"Dorothy Gray.

The careful, tender mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her."

The touch in the last words, "the misfortune to survive her!"--Carlyle's words upon his wife's tomb recur to me:

"And he feels that the light of his life has gone out."

These were men wailing for women. I cannot believe but that there are many women who would prefer to share the fate of men who die. There is such love on earth. Sujatas are not confined to India. As she says:

"But if Death called Senani, I should mount The pile and lay that dear head in my lap, My daily way, rejoicing when the torch Lit the quick flame and rolled the choking smoke.

For it is written, if an Indian wife Die so, her love shall give her husband's soul For every hair upon her head, a crore Of years in Swerza."

I think I know women who would esteem it a mercy to be allowed to pa.s.s away with _him_, if the Eternal had not set his "canon 'gainst self-slaughter." This prohibition the Indian wots not of, but mounts the pile believing as thoroughly as Abraham did when he placed Isaac on the altar, that G.o.d wills it so. They were equally mistaken; and this suggests that we may all be very much surprised when we come to understand rightly, how very seldom the unknown requires any sacrifice of what is pleasing to us in this present world of his. It seems to me it is not G.o.d but men who are disposed to make the path so very th.o.r.n.y.

[Sidenote: _Gray's Tomb._]

Upon Gray's own tomb there is inscribed:

"One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill.

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he."

One perfect gem outweighs a thousand mediocre performances and makes its creator immortal. The world has not a second Gray's Elegy among all its treasures. Nor is it likely to have. We found you still in your accustomed place.

The manor house of Stoke Pogis, which took its name from a marriage, away back in the 13th century, between a member of the Pogis family and an heiress, Amicia de Stoke, furnished the subject of Gray's "Long Story," a poem known now only to the curious student of English literature. How fortunate for the world that the poet did not let his reputation rest upon it!

[Sidenote: _Chief Justice c.o.ke._]

The old house, built in the time of good Queen Bess on an older foundation, is still more noted as the home of Sir Edward c.o.ke, the famous Lord Chief Justice and the rival of Bacon. In 1601 c.o.ke, who had married three years before a wealthy young widow, Lady Hatton of Hatton House, the daughter of Lord Burleigh, entertained the Virgin Queen at Stoke Pogis in a manner befitting the royal dignity and the length of his own purse. Among other presents which her Majesty graciously deigned to accept at the hands of her subject on the occasion was jewelry valued at 1,000, a large sum in those days.

c.o.ke's marriage did not turn out very happily. He was old enough to be his wife's father, and she always affected for him the utmost contempt, even forbidding him to enter her house in London except by the back door. The poor man bore his hen-pecking in silence for many years, but at last she went one step too far. During his absence in London she packed up and removed from Stoke to one of her own houses his plate and other valuables. The outraged husband forcibly entered her house and reclaimed his property, taking, as she said, some of hers also. This led to legal proceedings, in which she, through the aid of Bacon, got the better of him, and a reconciliation took place.

The next year the broil took another phase. Lady Hatton--she always refused to take c.o.ke's name--had borne him a daughter, who was the heiress of her mother's estates as well as of c.o.ke's wealth. Her hand had been sought by Sir John Villiers, but as he was poor his suit had been rejected. A turn came in the tide. c.o.ke, shorn of most of his honors, was in disgrace, and the Duke of Buckingham, Sir John's brother, was King James's favorite and the dispenser of immense patronage. c.o.ke, with the object of winning back the royal favor and of humbling Bacon, his great enemy, now determined to ally himself with the rising house, and offered his daughter to Villiers. Lady Hatton, who had not been consulted in the matter, refused her consent, ran away with her daughter, and concealed her in the house of a kinsman. But c.o.ke found out her hiding place, and with a dozen stout fellows broke into the house and seized his daughter. Lady Hatton, aided by Bacon, carried her case to the privy council and c.o.ke was proceeded against in the Star Chamber. But with Buckingham behind him the old lawyer proved too strong for Bacon this time, and succeeded in throwing his wife into prison and in forcing her to consent to the match.

The marriage took place at Hampton Court in the presence of the king, the queen, and the most distinguished of the n.o.bility, and Frances became Lady Villiers. Stoke Pogis was settled on the bridegroom, who was shortly raised to the peerage as Viscount Purbeck and Baron Villiers, of Stoke Pogis, and c.o.ke flattered himself that his troubles had at last ended. But the marriage resulted like many another ill-a.s.sorted union.

Lady Villiers, after driving her husband nearly to the verge of distraction, eloped with Sir Robert Howard, and lived for many years an eventful and scandalous life, which finally brought its reward in her degradation, imprisonment, and death.

If the course of true love never runs smooth, it may be taken for granted that the stream is even more tempestuous when marriage is made a matter of family alliance with no love at all in the matter. Our young ladies were unanimous upon this point, and one and all declared their firm resolve and readiness to trust to "true love" with all its risks.

The Queen Dowager, being appealed to by them for support, settled the matter by reciting the lines of an old Scotch song:

"La.s.sie tak the man ye loe Whate'er ye're minnie say, Though ye sud mak ye're bridal bed Amang pea strae."

So ta-ta all worldly considerations and family alliances, and the rest of it, say the wild romps of the Gay Charioteers.

[Sidenote: _Royal Visits._]

Several years after the death of c.o.ke, Stoke Pogis was for a short time the place of confinement of Charles I., who could see from its windows the towers of Windsor Castle, which he was never again to enter except as a headless corpse. On the death of Viscount Purbeck, who resided in the manor house after c.o.ke's decease, Stoke Pogis pa.s.sed by purchase into the hands of the Gayer family. When Charles II. came to his own again the then possessor of the mansion was knighted, and became so devoted in his affection for the Stuarts that when in after time King William desired to visit Stoke Pogis to see a place so rich in historical a.s.sociations, the old knight would not listen to it. In vain did his wife intercede: he declared that the usurper should not cross his threshold, and he kept his word. So it came to be said that Stoke Pogis had sumptuously entertained one sovereign, been the prison of another, and refused admission to a third.

We were told that quite recently Queen Victoria had visited it in person, with a view to its purchase for her daughter, and while walking through its magnificent suite of rooms she expressed the wish that her own Windsor had their equal. She finally decided to purchase Claremont, the price demanded for Stoke, it is said, having been too great to square with her majesty's estimate of value. It is in the market to-day.

If any of our bonanza kings want one of the stately homes of England, rich in historical a.s.sociations and "looking antiquity," here is his chance.

In still later times the old place came into possession of the Penn family, the heirs of our William Penn of Pennsylvania, and it was by one of them, John Penn, that the cenotaph to Gray was erected--for the poet, it will be remembered, was laid in his mother's tomb. This same Penn pulled down much of the old house and rebuilt is as it is to-day.

Our luncheon was to be upon the banks of the Thames to-day, the Old Swan Inn, where the stone bridge crosses the stream, being our base of supplies; but ere this was reached what a lovely picture was ours between Stoke Pogis and the Swan! All that has been sung or written about the valley of the Thames is found to be more than deserved. The silver stream flows gently through the valley, the fertile land rises gradually on both sides, enabling us to get extensive views from the top of the coach. Our road lies over tolerably high ground some distance from the river. Such perfect, quiet, homelike, luxuriant beauty is to be seen nowhere but in England. It is not possible for the elements to be combined to produce a more pleasing picture; and now, after seeing all else between Brighton and Inverness that lay upon our line, we return to the region of Streatley and Maple Durham, and award them the palm as the finest thoroughly English landscape.

We say to the valley of the Thames what the Eastern poet said to the Vale of Cashmere, which is not half so pretty:

"If there be a paradise upon earth, It is here, it is here."

The Old Swan proved to be, both in structure and location, a fit component part of the sylvan scene around. There ran the Thames in limpid purity, a picturesque stone bridge overhanging it, and the road-side inn within a few yards of the gra.s.sy bank.

[Sidenote: _Skylarks._]

The rugs were laid under a chestnut tree, and our first picnic luncheon spread on the b.u.t.tercups and daisies. Swallows skimmed the water, bees hummed above us--but stop! what's that, and where? Our first skylark singing at heaven's gate! All who heard this never-to-be-forgotten song for the first time were up and on their feet in an instant; but the tiny songster which was then filling the azure vault with music was nowhere to be seen. It's worth an Atlantic voyage to hear a skylark for the first time. Even luncheon was neglected a while, hungry as we were, that we might if possible catch a glimpse of the warbler. The flood of song poured forth as we stood wrapt awaiting the descent of the messenger from heaven. At last a small black speck came into sight. He is so little to see--so great to hear!

I know several fine things about the famous songster:

"In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun."

An "unbodied joy!" That's a hit, surely!

Here is Browning on the thrush, which I think should be to the lark:

"He sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture."

The third is just thrown in by the prodigal hand of genius in a poem not to a lark but to a daisy:

"Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckl'd breast, When upward springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east."

How fine is Wordsworth's well known tribute:

"Type of the wise, who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!"

And now I remember Shakespeare has his say too about the lark--what is it in England he has not his say about? or in all the world for that matter; and how much and how many things has he rendered it the highest wisdom for men to keep silent about after he has said his say, holding their peace forever.

[Sidenote: _Reading Abbey._]

A row upon the silver Thames after luncheon, and we are off again for Reading, where we are to rest over night at the Queen's. Reading has a pretty, new park and interesting ruins within its boundaries which we visited before dinner. There are but few traces left of the once famous Abbey, founded early in the twelfth century by Henry I. In the height of its prosperity more than two hundred monks fattened at its hospitable board, and its mitred abbot sat as a peer in Parliament. It was noted, too, as a centre of learning, but the jolly brethren must have sadly degenerated in this respect, if we can believe the report of the royal commissioners in temp. Henry VIII., for Hugh Cook, the last abbot, who was hanged and quartered near his own door in 1539, is described as a "stubborn monk, absolutely without learning." But, of course, all who believe that the much-married Henry was a monster of iniquity will put no faith in the reports of his minions, and will continue to believe that Abbot Hugh was a holy man of G.o.d, whose shortcomings in the small matters of orthography and syntax were more than made up by his proficiency in vigils, fastings, and prayers. That he was the "right man in the right place" is proven by the inventory of the relics found in his keeping by the aforesaid minions at the time of the suppression of the monastery. Among these sacred objects were "twoo peces of the holye crosse," "Saynt James hande," "a bone of Marye Magdelene," "a pece of Saynt Pancrat' arme," and "a bone of Saynt Edwarde the martyr is arme." Can it be possible that this saintly man, who so zealously guarded such treasures to the last moment of his life, should still be allowed to suffer under the imputation of stubbornness and ignorance! He mightn't just have been "one of those literary fellers," but it is very clear he had a firm grasp of the "fundamentals" of the faith. What is learning compared to a "bone of Saynt Edwarde" as a means of keeping the sheep in the true fold! The old abbot knew his business better than Henry's commissioners. The tooth of Buddha, which I went to see when in Ceylon, draws crowds from all parts of the island, and excites more piety than the tom-tom, or the incantations of the most learned priest.

Truly there's nothing like a relic as a means of grace.

A pretty lawn in the rear of our hotel gave us an opportunity for a game of lawn tennis in the twilight after dinner, and in the morning we were off for Oxford. The editorial in the Reading paper that morning upon emigration struck me as going to the root of the matter. Here is the concluding paragraph:

"Already the expanding and prospering industries of the New World are throwing an ominous shadow across the Old World and are affecting some of its habits and practices. But over and above and beyond all these, the free thought, the liberty of action, the calm independence and the sense of the dignity of man as man, and the perfect equality of all before the law and in the eye of the const.i.tution now existing in America, are developing a race of men who, through correspondence with home relations, the intercourse of free travel, the transaction of business, and the free, outspoken language of the press, are gradually disintegrating the yet strong conservative forces of European society, and thus preparing the downfall of the monarchical, aristocratic, military, and ecclesiastic systems which shackle and strangle the people of the Old World. These thoughts seem to me to convey the meaning of the great exodus now going on, and he is a wise statesman who reads the lesson aright."

There's a man after my own heart. He grasps the subject.

[Sidenote: _Causes of Emigration._]

The editor tells one of the several causes of the exodus which is embracing many of the most valuable citizens of the old lands where cla.s.s distinctions still linger. Man longs not only to be free but to be equal, if he has much manhood in him; and that America is the home for such men, numbers of the best are fast finding out. But England will soon march forward; she is not going to rest behind very long. There will soon be no superior political advantages here for the ma.s.ses, nor educational ones either. England is at work in earnest, and what she does, she does well. I prophecy that young England will give young America a hard race for supremacy.