Part 21

Lambton Castle is a perfect and expressive image of the feudalism of the Nineteenth Century; of feudalism made easy, to the present generation; of feudalism which has never ceased to exist, whatever concussions shook the empire, or whatever spasms rocked the constitution; which has for the greater part of a thousand years fought its way, whether in steel jacket or in scarlet broadcloth, with spear or with musket; which has never failed to hold its own, and to hand down the huge domains which it won in England, under the banners of William of Normandy. It is now polished indeed, but it is still strong; it prides itself on its most ancient style of habitation, but over and around that habitation it has poured the grace of modern art, and filled it with all the amenities, the comforts, the softnesses, and intellectual resources of a busy, scientific, refined, and luxurious age. Such is the entire character of Lambton Castle. You see before you, indeed, Gothic towers and battlements, but around them spread lawns such only as England and the England of our day knows. You approach it by roads not made for the hoofs of old war horses to disturb, but for the wheels of gay chariots to roll over; and within you find a glittering and sumptuous succession of books, paintings, statues, marble pillars, gorgeous vases, soft carpets of richest dyes and softer beds, curtained into silken privacy; and all the nameless and numberless little articles and marks of taste, which, to a true old castle-dweller, would form a wilderness of contemptible baubles, and a heap of articles that he would never even wish to want.

[Illustration: LAMBTON CASTLE, ENGLAND.]

At the time that I visited Lambton Castle, its possessor was even then seeking relief from indisposition in the south of England, and serious fears were entertained that his life would not be long. That curious old legend of Lambton, of which we shall have presently to speak, seemed still, in the physical condition of the existing lord, to assert that it was more than a superstition of the old times, but was founded on an influence fatal to the longevity of the race. Though the period of the spell was said to terminate in General Lambton, as the ninth in descent from the slayer of the Worm, yet neither his son nor his grandson has been longer lived, nor have they died at home.

It was not without a more sensible interest, that, reflecting on these circumstances, I went through the grounds and the Castle of Lambton. Here were all that nature and art could effect in combination to make a noble abode for its possessor; but a mysterious fiat of destiny seemed to be pronounced over the race, of short and embittered enjoyment of it.

The Wear here performs some of its most beautiful windings, for which it is so remarkable, and its lofty banks hung with fine woods, presented the most lovely views whichever way you looked. A new bridge leads across the river, and a winding carriage-road conducts you by an easy ascent through pleasant woodlands up to the Castle. You pass under a light suspension bridge which leads from the Castle, along the banks above the river, through the woods of great beauty, and where you find the most pleasant solitudes, with varied views of the river and sounds of its hurrying water. The Castle, in all its newness of aspect, stands boldly on the height above the river, with beautiful green slopes descending towards it. As you approach the Castle, and enter it, everything impresses you with a sense of its strength, tastefulness, and completeness. The compact and well-built walls of clam-stone; the well-paved and well-finished courts; the numerous and complete offices; the kitchens, furnished with every convenience and implement that modern skill and ingenuity can bring together; all tell you that you are in the abode of a man of the amplest resources. As you advance, elegance and luxury are added to completeness; and you are surrounded not by the rude and quaint objects of our old houses, but by the rich requisites of present aristocratic existence. The snug boudoir, the lord’s dressing-room, the bath, the library, the saloon, the drawing-room, and all the various apartments of a noble modern house, into which are sometimes crowded several hundred guests--we shall not attempt to describe.

One of the most remarkable things about Lambton, is that Legend of the Worm, and the popular ideas attached to it, to which we have already alluded. The story of the Worm of Lambton cannot be better told than in the words of Surtees: “The heir of Lambton, fishing, as was his profane custom, in the Wear of a Sunday, hooked a small worm or eft, which he carelessly threw into a well, and thought no more of the adventure. The worm, at first neglected, grew till it was too large for its first habitation, and issuing forth from the _Worm Well_, betook itself to the Wear, where it usually lay a part of the day coiled round a crag in the middle of the water; it also frequented a green mound near the well, called thence ‘_The Worm Hill_,’ where it lapped itself nine times round, leaving vermicular traces, of which, grave living witnesses depose that they have seen the vestiges. It now became the terror of the country; and, amongst other enormities, levied a daily contribution of nine cows’ milk, which was always placed for it at the green hill, and in default of which it devoured man and beast. Young Lambton had, it seems, meanwhile, totally repented him of his former life and conversation; had bathed himself in a bath of holy water, taken the sign of the Cross, and joined the Crusaders. On his return home he was extremely shocked at witnessing the effects of his youthful imprudence, saw that the Worm must be at once destroyed, and immediately undertook the adventure. After several fierce combats, in which the crusader was foiled by his enemy’s _power of self-union_, he found it expedient to add policy to courage, and not, perhaps, possessing much of the former quality, he went to consult a witch, or wise woman. By her judicious advice, he armed himself in a coat of mail, studded with razor-blades, and thus prepared, placed himself on the crag in the river, and awaited the monster’s arrival. At the usual time, the Worm came to the rock, and wound himself with great fury round the armed knight, who had the satisfaction to see his enemy cut in pieces by his own efforts, while the stream washing away the several parts prevented the possibility of re-union. There is still a sequel to the story. The witch had promised Lambton success only on one condition--that he would slay the first living thing which met his sight after the victory. To avoid the possibility of human slaughter, Lambton had directed his father, that as soon as he heard him sound three blasts on his bugle, in token of the achievement performed, he should release his favourite greyhound, which would immediately fly to the sound of the horn, and was destined to be the sacrifice. On hearing his son’s bugle, however, the old chief was so overjoyed that he forgot his injunctions, and ran himself with open arms to meet his son. Instead of committing a parricide, the conqueror again repaired to his adviser, who pronounced, as the alternative of disobeying the original instructions, that no chief of the Lambtons should die in his bed for seven, or, as some accounts say, for nine generations--a commutation which, to a martial spirit, had nothing probably very terrible, and which was willingly complied with.”

Popular tradition assigns the chapel of Brigford as the spot where Lambton offered up his vows before and after the adventure. In the garden-house at Lambton are two figures of great antiquity. A knight, in good style, armed cap-à-pie, the back however _not studded with razor blades_, who holds the Worm by one ear with his left hand, and with his right, thrusts his sword to the hilt down his throat; and a lady, who wears a coronet, with bare breasts, etc., in the style of Charles II.’s Beauties--a wound on whose bosom, and an accidental mutilation of the hand, are said to be the work of the Worm. A real good Andrea Ferrara, inscribed on the blade 1521, notwithstanding the date, has also been pressed into the service, and is said to be the identical weapon by which the Worm perished.

The scene of the Worm’s haunts, and the combat, is at a considerable distance from the Castle; in fact, about a mile and a half from the _old_ Lambton Hall, where the Lambtons then dwelt. It is on the north bank of the Wear, in the estate of North Biddick, and now in quite a populous location. The Worm Hill is a conspicuous conical mound of considerable size, but having all the appearance of an ancient barrow, or other artificial tumulus. It stands in a meadow just at the backs of some houses, is perfectly green with grass; and now, whatever it might do formerly, bears not the slightest trace of the place where the worm coiled itself. It is about eighty yards from the river, and the well lay twenty-six yards from the hill. Half a century ago the Worm Well was in repute as a _Wishing Well_, and was one of the scenes dedicated to the usual festivities and superstitions of Midsummer Eve.

ARANJUEZ

EDMONDO DE AMICIS

In leaving Madrid by the southern route, you traverse an uninhabited country that recalls the poorest provinces of Aragon and old Castile, just as happened on your arrival by the northern. These are vast, yellowish, and dried-up plains; you would say that if you beat upon it, the earth would resound like an empty box, or crumble away like the crust of a burnt tart; occasionally you see miserable villages, of the same colour as the land, which look as if they would ignite like a heap of dry leaves, if any one were to bring a match to the roof of one of the houses. After an hour’s travel, my shoulder sought the side of the carriage, my elbow a leaning-place, and I fell into a profound sleep, like a member of Leopardi’s _Ateneo d’ Ascoltazione_.

I looked around me: the vast deserted plain was transformed as if by enchantment into an immense garden full of delightful groves, crossed in every direction by great avenues, dotted with little country houses and rustic cabins covered with vines; and, here and there were tossing fountains, shady nooks, flowery meadows, vineyards, little footpaths, and a greenness, a freshness, an odour of spring, a breath of joy and delight that wafted your soul to paradise. We had arrived at Aranjuez. I left the train, threaded my way down a beautiful avenue shaded by two rows of gigantic trees, and in an instant found myself opposite the royal palace.

[Illustration: ARANJUEZ, SPAIN.]

Castelar, the minister, wrote recently in his _memorandum_ that the fall of the ancient Spanish monarchy was foreseen on the day that a herd of populace with abuse on their lips and anger in their hearts, invaded the palace of Aranjuez to disturb the tranquil majesty of its sovereigns. I was precisely on that spot, where, on March 17, 1808, occurred the events that formed the prologue to the national war and the first word of the sentence, as it were, that condemned the ancient monarchy to death. I immediately looked for the windows of the apartment of the Prince of Peace; I pictured him, fleeing from hall to hall, pale and dishevelled, hunting for a hiding-place, amidst the echoing cries of the multitude that mounted the stairway; I saw poor Charles IV. place the crown on the head of the Prince of the Asturias with trembling hands; all the scenes of that terrible drama passed before my eyes; and the deep silence of this place and the sight of that shut and abandoned palace chilled me to the heart.

The palace is built like a castle; it is of brick with corners of white marble, and covered with a slate roof. Every one knows that Philip II. had it built by the celebrated architect Herrera, and that nearly all his successors embellished it, and lived there during the summer season. I entered: the interior is splendid; there is a resplendent hall for the reception of ambassadors, a beautiful Chinese cabinet of Charles III., a superb dressing-room of Isabella II., and a profusion of precious ornaments. But all the riches of the palace are not worth the view of the gardens. Expectations are not deceived. The gardens of Aranjuez (Aranjuez is the name of the little town situate a short distance from the palace) seem to have been laid out for the family of Titan Kings, to whom the parks and gardens of our Kings would have appeared like terrace parterres and sheep-folds. Avenues, extending as far as the eye can reach and bordered by trees of an inordinate height uniting their branches and leaning towards us as if bent by two contrary winds, in every direction cross a forest the boundaries of which one cannot see; and through this forest the wide and rapid Tagus describes a majestic curve, forming here and there cascades and basins; a luxuriant and flourishing vegetation abounds amid a labyrinth of little avenues and cross-roads; everywhere is seen the whiteness of statues, fountains, columns and high jets of water that fall in sheets and rain and spray on all the flowers known to Europe and America; and to the majestic sound of the cascade of the Tagus is joined the song of innumerable nightingales that pour their trills into the mysterious shade of the lonely paths. Beyond the gardens, rises a little marble palace, modest in appearance, which contains all the marvels of the most magnificent royal residence, and where one still breathes the atmosphere of the life of the Kings of Spain. Here are the little secret chambers the ceilings of which may be touched by the hand, the billiard-room of Charles IV., cushions embroidered by the hands of queens, musical clocks that amused the idle children, little stairways, tiny windows that preserve a hundred little traditions of the caprice of princes: and, finally, the richest toilet-room in Europe, due to a whim of Charles IV., and which contains in itself so much wealth that one could draw enough from it to build a palace, without depriving it of the noble pre-eminence it boasts above all rooms appropriated to the same use.

Beyond this palace, and around the woodlands, extend vineyards, olive-trees, plantations of fruit-trees and smiling meadows. It is a veritable oasis surrounded by a desert which Philip II. chose in a day of good humour, as if to alleviate the black melancholy of the Escurial with a gay picture. On returning from the little marble palace to the great palace of the Escurial down these long avenues, beneath the shade of these large trees, in this profound peace of the forest, I thought of the splendid pageants of ladies and cavaliers that formerly followed the steps of the gay young monarchs and capricious and unrestrained queens to the sound of love-songs and hymns, celebrating the grandeur and the glory of unvanquished Spain, and I repeated sadly with the poet of Recanati:

“... All is peace and silence, And one speaks no longer of them....”

GLAMIS CASTLE

LADY GLAMIS

To the lover of Shakespeare, the name of Glammis (as it was sometimes spelt) will recall the act of treachery and murder which tradition gives as having taken place there, when King Duncan was done to death by the hand or at the instigation of the ambitious and unscrupulous Lady Macbeth; although there is no possibility of proving or testing the truth as to the details or locality of the tragedy.

To the antiquarian, the Castle must be of immense interest on account of the great age of the central portion, or keep, which is known to have been standing in 1016, but “whose birth tradition notes not”; while to the romantic and superstitious it is associated as a place where ghosts and spirits moving silently down winding stairs and dark passages are wont to make night fearsome. This feeling of eeriness is not confined to the naturally nervous, for Sir Walter Scott, who spent a night at Glamis in 1794, writes:

“After a very hospitable reception, ... I was conducted to my apartment in a distant part of the building. I must own that when I heard door after door shut, after my conductor had retired, I began to consider myself too far from the living and somewhat too near the dead.”

[Illustration: GLAMIS CASTLE, SCOTLAND.]

Additional interest attaches to this castle from the fact that its venerable walls enshroud a _mysterious something_, which has for centuries baffled the curiosity and investigations of all unauthorized persons; this secret is known only to three people--the Earl of the time being, his eldest son, and one other individual, whom they think worthy of their confidence.

Most people have theories upon this subject, and many ridiculous stories are told; but so carefully has the mystery been guarded, that no suspicion of the truth has ever come to light. One version of the story is as follows: Several centuries ago the Lord Glamis of the time was entertaining the head of another noble family then resident in Angus; and in the course of the evening they commenced to play cards. It was Saturday night, and so intent were they on wagering lands and money on the issue of the game, that they did not recognize the fact that Sunday morning was approaching until an old retainer ventured to remind them of the hour. Whereupon one of the gamblers swore a great oath, with the tacit approval of the other, that they did not care what day it might be, but they would finish their game at any cost, even if they went on playing till Doomsday! It had struck midnight ere he had finished his sentence, when there suddenly appeared a stranger dressed in black, who politely informed their lordships that he would take them at their word, and vanished.

The story goes on to aver that annually on that night three noblemen, or their spirits, meet and play cards in the _secret room_ of the Castle, and that this will go on till Doomsday. In corroboration of this story, it is said that on a certain night in the autumn of every year, loud noises are heard, and some of the casements of the Castle are blown open.

Glamis Castle stands in the centre of the vale of Strathmore, in a picturesque and well-wooded part of Forfarshire; the heather-clad sides of the Sidlaws, which divide Strathmore from the sea, rising to the south, while away to the north tower the Grampians, which form a magnificent background to the ancient pile of buildings, whose turrets rise some hundred and fifteen feet above the level of the ground.

The poet, Gray, in a letter, describes the exterior of the castle in the following words:

“The house, from the height of it, the greatness of its mass, the many towers atop, and the spread of its wings, has really a very singular and striking appearance, like nothing I ever saw.”

The oldest portions of the Castle are formed of huge irregular blocks of old red sandstone, which time and weather have mellowed into a beautiful grey, pink colour. The walls in many places are sixteen feet thick, which in the olden days had the essential recommendation of great security, and also of allowing space for secret rooms and passages as means of escape in times of peril; and as a matter of fact, two secret staircases have been discovered within the last five-and-twenty years, and possibly there are others which still remain forgotten and unused.

The narrow windows appear at irregular heights and distances in the central building or keep and left wing (the right wing having been burnt down and rebuilt early in 1800, is not so interesting), but the great staircase added by Patrick, Lord Glamis, in 1605, is very fine, occupying a circular tower, the space for which has been partly dug out of the old walls of the keep, and rises to the third story. This staircase (the designing for which has been attributed to Inigo Jones) is spiral, with a hollow newel in the centre, and is composed of stone to the summit. It consists of 143 steps, 6 feet 10 inches in width, each of _one_ stone.

The staircases, which were in use before 1600, are very narrow, dark, and some of them winding, the steps steep and irregular in height, worn into hollows by the many feet that for centuries climbed them. Up two flights of these dimly lit, uneven stairs, the wounded king, Malcolm II., after having been treacherously attacked and mortally wounded by Kenneth V. and his adherents on the Hunter’s Hill, about a mile from the Castle, was carried by his followers to die in the chamber that still bears the name of King Malcolm’s room. This murder of King Malcolm is the first authentic event mentioned by the chroniclers in connection with Glamis.