X GLASTONBURY'S SHRINE THE GEORGE, GLASTONBURY, August 23rd. You will be wondering, dearest Margaret, how we happen to be in this old town; but perhaps Angela told you in her letter that she offered to take the children on to Ilfracombe, so I shall waste no time in making explanations, as I must give you the impressions of this perfectly thrilling day, while everything is fresh in my mind. We came by way of Bath, a pleasant journey of about two hours from Oxford, through a level but not unattractive country, which reminded us of Holland, by reason of its flatness and many small streams, some of them like canals or dykes. There being a stop over of several hours in Bath, for all of us, we had time to go through the Roman baths, above ground and beneath. You and Allan are doubtless seeing the great baths in Rome, but even so, you could not fail to be interested in this early Roman transplanting at Bath. The subterranean bathrooms are supplied with water by huge pipes and heated with blocks of hot iron, or by having a fire underneath the metal floor. The very comfortable arrangements in the many private bathrooms made us realize, once more, what luxuries the Romans brought into Britain,— such luxury as only the privileged few enjoy to-day, while among the Romans there were baths for all classes. Above the great swimming-pool, there is what they call a Roman terrace, or open gallery, which is adorned with colossal statues of Cæsar, Hadrian, Suetonius, and many of "the great of old." Along the sides of this pool, and in many other places, are piled up bits of fine carving, broken columns and beautiful capitals which have been excavated within the last twenty years. Walter was quite in his element among these Roman antiquities, and has been wishing for Dr. McIvor to explain some things to him. When we passed into the Pump Room British associations overpowered the Roman, and Angela and I wished for you in this place, where so many of our old friends in literature were wont to congregate. They tell us that this assembly-room is very little changed since the days when Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Johnson, Boswell, Horace Walpole, and all the great writers and talkers used to come here to drink from the queer little fountain and to gossip endlessly, as people were wont to do in those good old days, before railroads, telephones, and automobiles had quickened the pace of life from the gentle amble of Miss Austen's novels to the breakneck speed of our own time. Miss Burney came here with Queen Charlotte, who held her court at Bath, and here again the authoress of Evelina came as Madame D'Arblay with a number of French émigrés. Except for the Roman remains, and the Cathedral, this old city is interesting only from its associations, as it is little frequented to-day. A few persons were drinking the mineral water, which flows from a fountain presided over by the figure of an angel supposed to be made in the likeness of the one who stirred the waters of Bethesda. The water is served hot in glasses set in odd little basins. We amused ourselves seeing the other people make wry faces over their nauseous hot drink, and were not tempted to try it ourselves. The Cathedral, which is quite handsome, has a richly-carved west front, with ladders upon which a number of armless, legless, and some times wingless, stone angels are climbing. "Just like the angels in Jacob's Dream, Christine says, and as it happens this remarkable decoration was suggested by the dream of Bishop Oliver King, who rebuilt the Cathedral. The effect of these poor, maimed little angels, climbing up and down continually, is odd, and almost painful, as one feels sorry for their poor little tired legs. These angels really seem to have been furnished with legs at the beginning, but, like most of the carving of the Cathedral, much of the west front is broken and worn, either from the softness of the stone or the extreme dampness of the climate. Inside the Cathedral we found a number of interesting monuments, and inscriptions, among the latter one to Lady Waller, wife of the Parliamentary General Waller, which is so odd, with its enigmatical play upon words, that Walter has copied it for you: "To the Deare Memory of the right virtuous and worthy Lady Jane, Lady Waller. In graces great in stature small, At the booking office in Bath Walter made inquiries about trains for our different routes, and found that we had been quite misinformed, as trains do run directly to Lynton. We have added another don't to our already quite long list. Don't trust your landlord "however pleasant" but go to fountain head, the booking office or the Bradshaw. And even then "don't be any too sure," Walter adds. However, we are not disposed to quarrel with our host of the Grilling, as by changing our plans we have gained the inexpressible pleasure of a long afternoon in Glastonbury. Not knowing anything about accommodations in this old town, we expected to go to Wells for the night, and spend Saturday in Glastonbury. But as luck would have it, we fell into conversation with an English lady en route, who told us of this George Inn, which she recommended highly. We are now doing the thing of all others which we longed to do, spending the night here and having a long afternoon and evening among the wonderful associations of this place, which is the only way to enjoy them. Could anything be more appropriate than to be stopping here at a pilgrims' inn? The George, which dates back to 1456, is on High Street near the Market |