Warwick and Kenilworth

WARWICK AND KENILWORTH. BY LYDIA D. ALDER, ENGLISH MISSIONARY.

June, the month of roses and bloom, finds us in old-fashioned, sleepy Warwick. What a host of pleasant memories arise at the mention of the name! We have just arrived from Birmingham, having attended the semi-annual conference, and we go out for a walk to Leamington. Standing on the bridge that spans the little stream, we have the best view of the Warwick castle. On this rather sluggish stream, young people often glide in little pleasure boats that go almost to the fine falls, at the point where the water touches nearest to the sombre castle, whose battlements tower ever so high above. Leamington adjoins Warwick, the walk being only about two and a half miles; but it does not seem so far. The trees and hedges, on either side of the road, cast long shadows, making it

cool and pleasant. Through them the sun's last rays flash crim- son and gold. All is quiet, save the twitter of the birds. We sit down to listen to them. The cuckoo is calling, and the echo repeats, softly, "cuckoo, cuckoo." The effect of silence and sound, seems different here. Silence seems full of speech, while sound seems first near, then far away, and grows wider and wider in sound waves, even to the trees in the farther fields, where feathered songsters are singing low their evening songs. Leamington is a fashionable town, noted for its famous spa water, which we taste at the iron fountain near the railway bridge. We decide we do not like it. The streets are wide and modern; the shop windows display costly goods, and the people aa:e well dressed. The gardens are lovely, so we seat ourselves to

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enjoy the cool breeze, and feast our eyes on the gorgeous beds of flowers. They are very wide, and extend almost to the band stand, which is erected in the centre of the well-kept lawn. Now and then, dreamy melodies are wafted on the air, but we are too weary to wonder what they are; we only know that they are sweet and soothing. All around, are rows of trees; under them, here and there, are benches bidding us rest, an invitation we gratefully accept. It is the most natural thing in the world to do; so we

give ourselves up to the enjoyment of the scene. Such silence is golden; in it, nature reveals volumes by her glowing yet dainty colors, set in a framework of dense foliage. The Parade is a wide street, with double rows of lovely trees. Three of these are pointed out as being in the center of England. They are girded by iron fences. They are centuries old. Rever- ently, we gaze on them. Around them, little children are playing, and we wonder how many generations have thus enjoyed the shade cast by their wide-spreading branches. Their leaves seem to dance in merriment with the children's rippling laughter, or shiver when funeral knells are sounded through them. They seem to utter new echoes of that long ago, when they were young and straight; before storms had bent and seamed them, and time had broadened their trunks. Then they were as young as the lovers whose hearts first beat time to their leafy music.

Memories, memories! weird the songs you sing, From the heart's deep fountains, the melodies spring.

Next day we go on a visit to Kenilworth. It is a pretty country town which we admire very much, as we loiter through its quiet streets. Far and near, the celebrated ruins of Kenilworth are known. Thousands visit them annually. What a grand and immense castle it must have been, in the days of its glory By far the finest view is obtained from the rear which is reached by a foot-path through the fields. Probably the castle was stormed from this point. History tells us, it has been the abode of sovereigns; and royal guests were entertained here. Henry VIII, while he destroyed the stately, costly priory, in his zeal to obliterate everything that was Roman Catholic, improved, at great cost, the castle of Kenilworth. In the reign of Elizabeth,

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it was granted to Robert Dudley, whom, in the sixth year of her reign, she created Earl of Leicester. An account of her celebrated visit at the castle, will be found in the notes of the novel "Kenil- worth." The grandeur of its desolation and ruin, cannot be described. As Henry VIII had destroyed or dismantled all that did not suit his ideas in his time, so likewise did Oliver Cromwell, in the turbu- lent years that followed. From a noble palace, it became a ruin, the abode of the bat and the owl. Ivy, growing in fantastic fes- toons, climbs over and around its roofless walls and partly demol- ished masonry. No human lives are within it, or on its domain, save in a portion that has been built perhaps as a warder's tower or lodge. The poet might idly dream for days among these scenes of desolation and impressive silence. He could inhabit it with the people of his brain, that it would become a palace of life. The pompous Henry would ride through its wide portals; and Elizabeth, England's Protestant queen, would be seen loitering through its

leafy lanes, surrounded by her royal knights. Hopes, ambitions, and love, were born here, and stealthy hate flourished by their side. The laughter of childhood has rung through its painted cor- ridors; and slow steps have borne a master to the waiting tomb; but all are gone, leaving this noble pile, to crumble with the dust. The front view is fine; coming upon it unexpectedly one is struck with its magnificence, its solemn impressiveness. Among the ruins, one feels he must step lightly, lest some sleeper of the

past, should suddenly rise from the ground, or some guard con- front him, inquiring, "Who goes there?"

The days of its glory, gone as a dream, That leaves no ripple on Time's changing stream.

Guy's Cliffs is a point of interest that no traveler should miss. A walk of two and a half miles west from Warwick, and the main entrance is visible from the road; being wide and open, the view is enchanting. It is the home of the Percy family, and lovely as

is the front view, the one from the old mill-pond is equally charm- ing. The edges of the pond are surrounded by trees and hanging foliage of almost tropical exuberance, whose long shadows kiss the

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water's clear bosom. On the upper side, the falls dash and foam, then flow smoothly away to join the Avon, of which it is a tributary. We find the falls musical company, as we join other travelers who are taking a short rest here. The home of the Percys is noted for an oil painting of a murder, that is so real and life-like, that one coming upon it unawares, shrieks in terror. It is incased in the wall and kept under lock and key, only being shown occasion- ally. It is the story of a dark deed committed long ago, and is so mingled with superstition and tradition that its truth is difficult to discover. In returning, we take the hill path which affords glimpses of woods and dells far down below, all aglow with butter- cups and daisies. Time is speeding along, and we are still dreaming in Warwick; we would fain tear ourselves away from its quaint houses, wind- ing streets, and peculiar arches, over which churches are built. Some of the houses are four and five hundred years old. (The one in which we are staying was built five hundred years ago.) We were told of one that had recently been sold, that had been in the owner's family for nine hundred and fifty years. She was a poor, aged widow, who had no means of support, and the county would not aid her, while she was a property owner; hence, she had to sell it to enter the poor house, (to become pauper as they are termed here,) to obtain the daily bread that perisheth. In my next, I will tell of a visit to the Countess of Warwick.

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