THE CITY OF

CULTURE BY SELF-HELP

L

CHAPTER ·I.

THE HOMES AND HAUNTS OF GENIUS.

EIGH HUNT used to go out of his way, even while very tired, in order to walk through Gold Street, where Dryden had lived, and thus give himself "the shadow of a pleasant thought." "I can no more pass through Westminster without thinking of Milton," he says, "or the Borough without thinkof Chaucer and Shakespeare, or Gray's Inn without calling Bacon to mind, or. Bloomsbury Square without Steele and Akenside, than I can prefer bricks and mortar to wit and poetry, or not see a beauty upon them beyond architecture, in the splendor of the recollection." Many others, themselves men of eminence, have looked upon the homes of genius in a similar spirit. "It is a sort of gratification," says Richard Cobden, writing from Burns's birthplace to his brother Frederick, "which I am sure you can imagine, but which I cannot describe, to feel conscious of treading upon the same spot of earth,

of viewing the same surrounding objects, and of being sheltered by the same roof, as one who equally astonished and delighted the world."

There is perhaps no finer trait in the character of a young man than this interest in and regard for all that pertains to a great man; for it indicates a noble soul, capable of high things. Besides, something of the very air and spirit of a noble life are apt to be caught in contemplating the place and the surroundings of its origin. Histories may be read in houses, walls, streets, as well as in books; and I am inclined to think that most young men of generous hature, especially those who have devoted some time to the study of literature, would, under like circumstances, be inspired with feelings similar to those of Hunt and Cobden. "Superior souls," says Mr. Alger, "find nothing else in the universe so attractive as a superior soul." Even the ground they tread on, and the air they breathe, become consecrated to those who are familiar with their life and work.

There is a season, in the life of every young man who has enjoyed some degree of culture, when the men who have "astonished and delighted the world" exercise an irresistible fascination over him. Then the lives and works of the heroes of art and literature, their struggles and triumphs, are regarded with intense interest, and their words are quoted at every turn. Who has not known the young enthusiast brimful of Shakespeare, Scott, or Schiller? Who has not known the youthful admirer of Michael Angelo, of Hogarth, or Thorwaldsen ready to sacrifice everything to be able to visit the homes of these great geniuses! It is in this season that a visit to the home or birthplace of genius becomes a source not only of exquisite pleasure, but of the highest

culture.

For the daily walks and common surroundings of finely-touched spirits speak to him in a "various language," and enable him to catch a glimpse of those secret springs of thought, those "obstinate questionings of sense and outward things," which were perhaps the inspiring causes of many a noble, many a grand conception. To see Europe, therefore, at such a life-season, is, to an American, as good as a liberal education; and happy is he who can accomplish it.

Well do I remember how I, too, used to dream of making this trip to Europe, and of seeing those ancient towns. and cities consecrated by their association with genius, with the lives and works of men and women of whom I had often read, and whose writings were still the consolation and the joy of my leisure hours. The realization of this dream I considered the most desirable thing in the world, and lived in delightful anticipation of it. By the course of my reading I had become familiar with the haunts of Steele and Addison, of Dryden and Pope, of Johnson and Burke, of Lamb, Coleridge and Hood, and I longed to see them with my own eyes. I knew the schools they studied in, the streets they walked in, the houses they lived in, and the inns and coffee-houses they most frequently visited; in fact, that centre of all that is consecrated to genius, world-famous London, was as familiar to me as New York or Boston. I used to wander in imagination through Fleet street and the Strand, where Johnson and Savage walked all night for want of a bed; through the poet's corner in Westminster Abbey, where so many famous and beloved poets are now enshrined in marble effigies; through the halls of parliament, where Fox, Pitt, Burke and Sheridan so often shone in all the splendor of eloquence; through

the ill-omened and thick-walled Tower, where Raleigh, Surrey, and so many other gifted and heroic souls suffered for truth or liberty; through the rooms of the Boar's Head and the Mermaid Tavern, where Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Francis Beaumont were wont to have their merry meetings and their wit combats; and I imagined I saw these famous poets in their old smoky, candle-lit dens, discussing poetry, art and politics over their flowing cups, and leaving behind them an intellectual air

Which alone

Was able to make the next two companies

Right witty.

How swiftly and cheaply we can travel in imagination! how completely free from all annoying circumstances and how pleasing and interesting everything looks to us! What a pleasant ride was that from London to Stratford, in an old-fashioned stage-coach, with jolly companions and a good-natured, garrulous old Jehu, who cracked his whip and blew his horn at every stopping-place! Every striking object on the road I marked as things on which the eye of Shakespeare might have rested; and stopped of course at Bucks, where he "took the humor of the constable in 'Much Ado About Nothing,' which is on the road from London to Stratford." After feasting my eyes on everything in that ancient little town of Stratford, in which the poet was born and bred, and in which he passed his declining years; after reverentially examining that sacred little cottage in Henley street, still carefully preserved, in which his youthful years were passed, and in which he must have learned, especially from his gentle mother, those lessons of filial love and devotion which

he subsequently turned to so good account, I strolled through the surrounding fields and forests, and, like Orlando, passed a golden day

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.

Then "a change came o'er the spirit of my dream," and I found myself in Paris, chasing all manner of fancies up and down those streets rendered famous by great historical events, and hallowed by the genius of Molière, Corneille, Racine, Bossuet, Voltaire and Fénélon. After wandering through the scenes of their greatest triumphs, and looking with reverence on those splendid temples in which their eloquence and genius were first displayed, I strolled into the less frequented streets, and found old houses with such inscriptions as these: "Ici naquit Molière;" "Voici la demeure de Lafontaine.

After this I sped away to Germany, that land of poetry and romance, where some of the most fascinating characters in history and literature have lived, and where some of the most romantic and tale-haunted spots on earth are situated; and here I saw, not only the grand scenery of the Rhine, with its historic castles and legendary towers, but Cologne with its narrow streets and marvellously beautiful cathedral, Mayence with its famous fortifications and its time-worn statues of Faust and Gutenberg, Weimar and Jena with their interesting memorials of Schiller and Goethe, and Leipsic with its many associations of Lessing and Richter. In all these places I saw in imagination not only the streets and houses in which these great men lived and moved, but the very rooms in which they studied, the books they used, the gardens in which they walked, and the convivial resorts in which they so fre