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diff --git a/1551-h/1551-h.htm b/1551-h/1551-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9829843 --- /dev/null +++ b/1551-h/1551-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1442 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>A Cathedral Courtship</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.headingsummary { margin-left: 5%;} + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">A Cathedral Courtship, by Kate Douglas Wiggin</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Cathedral Courtship, by Kate Douglas Wiggin + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: A Cathedral Courtship + + +Author: Kate Douglas Wiggin + + + +Release Date: July 7, 2008 [eBook #1551] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1893 Gay and Bird edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN</p> +<p style="text-align: center">WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS<br /> +BY CLIFFORD CARLETON</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON: GAY AND BIRD<br /> +5 CHANDOS STREET STRAND<br /> +1893</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center">First Edition June 1893.<br /> +Second Edition July 1893.<br /> +Third Edition September 1893.<br /> +Fourth Edition November 1893.<br /> +Fifth Edition October 1894.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">to my boston +friend</span><br /> +SALEMINA<br /> +<span class="smcap">no anglomaniac</span>, <span +class="smcap">but</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">a true briton</span></p> +<h2>SHE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Winchester</span>, <i>May</i> 28, 1891<br /> +The Royal Garden Inn.</p> +<p>We are doing the English cathedral towns, aunt Celia and +I. Aunt Celia has an intense desire to improve my +mind. Papa told her, when we were leaving Cedarhurst, that +he wouldn’t for the world have it too much improved, and +aunt Celia remarked that, so far as she could judge, there was no +immediate danger; with which exchange of hostilities they +parted.</p> +<p>We are traveling under the yoke of an iron itinerary, +warranted neither to bend nor break. It was made out by a +young High Church curate in New York, and if it had been blessed +by all the bishops and popes it could not be more sacred to aunt +Celia. She is awfully High Church, and I believe she thinks +this tour of the cathedrals will give me a taste for ritual and +bring me into the true fold. I have been hearing dear old +Dr. Kyle a great deal lately, and aunt Celia says that he is the +most dangerous Unitarian she knows, because he has leanings +towards Christianity.</p> +<p>Long ago, in her youth, she was engaged to a young +architect. He, with his triangles and T-squares and things, +succeeded in making an imaginary scale-drawing of her heart (up +to that time a virgin forest, an unmapped territory), which +enabled him to enter in and set up a pedestal there, on which he +has remained ever since. He has been only a memory for many +years, to be sure, for he died at the age of twenty-six, before +he had had time to build anything but a livery stable and a +country hotel. This is fortunate, on the whole, because +aunt Celia thinks he was destined to establish American +architecture on a higher plane,—rid it of its base, +time-serving, imitative instincts, and waft it to a height where, +in the course of centuries, we should have been revered and +followed by all the nations of the earth. I went to see the +livery stable, after one of these Miriam-like flights of prophecy +on the might-have-been. It isn’t fair to judge a +man’s promise by one performance, and that one a livery +stable, so I shall say nothing.</p> +<p>This sentiment about architecture and this fondness for the +very toppingest High Church ritual cause aunt Celia to look on +the English cathedrals with solemnity and reverential awe. +She has given me a fat notebook, with “Katharine +Schuyler” stamped in gold letters on the Russia leather +cover, and a lock and key to protect its feminine +confidences. I am not at all the sort of girl who makes +notes, and I have told her so; but she says that I must at least +record my passing impressions, if they are ever so trivial and +commonplace.</p> +<p>I wanted to go directly from Southampton to London with the +Abbotts, our ship friends, who left us yesterday. Roderick +Abbott and I had had a charming time on board ship (more charming +than aunt Celia knows, because she was very ill, and her natural +powers of chaperoning were severely impaired), and the prospect +of seeing London sights together was not unpleasing; but Roderick +Abbott is not in aunt Celia’s itinerary, which reads: +“Winchester, Salisbury, Wells, Bath, Bristol, Gloucester, +Oxford, London, Ely, Lincoln, York, Durham.”</p> +<p>Aunt Celia is one of those persons who are born to command, +and when they are thrown in contact with those who are born to be +commanded all goes as merry as a marriage bell; otherwise +not.</p> +<p>So here we are at Winchester; and I don’t mind all the +Roderick Abbotts in the universe, now that I have seen the Royal +Garden Inn, its pretty coffee-room opening into the old-fashioned +garden, with its borders of clove pinks, its aviaries, and its +blossoming horse-chestnuts, great towering masses of pink +bloom!</p> +<p>Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. +Benedict, an estimable lady tourist whom she “picked +up” en route from Southampton. I am tired, and stayed +at home. I cannot write letters, because aunt Celia has the +guide-books, so I sit by the window in indolent content, watching +the dear little school laddies, with their short jackets and wide +white collars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, and +kissable! I should like to kiss the chambermaid, too! +She has a pink print dress; no bangs, thank goodness (it’s +curious our servants can’t leave that deformity to the +upper classes), but shining brown hair, plump figure, soft voice, +and a most engaging way of saying, “Yes, miss? +Anythink more, miss?” I long to ask her to sit down +comfortably and be English, while I study her as a type, but of +course I mustn’t. Sometimes I wish I could retire +from the world for a season and do what I like, “surrounded +by the general comfort of being thought mad.”</p> +<p>An elegant, irreproachable, high-minded model of dignity and +reserve has just knocked and inquired what we will have for +dinner. It is very embarrassing to give orders to a person +who looks like a judge of the Supreme Court, but I said +languidly, “What would you suggest?”</p> +<p>“How would you like a clear soup, a good spring soup, to +begin with, miss?”</p> +<p>“Very much.”</p> +<p>“And a bit of turbot next, miss?”</p> +<p>“Yes, turbot, by all means,” I said, my mouth +watering at the word.</p> +<p>“And what for a roast, miss? Would you enjoy a +young duckling, miss?”</p> +<p>“Just the thing; and for dessert”—I +couldn’t think what we ought to have for dessert in +England, but the high-minded model coughed apologetically and +said, “I was thinking you might like gooseberry tart and +cream for a sweet, miss.”</p> +<p>Oh that I could have vented my New World enthusiasm in a +shriek of delight as I heard those intoxicating words, heretofore +met only in English novels!</p> +<p>“Ye-es,” I said hesitatingly, though I was +palpitating with joy, “I fancy we should like gooseberry +tart (here a bright idea entered my mind) and perhaps in case my +aunt doesn’t care for the gooseberry tart, you might bring +a lemon squash, please.”</p> +<p>Now I had never met a lemon squash personally, but I had often +heard of it, and wished to show my familiarity with British +culinary art.</p> +<p>“One lemon squash, miss?”</p> +<p>“Oh, as to that, it doesn’t matter,” I said +haughtily; “bring a sufficient number for two +persons.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Aunt Celia came home in the highest feather. She had +twice been taken for an Englishwoman. She said she thought +that lemon squash was a drink; I thought it was a pie; but we +shall find out at dinner, for, as I said, I ordered a sufficient +number for two persons.</p> +<p>At four o’clock we attended even-song at the +cathedral. I shall not say what I felt when the +white-surpliced boy choir entered, winding down those vaulted +aisles, or when I heard for the first time that intoned service, +with all its “witchcraft of harmonic sound.” I +sat quite by myself in a high carved-oak seat, and the hour was +passed in a trance of serene delight. I do not have many +opinions, it is true, but papa says I am always strong on +sentiments; nevertheless, I shall not attempt to tell even what I +feel in these new and beautiful experiences, for it has been +better told a thousand times.</p> +<p>There were a great many people at service, and a large number +of Americans among them, I should think, though we saw no +familiar faces. There was one particularly nice young man, +who looked like a Bostonian. He sat opposite me. He +didn’t stare,—he was too well bred; but when I looked +the other way, he looked at me. Of course I could feel his +eyes,—anybody can, at least any girl can; but I attended to +every word of the service, and was as good as an angel. +When the procession had filed out and the last strain of the +great organ had rumbled into silence, we went on a tour through +the cathedral, a heterogeneous band, headed by a conscientious +old verger who did his best to enlighten us, and succeeded in +virtually spoiling my pleasure.</p> +<p>After we had finished (think of “finishing” a +cathedral in an hour or two!), aunt Celia and I, with one or two +others, wandered through the beautiful close, looking at the +exterior from every possible point, and coming at last to a +certain ruined arch which is very famous. It did not strike +me as being remarkable. I could make any number of them +with a pattern, without the least effort. But at any rate, +when told by the verger to gaze upon the beauties of this +wonderful relic and tremble, we were obliged to gaze also upon +the beauties of the aforesaid nice young man, who was sketching +it. As we turned to go away, aunt Celia dropped her +bag. It is one of those detestable, all-absorbing, +all-devouring, thoroughly respectable, but never proud Boston +bags, made of black cloth with leather trimmings, “C. Van +T.” embroidered on the side, and the top drawn up with +stout cords which pass over the Boston wrist or arm. As for +me, I loathe them, and would not for worlds be seen carrying one, +though I do slip a great many necessaries into aunt +Celia’s.</p> +<p>I hastened to pick up the horrid thing, for fear the nice +young man would feel obliged to do it for me; but, in my +indecorous haste, I caught hold of the wrong end and emptied the +entire contents on the stone flagging. Aunt Celia +didn’t notice; she had turned with the verger, lest she +should miss a single word of his inspired testimony. So we +scrambled up the articles together, the nice young man and I; and +oh, I hope I may never look upon his face again!</p> +<p>There were prayer-books and guide-books, a bottle of soda mint +tablets, a spool of dental floss, a Bath bun, a bit of gray frizz +that aunt Celia pins into her steamer cap, a spectacle case, a +brandy flask, and a bonbon box, which broke and scattered cloves +and cardamom seeds. (I hope he guessed aunt Celia is a +dyspeptic, and not intemperate!) All this was hopelessly +vulgar, but I wouldn’t have minded anything if there had +not been a Duchess novel. Of course he thought that it +belonged to me. He couldn’t have known aunt Celia was +carrying it for that accidental Mrs. Benedict, with whom she went +to St. Cross Hospital.</p> +<p>After scooping the cardamom seeds out of the cracks in the +stone flagging, he handed me the tattered, disreputable-looking +copy of “A Modern Circe” with a bow that +wouldn’t have disgraced a Chesterfield, and then went back +to his easel, while I fled after aunt Celia and her verger.</p> +<p>Memoranda: The Winchester Cathedral has the longest +nave. The inside is more superb than the outside. +Izaak Walton and Jane Austen are buried there.</p> +<h2>HE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Winchester</span>, <i>May</i> 28, 1891<br /> +The White Swan.</p> +<p>As sure as my name is Jack Copley, I saw the prettiest girl in +the world to-day,—an American, too, or I’m greatly +mistaken. It was in the cathedral, where I have been +sketching for several days. I was sitting in the end of a +seat, at afternoon service, when two ladies entered by the side +door. The ancient maiden, evidently the head of the family, +settled herself devoutly, and the young one stole off by herself +to one of the old carved seats back of the choir. She was +worse than pretty! I took a sketch of her during service, +as she sat under the dark carved-oak canopy, with this Latin +inscription over her head:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Carlton +cum</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Dolby</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Letania</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">IX Solidorum</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Super Flumina</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Confitebor tibi</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Düc Probati</span></p> +<p>There ought to be a law against a woman’s making a +picture of herself, unless she is willing to sit and be +sketched.</p> +<p>A black and white sketch doesn’t give any definite idea +of this charmer’s charms, but some time I’ll fill it +in,—hair, sweet little hat, gown, and eyes, all in golden +brown, a cape of tawny sable slipping off her arm, a knot of +yellow primroses in her girdle, carved-oak background, and the +afternoon sun coming through a stained-glass window. Great +Jove! She had a most curious effect on me, that girl! +I can’t explain it,—very curious, altogether new, and +rather pleasant! When one of the choir boys sang, “Oh +for the wings of a dove!” a tear rolled out of one of her +lovely eyes and down her smooth brown cheek. I would have +given a large portion of my modest monthly income for the +felicity of wiping away that teardrop with one of my new +handkerchiefs, marked with a tremendous “C” by my +pretty sister.</p> +<p>An hour or two later they appeared again,—the dragon, +who answers to the name of “aunt Celia,” and the +“nut-brown mayde,” who comes when you call her +“Katharine.” I was sketching a ruined +arch. The dragon dropped her unmistakably Boston bag. +I expected to see encyclopædias and Russian tracts fall +from it, but was disappointed. The nut-brown mayde (who has +been brought up rigidly) hastened to pick up the bag, for fear +that I should serve her by doing it. She was punished by +turning it inside out, and I was rewarded by helping her pick up +the articles, which were many and ill assorted. My little +romance received the first blow when I found that she reads the +Duchess novels. I think, however, she has the grace to be +ashamed of it, for she blushed scarlet when I handed her “A +Modern Circe.” I could have told her that such a +blush on such a cheek would atone for reading Mrs. Southworth, +but I refrained. After she had gone I discovered a slip of +paper which had blown under some stones. It proved to be an +itinerary. I didn’t return it. I thought they +must know which way they were going; and as this was precisely +what I wanted to know, I kept it for my own use. She is +doing the cathedral towns. I am doing the cathedral +towns. Happy thought! Why shouldn’t we do them +together,—we and aunt Celia?</p> +<p>I had only ten minutes—to catch my train for Salisbury, +but I concluded to run in and glance at the registers of the +principal hotels. Found my nut-brown mayde at once on the +pages of the Royal Garden Inn register: “Miss Celia Van +Tyck, Beverly, Mass.; Miss Katharine Schuyler, New +York.” I concluded to stay over another train, +ordered dinner, and took an altogether indefensible and +inconsistent pleasure in writing “John Quincy Copley, +Cambridge, Mass.,” directly beneath the charmer’s +autograph.</p> +<h2>SHE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Salisbury</span>, <i>June</i> 1<br /> +The White Hart Inn.</p> +<p>We left Winchester on the 1.06 train yesterday, and here we +are within sight of another superb and ancient pile of +stone. I wanted so much to stop at the Highflyer Inn in +Lark Lane, but aunt Celia said that if we were destitute of +personal dignity, we at least owed something to our +ancestors. Aunt Celia has a temperamental distrust of joy +as something dangerous and ensnaring. She doesn’t +realize what fun it would be to date one’s letters from the +Highflyer Inn, Lark Lane, even if one were obliged to consort +with poachers and cockneys in order to do it.</p> +<p>We attended service at three. The music was lovely, and +there were beautiful stained-glass windows by Burne-Jones and +Morris. The verger (when wound up with a shilling) talked +like an electric doll. If that nice young man is making a +cathedral tour, like ourselves, he isn’t taking our route, +for he isn’t here. If he has come over for the +purpose of sketching, he wouldn’t stop at sketching one +cathedral. Perhaps he began at the other end and worked +down to Winchester. Yes, that must be it, for the Ems +sailed yesterday from Southampton.</p> +<p>* * *</p> +<p>June 2.</p> +<p>We intended to go to Stonehenge this morning, but it rained, +so we took a “growler” and went to the Earl of +Pembroke’s country place to see the pictures. Had a +delightful morning with the magnificent antiques, curios, and +portraits. The Van Dyck room is a joy forever. There +were other visitors; nobody who looked especially +interesting. Don’t like Salisbury so well as +Winchester. Don’t know why. We shall drive this +afternoon, if it is fair, and go to Wells to-morrow. Must +read Baedeker on the bishop’s palace. Oh dear! if one +could only have a good time and not try to know anything!</p> +<p>Memoranda: <i>This cathedral has the highest spire</i>. +<i>Remember</i>: <i>Winchester</i>, <i>longest nave</i>; +<i>Salisbury</i>, <i>highest spire</i>.</p> +<p><i>The Lancet style is those curved lines meeting in a +rounding or a sharp point like this</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center">[Drawing like two very circular +n’s next to each other]</p> +<p><i>and then joined together like this</i>:</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[Drawing like \/\/\/]</p> +<p><i>the way they used to scallop flannel petticoats</i>. +<i>Gothic looks like triangles meeting together in various spots +and joined with beautiful sort of ornamented knobs</i>. +<i>I think I know Gothic when I see it</i>. <i>Then there +is Norman</i>, <i>Early English</i>, <i>fully developed Early +English</i>, <i>Early and Late Perpendicular</i>, <i>and +Transition</i>. <i>Aunt Celia knows them all apart</i>.</p> +<h2>HE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Salisbury</span>, <i>June</i> 3<br /> +The Red Lion.</p> +<p>I went off on a long tramp this afternoon, and coming on a +pretty river flowing through green meadows, with a fringe of +trees on either side, I sat down to make a sketch. I heard +feminine voices in the vicinity, but, as these are generally a +part of the landscape in the tourist season, I paid no special +notice. Suddenly a dainty patent-leather shoe floated +towards me on the surface of the stream. It evidently had +just dropped in, for it was right side up with care, and was +disporting itself right merrily. “Did ever +Jove’s tree drop such fruit?” I quoted, as I fished +it out on my stick; and just then I heard a distressed voice +saying, “Oh, aunt Celia, I’ve lost my smart little +London shoe. I was sitting in a tree, taking a pebble out +of the heel, when I saw a caterpillar, and I dropped it into the +river, the shoe, you know, not the caterpillar.” +Hereupon she came in sight, and I witnessed the somewhat unusual +spectacle of my nut-brown mayde hopping on one foot, like a +divine stork, and ever and anon emitting a feminine shriek as her +off foot, clad in a delicate silk stocking, came in contact with +the ground. I rose quickly, and, polishing the patent +leather ostentatiously, inside and out, with my handkerchief, I +offered it to her with distinguished grace. She swayed on +her one foot with as much dignity as possible, and then +recognizing me as the person who picked up the contents of aunt +Celia’s bag, she said, dimpling in the most distracting +manner (that’s another thing there ought to be a law +against), “Thank you again; you seem to be a sort of +knight-errant!”</p> +<p>“Shall I—assist you?” I asked. (I +might have known that this was going too far.)</p> +<p>“No, thank you,” she said, with polar +frigidity. “Good-afternoon.” And she +hopped back to her aunt Celia without another word.</p> +<p>I don’t know how to approach aunt Celia. She is +formidable. By a curious accident of feature, for which she +is not in the least responsible, she always wears an unfortunate +expression as of one perceiving some offensive odor in the +immediate vicinity. This may be a mere accident of high +birth. It is the kind of nose often seen in the +“first families,” and her name betrays the fact that +she is of good old Knickerbocker origin. We go to Wells +to-morrow. At least I think we do.</p> +<h2>SHE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Gloucester</span>, <i>June</i> 9<br /> +The Spread Eagle.</p> +<p>I met him at Wells, and again at Bath. We are always +being ridiculous, and he is always rescuing us. Aunt Celia +never really sees him, and thus never recognizes him when he +appears again, always as the flower of chivalry and guardian of +ladies in distress. I will never again travel abroad +without a man, even if I have to hire one from a Feeble-Minded +Asylum. We work like galley slaves, aunt Celia and I, +finding out about trains and things. Neither of us can +understand Bradshaw, and I can’t even grapple with the +lesser intricacies of the A B C railway guide. The trains, +so far as I can see, always arrive before they go out, and I can +never tell whether to read up the page or down. It is +certainly very queer that the stupidest man that breathes, one +that barely escapes idiocy, can disentangle a railway guide, when +the brightest woman fails. Even the Boots at the inn in +Wells took my book, and, rubbing his frightfully dirty finger +down the row of puzzling figures, found the place in a minute, +and said, “There ye are, miss.” It is very +humiliating. All the time I have left from the study of +routes and hotels I spend on guide-books. Now I’m +sure that if any one of the men I know were here, he could tell +me all that is necessary as we walk along the streets. I +don’t say it in a frivolous or sentimental spirit in the +least, but I do affirm that there is hardly any juncture in life +where one isn’t better off for having a man about. I +should never dare divulge this to aunt Celia, for she +doesn’t think men very nice. She excludes them from +conversation as if they were indelicate subjects.</p> +<p>But, to go on, we were standing at the door of Ye Olde Bell +and Horns, at Bath, waiting for the fly which we had ordered to +take us to the station, when who should drive up in a +four-wheeler but the flower of chivalry. Aunt Celia was +saying very audibly, “We shall certainly miss the train if +the man doesn’t come at once.”</p> +<p>“Pray take this fly,” said the flower of +chivalry. “I am not leaving till the next +train.”</p> +<p>Aunt Celia got in without a murmur; I sneaked in after +her. I don’t think she looked at him, though she did +vouchsafe the remark that he seemed to be a civil sort of +person.</p> +<p>At Bristol, I was walking about by myself, and I espied a +sign, “Martha Huggins, Licensed Victualer.” It +was a nice, tidy little shop, with a fire on the hearth and +flowers in the window, and, as it was raining smartly, I thought +no one would catch me if I stepped inside to chat with +Martha. I fancied it would be so delightful and Dickensy to +talk quietly with a licensed victualer by the name of Martha +Huggins.</p> +<p>Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came +in and ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a +dramshop alone, for I thought, after the bag episode, he might +fancy us a family of inebriates. But he didn’t evince +the slightest astonishment; he merely lifted his hat, and walked +out after he had finished his ale. He certainly has the +loveliest manners!</p> +<p>And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like +his politeness and his evident feeling that I can’t be +flirted and talked with like a forward boarding-school miss, but +I must say I don’t think much of his ingenuity. Of +course one can’t have all the virtues, but, if I were he, I +would part with my distinguished air, my charming ease, in fact +almost anything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of +common sense, just enough to guide me in the practical affairs of +life.</p> +<p>I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he +doesn’t seem quite like an artist; or a dilettante, but he +doesn’t seem in the least like a dilettante. Or he +might be an architect; I think that is the most probable guess of +all. Perhaps he is only “going to be” one of +these things, for he can’t be more than twenty-five or +twenty-six. Still he looks as if he were something already; +that is, he has a kind of self-reliance in his mien,—not +self-assertion, nor self-esteem, but belief in self, as if he +were able, and knew that he was able, to conquer +circumstances.</p> +<h2>HE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Gloucester</span>, <i>June</i> 10<br /> +The Bell.</p> +<p>Nothing accomplished yet. Her aunt is a Van Tyck, and a +stiff one, too. I am a Copley, and that delays +matters. Much depends upon the manner of approach. A +false move would be fatal. We have six more towns (as per +itinerary), and if their thirst for cathedrals isn’t slaked +when these are finished we have the entire continent to do. +If I could only succeed in making an impression on the retina of +aunt Celia’s eye! Though I have been under her feet +for ten days, she never yet has observed me. This +absent-mindedness of hers serves me ill now, but it may prove a +blessing later on.</p> +<h2>SHE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Oxford</span>, +<i>June</i> 12<br /> +The Mitre.</p> +<p>It was here in Oxford that a grain of common sense entered the +brain of the flower of chivalry. You might call it the dawn +of reason. We had spent part of the morning in High Street, +“the noblest old street in England,” as our dear +Hawthorne calls it. As Wordsworth had written a sonnet +about it, aunt Celia was armed for the fray,—a volume of +Wordsworth in one hand, and one of Hawthorne in the other. +(I wish Baedeker didn’t give such full information about +what one ought to read before one can approach these places in a +proper spirit.) When we had done High Street, we went to +Magdalen College, and sat down on a bench in Addison’s +Walk, where aunt Celia proceeded to store my mind with the +principal facts of Addison’s career, and his influence on +the literature of the something or other century. The +cramming process over, we wandered along, and came upon +“him” sketching a shady corner of the walk.</p> +<p>Aunt Celia went up behind him, and, Van Tyck though she is, +she could not restrain her admiration of his work. I was +surprised myself: I didn’t suppose so good looking a youth +could do such good work. I retired to a safe distance, and +they chatted together. He offered her the sketch; she +refused to take advantage of his kindness. He said he would +“dash off” another that evening, and bring it to our +hotel,—“so glad to do anything for a +fellow-countryman,” etc. I peeped from behind a tree +and saw him give her his card. It was an awful moment; I +trembled, but she read it with unmistakable approval, and gave +him her own with an expression that meant, “Yours is good, +but beat that if you can!”</p> +<p>She called to me, and I appeared. Mr. John Quincy +Copley, Cambridge, was presented to her niece, Miss Katharine +Schuyler, New York. It was over, and a very small thing to +take so long about, too.</p> +<p>He is an architect, and of course has a smooth path into aunt +Celia’s affections. Theological students, ministers, +missionaries, heroes, and martyrs she may distrust, but +architects never!</p> +<p>“He is an architect, my dear Katharine, and he is a +Copley,” she told me afterwards. “I never knew +a Copley who was not respectable, and many of them have been +more.”</p> +<p>After the introduction was over, aunt Celia asked him +guilelessly if he had visited any other of the English +cathedrals. Any others, indeed! This to a youth who +had been all but in her lap for a fortnight! It was a blow, +but he rallied bravely, and, with an amused look in my direction, +replied discreetly that he had visited most of them at one time +or another. I refused to let him see that I had ever +noticed him before; that is, particularly.</p> +<p>Memoranda: “The very stones and mortar of this historic +town seem impregnated with the spirit of restful +antiquity.” (Extract from one of aunt Celia’s +letters.) Among the great men who have studied here are the +Prince of Wales, Duke of Wellington, Gladstone, Sir Robert Peel, +Sir Philip Sidney, William Penn, John Locke, the two Wesleys, +Ruskin, Ben Jonson, and Thomas Otway. (Look Otway up.)</p> +<h2>HE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Oxford</span>, +<i>June</i> 13<br /> +The Angel.</p> +<p>I have done it, and if I hadn’t been a fool and a coward +I might have done it a week ago, and spared myself a good deal of +delicious torment. I have just given two hours to a sketch +of Addison’s Walk and carried it to aunt Celia at the +Mitre. Object, to find out whether they make a long stay in +London (our next point), and if so where. It seems they go +directly through. I said in the course of conversation, +“So Miss Schuyler is willing to forego a London +season? Marvelous self-denial!”</p> +<p>“My niece did not come to Europe for a London +season,” replied Miss Van Tyck. “We go through +London this time merely as a cathedral town, simply because it +chances to be where it is geographically. We shall visit +St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey, and then go directly on, +that our chain of impressions may have absolute continuity and be +free from any disturbing elements.”</p> +<p>Oh, but she is lovely, is aunt Celia!</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Lincoln</span>, +<i>June</i> 20<br /> +The Black Boy Inn.</p> +<p>I am stopping at a beastly little hole, which has the one +merit of being opposite Miss Schuyler’s lodgings. My +sketch-book has deteriorated in artistic value during the last +two weeks. Many of its pages, while interesting to me as +reminiscences, will hardly do for family or studio +exhibition. If I should label them, the result would be +something like this:—</p> +<p>1. Sketch of a footstool and desk where I first saw Miss +Schuyler kneeling.</p> +<p>2. Sketch of a carved-oak chair, Miss Schuyler sitting +in it.</p> +<p>3. “Angel Choir.” Heads of Miss +Schuyler introduced into the carving.</p> +<p>4. Altar screen. Full length figure of Miss +Schuyler holding lilies.</p> +<p>5. Tomb of a bishop, where I tied Miss Schuyler’s +shoe.</p> +<p>6. Tomb of another bishop, where I had to tie it again +because I did it so badly the first time.</p> +<p>7. Sketch of the shoe; the shoe-lace worn out with much +tying.</p> +<p>8. Sketch of the blessed verger who called her +“madam,” when we were walking together.</p> +<p>9. Sketch of her blush when he did it the prettiest +thing in the world.</p> +<p>10. Sketch of J. Q. Copley contemplating the ruins of +his heart.</p> +<p>“How are the mighty fallen!”</p> +<h2>SHE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Lincoln</span>, +<i>June</i> 22<br /> +At Miss Brown’s, Castle Garden.</p> +<p>Mr. Copley <i>has</i> done something in the world; I was sure +that he had. He has a little income of his own, but he is +too proud and ambitious to be an idler. He looked so manly +when he talked about it, standing up straight and strong in his +knickerbockers. I like men in knickerbockers. Aunt +Celia doesn’t. She says she doesn’t see how a +well-brought-up Copley can go about with his legs in that +condition. I would give worlds to know how aunt Celia ever +unbent sufficiently to get engaged. But, as I was saying, +Mr. Copley has accomplished something, young as he is. He +has built three picturesque suburban churches suitable for +weddings, and a state lunatic asylum.</p> +<p>Aunt Celia says we shall have no worthy architecture until +every building is made an exquisitely sincere representation of +its deepest purpose,—a symbol, as it were, of its +indwelling meaning. I should think it would be very +difficult to design a lunatic asylum on that basis, but I +didn’t dare say so, as Mr. Copley seemed to think it all +right. Their conversation is absolutely sublimated when +they get to talking of architecture. I have just copied two +quotations from Emerson, and am studying them every night for +fifteen minutes before I go to sleep. I’m going to +quote them some time offhand, just after morning service, when we +are wandering about the cathedral grounds. The first is +this: “The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone, +subdued by the insatiable demand of harmony in man. The +mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower, with the +lightness and delicate finish as well as the aerial proportion +and perspective of vegetable beauty.” Then when he +has recovered from the shock of this, here is my second: +“Nor can any lover of nature enter the old piles of Oxford +and English cathedrals without feeling that the forest +overpowered the mind of the builder, and that his chisel, his saw +and plane, still reproduced its ferns, its spikes of flowers, its +locust, elm, pine, and spruce.”</p> +<p>Memoranda: <i>Lincoln choir is an example of Early English or +First Pointed</i>, <i>which can generally be told from something +else by bold projecting buttresses and dog-tooth moulding round +the abacusses</i>. (The plural is my own, and it does not +look right.) <i>Lincoln Castle was the scene of many +prolonged sieges</i>, <i>and was once taken by Oliver +Cromwell</i>.</p> +<h2>HE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">York</span>, +<i>June</i> 24<br /> +The Black Swan.</p> +<p>Kitty Schuyler is the concentrated essence of feminine +witchery. Intuition strong, logic weak, and the two +qualities so balanced as to produce an indefinable charm; +will-power large, but docility equal, if a man is clever enough +to know how to manage her; knowledge of facts absolutely nil, but +she is exquisitely intelligent in spite of it. She has a +way of evading, escaping, eluding, and then gives you an +intoxicating hint of sudden and complete surrender. She is +divinely innocent, but roguishness saves her from +insipidity. Her looks? She looks as you would imagine +a person might look who possessed these graces; and she is worth +looking at, though every time I do it I have a rush of love to +the head. When you find a girl who combines all the +qualities you have imagined in the ideal, and who has added a +dozen or two on her own account, merely to distract you past all +hope, why stand up and try to resist her charm? Down on +your knees like a man, say I!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>I’m getting to adore aunt Celia. I didn’t +care for her at first, but she is so deliciously blind! +Anything more exquisitely unserviceable as a chaperon I +can’t imagine. Absorbed in antiquity, she ignores the +babble of contemporaneous lovers. That any man could look +at Kitty when he could look at a cathedral passes her +comprehension. I do not presume too greatly on her +absent-mindedness, however, lest she should turn unexpectedly and +rend me. I always remember that inscription on the backs of +the little mechanical French toys,—“Quoiqu’elle +soit très solidement montée, il faut ne pas +brutaliser la machine.”</p> +<p>And so my courtship progresses under aunt Celia’s very +nose. I say “progresses,” but it is impossible +to speak with any certainty of courting, for the essence of that +gentle craft is hope, rooted in labor and trained by love.</p> +<p>I set out to propose to her during service this afternoon by +writing my feelings on the fly-leaf of the hymn-book, or +something like that; but I knew that aunt Celia would never +forgive such blasphemy, and I thought that Kitty herself might +consider it wicked. Besides, if she should chance to accept +me, there was nothing I could do, in a cathedral, to relieve my +feelings. No; if she ever accepts me, I wish it to be in a +large, vacant spot of the universe, peopled by two only, and +those two so indistinguishably blended, as it were, that they +would appear as one to the casual observer. So I practiced +repression, though the wall of my reserve is worn to the thinness +of thread-paper, and I tried to keep my mind on the droning minor +canon, and not to look at her, “for that way madness +lies.”</p> +<h2>SHE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">York</span>, +<i>June</i> 26<br /> +High Petersgate Street.</p> +<p>My taste is so bad! I just begin to realize it, and I am +feeling my “growing pains,” like Gwendolen in +“Daniel Deronda.” I admired the stained glass +in the Lincoln Cathedral, especially the Nuremberg window. +I thought Mr. Copley looked pained, but he said nothing. +When I went to my room, I looked in a book and found that all the +glass in that cathedral is very modern and very bad, and the +Nuremberg window is the worst of all. Aunt Celia says she +hopes that it will be a warning to me to read before I speak; but +Mr. Copley says no, that the world would lose more in one way +than it would gain in the other. I tried my quotations this +morning, and stuck fast in the middle of the first.</p> +<p>Mr. Copley says that aunt Celia has been feeing the vergers +altogether too much, and I wrote a song about it called +“The Ballad of the Vergers and the Foolish Virgin,” +which I sang to my guitar. Mr. Copley says it is cleverer +than anything he ever did with his pencil, but of course he says +that only to be agreeable.</p> +<p>We all went to an evening service last night. Coming +home, aunt Celia walked ahead with Mrs. Benedict, who keeps +turning up at the most unexpected moments. She’s +going to build a Gothicky memorial chapel somewhere. I +don’t know for whom, unless it’s for Benedict +Arnold. I don’t like her in the least, but four is +certainly a more comfortable number than three. I scarcely +ever have a moment alone with Mr. Copley; for go where I will and +do what I please, aunt Celia has the most perfect confidence in +my indiscretion, so she is always <i>en évidence</i>.</p> +<p>Just as we were turning into the quiet little street where we +are lodging I said, “Oh dear, I wish that I knew something +about architecture!”</p> +<p>“If you don’t know anything about it, you are +certainly responsible for a good deal of it,” said Mr. +Copley.</p> +<p>“I? How do you mean?” I asked quite +innocently, because I couldn’t see how he could twist such +a remark as that into anything like sentiment.</p> +<p>“I have never built so many castles in my life as since +I’ve known you, Miss Schuyler,” he said.</p> +<p>“Oh,” I answered as lightly as I could, +“air-castles don’t count.”</p> +<p>“The building of air-castles is an innocent amusement +enough, I suppose,” he said, “but I’m +committing the folly of living in mine. I”—</p> +<p>Then I was frightened. When, all at once, you find you +have something precious you only dimly suspected was to be yours, +you almost wish it hadn’t come so soon. But just at +that moment Mrs. Benedict called to us, and came tramping back +from the gate, and hooked her supercilious, patronizing arm in +Mr. Copley’s, and asked him into the sitting-room to talk +over the “lady chapel” in her new memorial +church. Then aunt Celia told me they would excuse me, as I +had had a wearisome day; and there was nothing for me to do but +to go to bed, like a snubbed child, and wonder if I should ever +know the end of that sentence. And I listened at the head +of the stairs, shivering, but all that I could hear was that Mrs. +Benedict asked Mr. Copley to be her own architect. Her +architect indeed! That woman ought not to be at large!</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Durham</span>, +<i>July</i> 15<br /> +At Farmer Hendry’s.</p> +<p>We left York this morning, and arrived here about eleven +o’clock. It seems there is some sort of an election +going on in the town, and there was not a single fly at the +station. Mr. Copley walked about in every direction, but +neither horse nor vehicle was to be had for love nor money. +At last we started to walk to the village, Mr. Copley so laden +with our hand-luggage that he resembled a pack-mule. We +made a tour of the inns, but not a single room was to be had, not +for that night nor for three days ahead, on account of that same +election.</p> +<p>“Hadn’t we better go on to Edinburgh, aunt +Celia?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Edinburgh? Never!” she replied. +“Do you suppose that I would voluntarily spend a Sunday in +those bare Presbyterian churches until the memory of these past +ideal weeks has faded a little from my memory? What, leave +out Durham and spoil the set?” (She spoke of the +cathedrals as if they were souvenir spoons.) “I +intended to stay here for a week or more, and write up a record +of our entire trip from Winchester while the impressions were +fresh in my mind.”</p> +<p>“And I had intended doing the same thing,” said +Mr. Copley. “That is, I hoped to finish off my +previous sketches, which are in a frightful state of +incompletion, and spend a good deal of time on the interior of +this cathedral, which is unusually beautiful.” (At +this juncture aunt Celia disappeared for a moment to ask the +barmaid if, in her opinion, the constant consumption of malt +liquors prevents a more dangerous indulgence in brandy and +whiskey. She is gathering statistics, but as the barmaids +can never collect their thoughts while they are drawing ale, aunt +Celia proceeds slowly.)</p> +<p>“For my part,” said I, with mock humility, +“I am a docile person who never has any intentions of her +own, but who yields herself sweetly to the intentions of other +people in her immediate vicinity.”</p> +<p>“Are you?” asked Mr. Copley, taking out his +pencil.</p> +<p>“Yes, I said so. What are you doing?”</p> +<p>“Merely taking note of your statement, that’s +all.—Now, Miss Van Tyck, I have a plan to propose. I +was here last summer with a couple of Harvard men, and we lodged +at a farmhouse half a mile from the cathedral. If you will +step into the coffee-room of the Shoulder of Mutton and +Cauliflower for an hour, I’ll walk up to Farmer +Hendry’s and see if they will take us in. I think we +might be fairly comfortable.”</p> +<p>“Can aunt Celia have Apollinaris and black coffee after +her morning bath?” I asked.</p> +<p>“I hope, Katharine,” said aunt Celia +majestically,—“I hope that I can accommodate myself +to circumstances. If Mr. Copley can secure lodgings for us, +I shall be more than grateful.”</p> +<p>So here we are, all lodging together in an ideal English +farmhouse. There is a thatched roof on one of the old +buildings, and the dairy house is covered with ivy, and Farmer +Hendry’s wife makes a real English courtesy, and there are +herds of beautiful sleek Durham cattle, and the butter and cream +and eggs and mutton are delicious; and I never, never want to go +home any more. I want to live here forever, and wave the +American flag on Washington’s birthday.</p> +<p>I am so happy that I feel as if something were going to spoil +it all. Twenty years old to-day! I wish mamma were +alive to wish me many happy returns.</p> +<p>Memoranda: Casual remark for breakfast table or perhaps for +luncheon,—it is a trifle heavy for breakfast: “Since +the sixteenth century and despite the work of Inigo Jones and the +great Wren (not Jenny Wren—Christopher), architecture has +had, in England especially, no legitimate development.”</p> +<h2>HE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Durham</span>, +<i>July</i> 19</p> +<p>O child of fortune, thy name is J. Q. Copley! How did it +happen to be election time? Why did the inns chance to be +full? How did aunt Celia relax sufficiently to allow me to +find her a lodging? Why did she fall in love with the +lodging when found? I do not know. I only know Fate +smiles; that Kitty and I eat our morning bacon and eggs together; +that I carve Kitty’s cold beef and pour Kitty’s +sparkling ale at luncheon; that I go to vespers with Kitty, and +dine with Kitty, and walk in the gloaming with Kitty—and +aunt Celia. And after a day of heaven like this, like Lorna +Doone’s lover,—ay, and like every other lover, I +suppose,—I go to sleep, and the roof above me swarms with +angels, having Kitty under it!</p> +<p>We were coming home from afternoon service, Kitty and I. +(I am anticipating for she was “Miss Schuyler” then, +but never mind.) We were walking through the fields, while +Mrs. Benedict and aunt Celia were driving. As we came +across a corner of the bit of meadow land that joins the stable +and the garden, we heard a muffled roar, and as we looked round +we saw a creature with tossing horns and waving tail making for +us, head down, eyes flashing. Kitty gave a shriek. We +chanced to be near a pair of low bars. I hadn’t been +a college athlete for nothing. I swung Kitty over the bars, +and jumped after her. But she, not knowing in her fright +where she was nor what she was doing; supposing, also, that the +mad creature, like the villain in the play, would “still +pursue her,” flung herself bodily into my arms, crying, +“Jack! Jack! Save me!”</p> +<p>“It was the first time she had called me Jack,” +and I needed no second invitation. I proceeded to save +her,—in the usual way, by holding her to my heart and +kissing her lovely hair reassuringly, as I murmured: “You +are safe, my darling; not a hair of your precious head shall be +hurt. Don’t be frightened.”</p> +<p>She shivered like a leaf. “I am frightened,” +she said. “I can’t help being frightened. +He will chase us, I know. Where is he? What is he +doing now?”</p> +<p>Looking up to determine if I need abbreviate this blissful +moment, I saw the enraged animal disappearing in the side door of +the barn; and it was a nice, comfortable Durham cow,—that +somewhat rare but possible thing, a sportive cow!</p> +<p>“Is he gone?” breathed Kitty from my +waistcoat.</p> +<p>“Yes, he is gone—she is gone, darling. But +don’t move; it may come again.”</p> +<p>My first too hasty assurance had calmed Kitty’s fears, +and she raised her charming flushed face from its retreat and +prepared to withdraw. I did not facilitate the +preparations, and a moment of awkward silence ensued.</p> +<p>“Might I inquire,” I asked, “if the dear +little person at present reposing in my arms will stay there +(with intervals for rest and refreshment) for the rest of her +natural life?”</p> +<p>She withdrew entirely now, all but her hand, and her eyes +sought the ground.</p> +<p>“I suppose I shall have to now,—that is, if you +think—at least, I suppose you do think—at any rate, +you look as if you were thinking—that this has been giving +you encouragement.”</p> +<p>“I do indeed,—decisive, undoubted, barefaced +encouragement.”</p> +<p>“I don’t think I ought to be judged as if I were +in my sober senses,” she replied. “I was +frightened within an inch of my life. I told you this +morning that I was dreadfully afraid of bulls, especially mad +ones, and I told you that my nurse frightened me, when I was a +child, with awful stories about them, and that I never outgrew my +childish terror. I looked everywhere about: the barn was +too far, the fence too high, I saw him coming, and there was +nothing but you and the open country; of course I took you. +It was very natural, I’m sure,—any girl would have +done it.”</p> +<p>“To be sure,” I replied soothingly, “any +girl would have run after me, as you say.”</p> +<p>“I didn’t say any girl would have run after +you,—you needn’t flatter yourself; and besides, I +think I was really trying to protect you as well as to gain +protection; else why should I have cast myself on you like a +catamount, or a catacomb, or whatever the thing is?”</p> +<p>“Yes, darling, I thank you for saving my life, and I am +willing to devote the remainder of it to your service as a pledge +of my gratitude; but if you should take up life-saving as a +profession, dear, don’t throw yourself on a fellow +with”—</p> +<p>“Jack! Jack!” she cried, putting her hand over my +lips, and getting it well kissed in consequence. “If +you will only forget that, and never, never taunt me with it +afterwards, I’ll—I’ll—well, I’ll do +anything in reason; yes, even marry you!”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Canterbury</span>, <i>July</i> 31<br /> +The Royal Fountain.</p> +<p>I was never sure enough of Kitty, at first, to dare risk +telling her about that little mistake of hers. She is such +an elusive person that I spend all my time in wooing her, and can +never lay flattering unction to my soul that she is really +won.</p> +<p>But after aunt Celia had looked up my family record and given +a provisional consent, and papa Schuyler had cabled a reluctant +blessing, I did not feel capable of any further +self-restraint.</p> +<p>It was twilight here in Canterbury, and we were sitting on the +vine-shaded veranda of aunt Celia’s lodging. +Kitty’s head was on my shoulder. There is something +very queer about that; when Kitty’s head is on my shoulder, +I am not capable of any consecutive train of thought. When +she puts it there I see stars, then myriads of stars, then, oh! I +can’t begin to enumerate the steps by which ecstasy mounts +to delirium; but at all events, any operation which demands +exclusive use of the intellect is beyond me at these times. +Still I gathered my stray wits together and said, +“Kitty!”</p> +<p>“Yes, Jack?”</p> +<p>“Now that nothing but death or marriage can separate us, +I have something to confess to you.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” she said serenely, “I know what you +are going to say. He was a cow.”</p> +<p>I lifted her head from my shoulder sternly, and gazed into her +childlike, candid eyes.</p> +<p>“You mountain of deceit! How long have you known +about it?”</p> +<p>“Ever since the first. Oh, Jack, stop looking at +me in that way! Not the very first, not when I—not +when you—not when we—no, not then, but the next +morning I said to Farmer Hendry, ‘I wish you would keep +your savage bull chained up while we are here; aunt Celia is +awfully afraid of them, especially those that go mad, like +yours!’ ‘Lor’, miss,’ said Farmer +Hendry, ‘he haven’t been pastured here for three +weeks. I keep him six mile away. There ben’t +nothing but gentle cows in the home medder.’ But I +didn’t think that you knew, you secretive person! I +dare say you planned the whole thing in advance, in order to take +advantage of my fright!”</p> +<p>“Never! I am incapable of such an unnecessary +subterfuge! Besides, Kitty, I could not have made an +accomplice of a cow, you know.”</p> +<p>“Then,” she said, with great dignity, “if +you had been a gentleman and a man of honor, you would have +cried, ‘Unhand me, girl! You are clinging to me under +a misunderstanding!’”</p> +<h2>SHE</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Chester</span>, +<i>August</i> 8<br /> +The Grosvenor.</p> +<p>Jack and I are going over this same ground next summer, on our +wedding trip. We shall sail for home next week, and we +haven’t half done justice to the cathedrals. After +the first two, we saw nothing but each other on a general +background of architecture. I hope my mind is improved, but +oh, I am so hazy about all the facts I have read since I knew +Jack! Winchester and Salisbury stand out superbly in my +memory. They acquired their ground before it was occupied +with other matters. I shall never forget, for instance, +that Winchester has the longest spire and Salisbury the highest +nave of all the English cathedrals. And I shall never +forget so long as I live that Jane Austen and Isaac Newt—Oh +dear! was it Isaac Newton or Izaak Walton that was buried in +Winchester and Salisbury? To think that that interesting +fact should have slipped from my mind, after all the trouble I +took with it! But I know that it was Isaac somebody, and +that he was buried in—well, he was buried in one of those +two places. I am not certain which, but I can ask Jack; he +is sure to know.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1551-h.htm or 1551-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/5/1551 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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