very good, and
it is unlike any other I have seen.  It is intended as a gift, from a
number of subscribers, to Miss Nightingale.  Likewise a crayon sketch of
------, looking rather morbid and unwholesome, as the poor lady really
is.  Also, a small picture of Mr. Bennoch in a military dress, as an
officer, probably of city-horse.  By and by came in a young gentleman,
son of Haydon, the painter of high art, and one or two ladies staying in
the house, and anon Mrs. ------.  And so we went in to dinner.

Bennoch is an admirable host, and warms his guests like a household fire
by the influence of his kindly face and glowing eyes, and by such
hospitable demeanor as best suits this aspect.  After the cloth was
removed, came in Mr. Newton Crosland, a young man who once called on me
in Liverpool,--the husband of a literary lady, formerly Camilla Toulmin.
The lady herself was coming to spend the evening.  The husband (and I
presume the wife) is a decided believer in spiritual manifestations.  We
talked of politics and spiritualism and literature; and before we rose
from table, Mr. Bennoch drank the health of the ladies, and especially of
Mrs. ------, in terms very kind towards her and me.  I responded in her
behalf as well as I could, and left it to Mr. Bowman, as a bachelor, to
respond for the ladies generally,--which he did briefly, toasting
Mrs. B------.

We had heard the sound of the piano in the drawing-room for some time,
and now adjourning thither, I had the pleasure to be introduced to Mrs.
Newton Crosland,--a rather tall, thin, pale, and lady-like person,
looking, I thought, of a sensitive character.  She expressed in a low
tone and quiet way great delight at seeing my distinguished self! for she
is a vast admirer of The Scarlet Letter, and especially of the character
of Hester; indeed, I remember seeing a most favorable criticism of the
book from her pen, in one of the London magazines. . . .

At eleven o'clock Mrs. Crosland entered the tiniest pony-carriage, and
set forth for her own residence, with a lad walking at the pony's head,
and carrying a lantern. . . .

March 26th.--Yesterday was not a very eventful day.  After writing in my
journal I went out at twelve, and visited, for the first time, the
National Gallery.  It is of no use for me to criticise pictures, or to
try to describe them, but I have an idea that I might acquire a taste,
with a little attention to the subject, for I find I already begin to
prefer some pictures to others.  This is encouraging.  Of those that I
saw yesterday, I think I liked several by Murillo best.  There were a
great many people in the gallery, almost entirely of the middle, with a
few of the lower classes; and I should think that the effect of the
exhibition must at least tend towards refinement.  Nevertheless, the only
emotion that I saw displayed was in broad grins on the faces of a man and
two women, at sight of a small picture of Venus, with a Satyr peeping at
her with an expression of gross animal delight and merriment.  Without
being aware of it, this man and the two women were of that same Satyr
breed.

If I lived in London, I would endeavor to educate myself in this and
other galleries of art; but as the case stands, it would be of no use.  I
saw two of Turner's landscapes; but did not see so much beauty in them as
in some of Claude's.  A view of the grand canal in Venice, by Canaletto,
seemed to me wonderful,--absolutely perfect,--a better reality, for I
could see the water of the canal moving and dimpling; and the palaces and
buildings on each side were quite as good in their way.

Leaving the gallery, I walked down into the city, and passed through
Smithfield, where I glanced at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. . . . Then I
went into St. Paul's, and walked all round the great cathedral, looking,
I believe, at every monument on the floor.  There is certainly nothing
very wonderful in any of them, and I do wish it would not so generally
happen that English warriors go into battle almost nude; at least, we
must suppose so, from their invariably receiving their death-wounds in
that condition.  I will not believe that a sculptor or a painter is a man
of genius unless he can wake the nobleness of his subject, illuminate and
transfigure any given pattern of coat and breeches.  Nevertheless, I
never go into St. Paul's without being impressed anew with the grandeur
of the edifice, and the general effect of these same groups of statuary
ranged in their niches and at the bases of the pillars as adornments of
the cathedral.

Coming homeward, I went into the enclosure of the Temple, and near the
entrance saw "Dr. Johnson's staircase" printed over a doorway; so I not
only looked in, but went up the first flight, of some broad, well-worn
stairs, passing my hand over a heavy, ancient, broken balustrade, on
which, no doubt, Johnson's hand had often rested.  It was here that
Boswell used to visit him, in their early acquaintance.  Before my lunch,
I had gone into Bolt Court, where he died.

This morning there have been letters from Mr. Wilding, enclosing an
invitation to me to be one of the stewards of the anniversary dinner of
the Literary Fund.

No, I thank you, gentlemen!

March 27th.--Yesterday I went out at about twelve, and visited the
British Museum; an exceedingly tiresome affair.  It quite crushes a
person to see so much at once, and I wandered from hall to hall with a
weary and heavy heart, wishing (Heaven forgive me!) that the Elgin
marbles and the frieze of the Parthenon were all burnt into lime,
and that the granite Egyptian statues were hewn and squared into
building-stones, and that the mummies had all turned to dust two thousand
years ago; and, in fine, that all the material relics of so many
successive ages had disappeared with the generations that produced them.
The present is burdened too much with the past.  We have not time, in our
earthly existence, to appreciate what is warm with life, and immediately
around us; yet we heap up these old shells, out of which human life has
long emerged, casting them off forever.  I do not see how future ages are
to stagger onward under all this dead weight, with the additions that
will be continually made to it.

After leaving the Museum, I went to see Bennoch, and arrange with him our
expedition of to-day; and he read me a letter from Topper, very earnestly
inviting me to come and spend a night or two with him.  Then I wandered
about the city, and was lost in the vicinity of Holborn; so that for a
long while I was under a spell of bewilderment, and kept returning, in
the strangest way, to the same point in Lincoln's Inn Fields. . . .

Mr. Bowman and I went to the Princess's Theatre in the evening.  Charles
Kean performed in Louis XI. very well indeed,--a thoughtful and highly
skilled actor,--much improved since I saw him, many years ago, in
America.

ALDERSHOTT CAMP.

April 1st.--After my last date on Thursday, I visited the National
Gallery.  At three o'clock, having packed a travelling-bag, I went to
Bennoch's office, and lunched with him; and at about five we took the
rail from the Waterloo station for Aldershott Camp.  At Tamborough we
were cordially received by Lieutenant Shaw, of the North Cork Rifles, and
were escorted by him, in a fly, to his quarters.  The camp is a large
city, composed of numberless wooden barracks, arranged in regular
streets, on a wide, bleak heath, with an extensive and dreary prospect on
all sides.  Lieutenant Shaw assigned me one room in his hut, and Bennoch
another, and made us as comfortable as kind hospitality could; but the
huts are very small, and the rooms have no size at all; neither are they
air-tight, and the sharp wind whistles in at the crevices; and, on the
whole, of all discomfortable places, I am inclined to reckon Aldershott
Camp the most so.  I suppose the government has placed the camp on that
windy heath, and built such wretched huts, for the very purpose of
rendering life as little desirable as may be to the soldiers, so that
they should throw it away the more willingly.

At seven o'clock we dined at the regimental mess, with the officers of
the North Cork.  The mess-room is by far the most endurable place to be
found in camp.  The hut is large, and the mess-room is capable of
receiving between thirty and forty guests, besides the officers of the
regiment, when a great dinner-party is given.  As I saw it, the whole
space was divided into a dining-room and two anterooms by red curtains
drawn across; and the second anteroom seems to be a general rendezvous
for the officers, where they meet at all times, and talk, or look over
the newspapers and the army-register, which constitute the chief of their
reading.  The Colonel and Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment received
Bennoch and me with great cordiality, as did all the other officers, and
we sat down to a splendid dinner.

All the officers of the regiment are Irishmen, and all of them, I
believe, men of fortune; and they do what they can towards alleviating
their hardships in camp by eating and drinking of the best that can be
obtained of all good things.  The table service and plate were as fine as
those in any nobleman's establishment; the dishes numerous and admirably
got up; and the wines delectable and genuine,--as they had need to be;
for there is a great consumption of them.  I liked these Irish officers
exceedingly;--not that it would be possible to live long among them
without finding existence a bore; for they have no thought, no
intellectual movement, no ideas, that I was aware of, beyond horses,
dogs, drill, garrisons, field-days, whist, wine, cigars, and all that
kind of thing; yet they were really gentlemen living on the best terms
with one another,--courteous, kind, most hospitable, with a rich Irish
humor, softened down by social refinements,--not too refined either, but
a most happy sort of behavior, as natural as that of children, and with a
safe freedom that made one feel entirely at my ease.  I think well of the
Irish gentlemen, for their sakes; and I believe I might fairly attribute
to Lieutenant-Colonel Stowell (next whom I sat) a higher and finer
cultivation than the above description indicates.  Indeed, many of them
may have been capable of much more intellectual intercourse than that of
the mess-table; but I suppose it would not have been in keeping with
their camp life, nor suggested by it.  Several of the elder officers were
men who had been long in the army; and the Colonel--a bluff, hearty old
soldier, with a profile like an eagle's head and beak--was a veteran of
the Peninsula, and had a medal on his breast with clasps for three famous
battles besides that of Waterloo.

The regimental band played during dinner, and the Lieutenant-Colonel
apologized to me for its not playing "Hail Columbia," the tune not coning
within their musical accomplishments.  It was no great matter, however;
for I should not have distinguished it from any other tune; but, to do me
what honor was possible, in the way of national airs, the band was
ordered to play a series of negro melodies, and I was entirely satisfied.
It is really funny that the "wood-notes wild" of those poor black slaves
should have been played in a foreign laud as an honorable compliment to
one of their white countrymen.

After dinner we played whist, and then had some broiled bones for supper,
and finally went home to our respective huts not much earlier than four
o'clock.  But I don't wonder these gentlemen sit up as long as they can
keep their eyes open; for never was there anything so utterly comfortless
as their camp-beds.  They are really worse than the bed of honor, no
wider, no softer, no warmer, and affording not nearly so sound sleep.
Indeed, I got hardly any sleep at all, and almost as soon as I did close
my eyes, the bugles sounded, and the drums beat reveille, and from that
moment the camp was all astir; so I pretty soon uprose, and went to the
mess-room for my breakfast, feeling wonderfully fresh and well,
considering what my night had been.

Long before this, however, this whole regiment, and all the other
regiments, marched off to take part in a general review, and Bennoch and
I followed, as soon as we had eaten a few mutton-chops.  It was a bright,
sunshiny day; but with a strong east-wind, as piercing and pitiless as
ever blew; and this wide, undulating plain of Aldershott seemed just the
place where the east-wind was at home.  Still, it acted, on the whole,
like an invigorating cordial; and whereas in pleasanter circumstances I
should have lain down, and gone to sleep, I now felt as if I could do
without sleep for a month.

In due time we found out the place of the North Cork Regiment in the
general battle-array, and were greeted as old comrades by the Colonel and
other officers.  Soon the soldiers (who, when we first reached them, were
strolling about, or standing at ease) were called into order; and anon we
saw a group of mounted officers riding along the lines, and among them a
gentleman in a civilian's round hat, and plain frock and trousers, riding
on a white horse.  This group of riders turned the front of the regiment,
and then passed along the rear, coming close to where we stood; and as
the plainly dressed gentleman rode by, he bent towards me, and I tried to
raise my hat, but did not succeed very well, because the fierce wind had
compelled me to jam it tightly upon my head.  The Duke of Cambridge (for
this was he) is a comely-looking gentlemanly man, of bluff English face,
with a great deal of brown beard about it.  Though a pretty tall man, he
appears, on  horseback, broad and round in proportion to his height.  I
looked at him with a certain sort of interest, and a feeling of kindness;
for one does feel kindly to whatever human being is anywise marked out
from the rest, unless it be by his disagreeable qualities.

The troops, from twelve to fifteen thousand, now fell into marching
order, and went to attack a wood, where we were to suppose the enemy to
be stationed.  The sham-fight seemed to me rather clumsily managed, and
without any striking incident or result.  The officers had prophesied,
the night before, that General K------, commanding in the camp, would
make a muddle of it; and probably he did.  After the review, the Duke of
Cambridge with his attendant officers took their station, and all the
regiments marched in front of him, saluting as they passed.  As each
colonel rode by, and as the banner of each regiment was lowered, the Duke
lifted his hat.

The most splendid effect of this parade was the gleam of the sun upon the
long line of bayonets,--the sheen of all that steel appearing like a
wavering fringe of light upon the dark masses of troops below.  It was
very fine.  But I was glad when all was done, and I could go back to the
mess-room, whither I carried an excellent appetite for luncheon.  After
this we walked about the camp,--looked at some model tents, inspected the
arrangements and modes of living in the huts of the privates; and thus
gained more and more adequate ideas of the vile uncomfortableness of a
military life.  Finally, I went to the anteroom and turned over the
regimental literature,--a peerage and baronetage,--an army and militia
register, a number of the Sporting Magazine, and one of the United
Service, while Bennoch took another walk.  Before dinner we both tried to
catch a little nap by way of compensation for last night's deficiencies;
but, for my part, the attempt was fruitless.

The dinner was as splendid and as agreeable as that of the evening
before; and I believe it was nearly two o'clock when Bennoch and I bade
farewell to our kind entertainers.  For my part I fraternized with these
military gentlemen in a way that augurs the very best things for the
future peace of the two countries.  They all expressed the warmest
sympathies towards America and it was easy to judge from their
conversation that there is no real friendliness on the part of the
military towards the French.  The old antipathy is just as strong as
ever,--stronger than ever, perhaps, on account of the comparatively more
brilliant success of the French in this Russian war.  So, with most
Christian sentiments of peace and brotherly love, we returned to our hut,
and lay down, each in his narrow bed.

Early in the morning the drums and bugles began the usual bedevilment;
and shortly after six I dressed, and we had breakfast at the mess-room,
shook hands with Lieutenant Shaw (our more especial host), and drove off
to the railway station at Ash.

I know not whether I have mentioned that the villages neighboring to the
camp have suffered terribly as regards morality from the vicinity of the
soldiers.  Quiet old English towns, that till within a little time ago
had kept their antique simplicity and innocence, have now no such thing
as female virtue in them, so far as the lower classes are concerned.
This is expressing the matter too strongly, no doubt; but there is too
much truth in it, nevertheless; and one of the officers remarked that
even ladies of respectability had grown much more free in manners and
conversation than at first.  I have heard observations similar to this
from a Nova-Scotian, in reference to the moral influence of soldiers when
stationed in the provinces.

WOOTON.

Wooton stands in a hollow, near the summit of one of the long swells that
here undulate over the face of the country.  There is a good deal of wood
behind it, as should be the case with the residence of the author of the
Sylva; but I believe few, if any, of these trees are known to have been
planted by John Evelyn, or even to have been coeval with his time.  The
house is of brick, partly ancient, and consists of a front and two
projecting wings, with a porch and entrance in the centre.  It has a
desolate, meagre aspect, and needs something to give it life and stir and
jollity.  The present proprietor is of the old Evelyn family, and is now
one of the two members of Parliament for Surrey; but he is a very shy and
retiring man, unmarried, sees little company, and seems either not to
know how to make himself comfortable or not to care about it.  A servant
told us that Mr. ------ had just gone out, but Tupper, who is apparently
on intimate terms with him, thought it best that we should go into the
house, while he went in search of the master.  So the servant ushered us
through a hall,--where were many family pictures by Lely, and, for aught
I know, by Vandyke, and by Kneller, and other famous painters,--up a
grand staircase, and into the library, the inner room of which contained
the ponderous volumes which John Evelyn used to read.  Nevertheless, it
was a room of most barren aspect, without a carpet on the floor, with
pine bookcases, with a common whitewashed ceiling, with no luxurious
study-chairs, and without a fire.  There was an open folio on the table,
and a sheet of manuscript that appeared to have been recently written.  I
took down a book from the shelves (a volume of annals, connected with
English history), and Tupper afterwards told us that this one single
volume, for its rarity, was worth either two or three hundred pounds.
Against one of the windows of this library there grows a magnolia-tree,
with a very large stem, and at least fifty years old.

Mrs. Tupper and I waited a good while, and then Bennoch and Tupper came
back, without having found Mr. ------.  Tupper wished very much to show
the prayer-book used by King Charles at his execution, and some curious
old manuscript volumes; but the servant said that his master always kept
these treasures locked up, and trusted the key to nobody.  We therefore
had to take our leave without seeing them; and I have not often entered a
house that one feels to be more forlorn than Wooton,--although we did
have a glimpse of a dining-room, with a table laid for three or four
guests, and looking quite brilliant with plate and glass and snowy
napery.  There was a fire, too, in this one room.  Mr. ------ is making
extensive alterations in the house, or has recently done so, and this is
perhaps one reason of its ungenial meagreness and lack of finish.

Before our departure from Wooton, Tupper had asked me to leave my card
for Mr. ------; but I had no mind to overstep any limit of formal
courtesy in dealing with an Englishman, and therefore declined.  Tupper,
however, on his own responsibility, wrote his name, Bennoch's, and mine
on a piece of paper, and told the servant to show them to Mr. ------.  We
soon had experience of the good effect of this; for we had scarcely got
back before somebody drove up to Tupper's door, and one of the girls,
looking out, exclaimed that there was Mr. ------ himself, and another
gentleman.  He had set out, the instant he heard of our call, to bring
the three precious volumes for me to see.  This surely was most kind; a
kindness which I should never have dreamed of expecting from a shy,
retiring man like Mr. ------.

So he and his friend were ushered into the dining-room, and introduced.
Mr. ------ is a young-looking man, dark, with a mustache, rather small,
and though he has the manners of a man who has seen the world, it
evidently requires an effort in him to speak to anybody; and I could see
his whole person slightly writhing itself, as it were, while he addressed
me.  This is strange in a man of his public position, member for the
county, necessarily mixed up with life in many forms, the possessor of
sixteen thousand pounds a year, and the representative of an ancient
name.  Nevertheless, I liked him, and felt as if I could become
intimately acquainted with him, if circumstances were favorable; but, at
a brief interview like this, it was hopeless to break through two great
reserves; so I talked more with his companion--a pleasant young man,
fresh from college, I should imagine--than with Mr. ------ himself.

The three books were really of very great interest.  One was an octavo
volume of manuscript in John Evelyn's own hand, the beginning of his
published diary, written as distinctly as print, in a small, clear
character.  It can be read just as easily as any printed book.  Another
was a Church of England prayer-book, which King Charles used on the
scaffold, and which was stained with his sacred blood, and underneath are
two or three lines in John Evelyn's hand, certifying this to be the very
book.  It is an octavo, or small folio, and seems to have been very
little used, scarcely opened, except in one spot; its leaves elsewhere
retaining their original freshness and elasticity.  It opens most readily
at the commencement of the common service; and there, on the left-hand
page, is a discoloration, of a yellowish or brownish hue, about two
thirds of an inch large, which, two hundred years ago and a little more,
was doubtless red.  For on that page had fallen a drop of King Charles's
blood.

The other volume was large, and contained a great many original letters,
written by the king during his troubles.  I had not time to examine them
with any minuteness, and remember only one document, which Mr. ------
pointed out, and which had a strange pathos and pitifulness in it.  It
was a sort of due-bill, promising to pay a small sum for beer, which had
been supplied to his Majesty, so soon as God should enable him, or the
distracted circumstances of his kingdom make it possible,--or some
touching and helpless expression of that kind.  Prince Hal seemed to
consider it an unworthy matter, that a great prince should think of "that
poor creature, small beer," at all; but that a great prince should not be
able to pay for it is far worse.

Mr. ------ expressed his regret that I was not staying longer in this
part of the country, as he would gladly have seen me at Wooten, and he
succeeded in saying something about my books; and I hope I partly
succeeded in showing him that I was very sensible of his kindness in
letting me see those relics.  I cannot say whether or no I expressed it
sufficiently.  It is better with such a man, or, indeed, with any man, to
say too little than too much; and, in fact, it would have been indecorous
in me to take too much of his kindness to my own share, Bennoch being
likewise in question.

We had a cup of coffee, and then took our leave; Tupper accompanying us
part way down the village street, and bidding us an affectionate
farewell.

BATTLE ABBEY.

Bennoch and I recommenced our travels, and, changing from one railway to
another, reached Tunbridge Wells at nine or ten in the evening. . . .
The next day was spent at Tunbridge Wells, which is famous for a
chalybeate spring, and is a watering-place of note, most healthily
situated on a high, breezy hill, with many pleasant walks in the
neighborhood. . . . From Tunbridge Wells we transported ourselves to
Battle,--the village in which is Battle Abbey.  It is a large village,
with many antique houses and some new ones; and in its principal street,
on one side, with a wide, green space before it, you see the gray,
embattled, outer wall, and great, square, battlemented entrance tower
(with a turret at each corner), of the ancient Abbey.  It is the perfect
reality of a Gothic battlement and gateway, just as solid and massive as
when it was first built, though hoary and venerable with the many
intervening centuries.  There are only two days in the week on which
visitors are allowed entrance, and this was not one of them.
Nevertheless, Bennoch was determined to get in, and he wished me to send
Lady Webster my card with his own; but this I utterly refused, for the
honor of America and for my own honor; because I will not do anything to
increase the reputation we already have as a very forward people.
Bennoch, however, called at a bookshop on the other side of the street,
near the gateway of the castle; and making friends, as he has a
marvellous tact in doing, with the bookseller, the latter offered to take
in his card to the housekeeper, and see if Lady Webster would not relax
her rule in our favor.  Meanwhile, we went into the old church of Battle,
which was built in Norman times, though subsequently to the Abbey.  As we
entered the church door, the bell rang for joy at the news of peace,
which had just been announced by the London papers.

The church has been whitewashed in modern times, and does not look so
venerable as it ought, with its arches and pillared aisles.  In the
chancel stands a marble tomb, heavy, rich, and elaborate, on the top of
which lie the broken-nosed statues of Sir Anthony Browne and his lady,
who were the Lord and Lady of Battle Abbey in Henry VIII.'s time.  The
knight is in armor, and the lady in stately garb, and (save for their
broken noses) they are in excellent preservation.  The pavement of the
chancel and aisles is all laid with tombstones, and on two or three of
these there were engraved brasses, representing knights in armor, and
churchmen, with inscriptions in Latin.  Some of them are very old.  On
the walls, too, there are various monuments, principally of dignitaries
connected with the Abbey.  Two hatchments, in honor of persons recently
dead, were likewise suspended in the chancel.  The best pew of the church
is, of course, that of the Webster family.  It is curtained round,
carpeted, furnished with chairs and footstools, and more resembles a
parlor than a pew; especially as there is a fireplace in one of the
pointed archways, which I suppose has been bricked up in order to form
it.  On the opposite side of the aisle is the pew of some other magnate,
containing a stove.  The rest of the parishioners have to keep themselves
warm with the fervor of their own piety.  I have forgotten what else was
interesting, except that we were shown a stone coffin, recently dug up,
in which was hollowed a place for the head of the corpse.

Returning to the bookshop, we found that Lady Webster had sent her
compliments, and would be very happy to have us see the Abbey.  How
thoroughly kind these English people can be when they like, and how often
they like to be so!

We lost no time in ringing the bell at the arched entrance, under the
great tower, and were admitted by an old woman who lives, I believe, in
the thickness of the wall.  She told us her room used to be the prison of
the Abbey, and under the great arch she pointed to a projecting beam,
where she said criminals used to be hanged.

At two of the intersecting points of the arches, which form the roof of
the gateway, were carved faces of stone, said to represent King Harold
and William the Conqueror.  The exterior wall, of which this tower is the
gateway, extends far along the village street, and encloses a very large
space, within which stands the mansion, quite secluded from unauthorized
visitors, or even from the sight of those without, unless it be at very
distant eyeshot.

We rang at the principal door of the edifice (it is under a deep arch, in
the Norman style, but of modern date), and a footman let its in, and then
delivered us over to a respectable old lady in black.  She was a
Frenchwoman by birth, but had been very long in the service of the
family, and spoke English almost without an accent; her French blood
being indicated only by her thin and withered aspect, and a greater
gentility of manner than would have been seen in an Englishwoman of
similar station.  She ushered us first into a grand and noble hall, the
arched and carved oaken roof of which ascended into the gable.  It was
nearly sixty feet long, and its height equal to its length,--as stately a
hall, I should imagine, as is anywhere to be found in a private mansion.
It was lighted, at one end, by a great window, beneath which, occupying
the whole breadth of the hall, hung a vast picture of the Battle of
Hastings; and whether a good picture or no, it was a rich adornment of
the hall.  The walls were wainscoted high upward with oak: they were
almost covered with noble pictures of ancestry, and of kings and great
men, and beautiful women; there were trophies of armor hung aloft; and
two armed figures, one in brass mail, the other in bright steel, stood on
a raised dais, underneath the great picture.  At the end of the hall,
opposite the picture, a third of the way up towards the roof, was a
gallery.  All these things that I have enumerated were in perfect
condition, without rust, untouched by decay or injury of any kind; but
yet they seemed to belong to a past age, and were mellowed, softened in
their splendor, a little dimmed with time,--toned down into a venerable
magnificence.  Of all domestic things that I have seen in England, it
satisfied me most.

Then the Frenchwoman showed us into various rooms and offices, most of
which were contrived out of the old abbey-cloisters, and the vaulted
cells and apartments in which the monks used to live.  If any house be
haunted, I should suppose this might be.  If any church-property bring a
curse with it, as people say, I do not see how the owners of Battle Abbey
can escape it, taking possession of and dwelling in these holy precincts,
as they have done, and laying their kitchen hearth with the stones of
overthrown altars.  The Abbey was first granted, I believe, to Sir
Anthony Browne, whom I saw asleep with his lady in the church.  It was
his first wife.  I wish it had been his second; for she was Surrey's
Geraldine.  The posterity of Sir Anthony kept the place till 1719, and
then sold it to the Websters, a family of Baronets, who are still the
owners and occupants.  The present proprietor is Sir Augustus Webster,
whose mother is the lady that so kindly let us into the Abbey.

Mr. Bennoch gave the nice old French lady half a crown, and we next went
round among the ruined portions of the Abbey, under the gardener's
guidance.  We saw two ivied towers, insulated from all other ruins; and
an old refectory, open to the sky, and a vaulted crypt, supported by
pillars; and we saw, too, the foundation and scanty remains of a chapel,
which had been long buried out of sight of man, and only dug up within
present memory,--about forty years ago.  There had always been a
tradition that this was the spot where Harold had planted his standard,
and where his body was found after the battle; and the discovery of the
ruined chapel confirmed the tradition.

I might have seen a great deal more, had there been time; and I have
forgotten much of what I did see; but it is an exceedingly interesting
place.  There is an avenue of old yew-trees, which meet above like a
cloistered arch; and this is called the Monks' Walk.  I rather think they
were ivy, though growing unsupported.

As we were retiring, the gardener suddenly stopped, as if he were
alarmed, and motioned to us to do the same, saying, "I believe it is my
lady!"  And so it was,--a tall and stately lady in black, trimming shrubs
in the garden.  She bowed to us very graciously,--we raised our hats, and
thus we met and parted without more ado.  As we went through the arch of
the entrance tower, Bennoch gave the old female warder a shilling, and
the gardener followed us to get half a crown.

HASTINGS.

We took a fly and driver from the principal hotel of Battle, and drove
off for Hastings, about seven miles distant.  Hastings is now a famous
watering and sea-bathing place, and seems to be well sheltered from the
winds, though open to the sea, which here stretches off towards France.
We climbed a high and steep hill, terraced round its base with streets of
modern lodging-houses, and crowned on its summit with the ruins of a
castle, the foundation of which was anterior to the Conquest.  This
castle has no wall towards the sea, the precipice being too high and
sheer to admit of attack on that side.  I have quite exhausted my
descriptive faculty for the present, so shall say nothing of this old
castle, which indeed (the remains being somewhat scanty and scraggling)
is chiefly picturesque and interesting from its bold position on such a
headlong hill.

Clambering down on another side from that of our ascent, we entered
the town of Hastings, which seems entirely modern, and made up of
lodging-houses, shops, hotels, parades, and all such makings up of
watering-places generally.  We took a delightful warm bath, washing off
all weariness and naughtiness, and coming out new men.  Then we walked to
St. Leonard's,--a part of Hastings, I believe, but a mile or two from the
castle, and there called at the lodgings of two friends of Bennoch.

These were Mr. Martin, the author of Bon Gaultier's ballads, and his
wife, the celebrated actress, Helen Faucett.  Mr. Martin is a barrister,
a gentleman whose face and manners suited me at once; a simple, refined,
sincere, not too demonstrative person.  His wife, too, I liked; a tall,
dark, fine, and lady-like woman, with the simplest manners, that give no
trouble at all, and so must be perfect.  With these two persons I felt
myself, almost in a moment, on friendly terms, and in true accord, and so
I talked, I think, more than I have at any time since coming to London.

We took a pleasant lunch at their house; and then they walked with us to
the railway station, and there they took leave of Bennoch affectionately
and of me hardly less so; for, in truth, we had grown to be almost
friends in this very little while.  And as we rattled away, I said to
Bennoch earnestly, "What good people they are!"--and Bennoch smiled, as
if he had known perfectly well that I should think and say so.  And thus
we rushed onward to London; and I reached St. James's Place between nine
and ten o'clock, after a very interesting tour, the record of which I
wish I could have kept as we went along, writing each day's history
before another day's adventures began.

END OF VOL. I.