Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, October 3, 1856

FOR FREDERICK DOUGLASS' PAPER.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER XXXI.

WILLESDON, Oct. 3rd, 1856.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—I shall commence another letter to you, and trust to finishing it, somewhere and sometime before the departure of the next week's mail for the United States.

I am still in this sweet spot, renowned far and wide, in County Middlesex, for its winding and romantic green lanes, its beautiful uplands, and emerald meadows, and (I may add) its lovely gardens, which, brilliant with the many colored hues of beauteous flowers and choice evergreens, perfect in order and neatness and elegant in arrangement and decoration, charm the eye of the roamer through them, and make him feel that, though but six miles removed from the din and noise of the metropolis; English skill and natural beauty combined have conjured up a region of enchantment. Here are

"Gorgeous flowerts in the sunlight shining,

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining

Buds that open only to decay.

"In all places then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their might and soul-like wings,

Teaching us by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things."

Who can help moralizing, in wandering amidst a flower garden?

We had a beautiful drive, on Tuesday, to KENSAL GREEN, and an interesting walk thro' the Cemetery there, which is deemed the largest and finest of the English resting-places for the dead. I was astonished at its vast extent, and solemnized by the calm and tranquil beauty which pervaded it. The simple tomb-stone, with the grassy mound, carefully kept—the neat little flower garden, or ever vernal shrubs, form, to my thinking, a far more fitting memorial to a dear, departed friend, than the massive, ponderous monuments, that rear their grandeur, to mock the little handful of dust that so lowly lies beneath. There is something, too, so chilling in those cold, huge stones, that appear to press so heavily on the form, once beloved, as if to hold it in unwilling captivity, and to preclude its arising once more to bless us with its presence. Still, opinions differ on this subject, and many costly erection at Kensal Green, tall of the love and

devotion of surviving friends and relatives to the departed.

A very splendid monument there, is raised by his widow, to Major General the Hon. Sir Wm. Casement, K. C. B., of the Bengal army, and member of the Supreme Council of India. A massive canopy, raised above the tomb, is supported (in true Eastern fashion) on the heads of four native Indians. The grace of these figures, and the elegance of the flowering drapery of their garments, charmed me entirely, and made me ask, whether, indeed, this could be marble? Another celebrated monument, at Kensal Green, is that erected to ANDREW DUCROW, (the noted horse rider and actor,) and his wife. It is a massive structure, handsome, but not to my taste, though the broken column and the wreath of flowers twining around it, from which a single rose has fallen to the ground, is beautiful in design, and faultless in execution. SOYER (famous in the annals of French cuisinirie) has raised a super edifice to the memory of his wife. Massive bronze is introduced with the marble, and the effect is striking.—The Duke of Sussex, and his sister, the Princess Sophia, are interred in this cemetery, and (what is of far more interest to you and to me) poor THOMAS HOOD lies here. I very much regret to have missed his monument. You will remember that he desired to have only the simple inscription on it, "He sang the song of the Shirt!" I am told that something more is inscribed. A pure white marble memorial has just been erected to the Countess of Stamford and Warrington. It is exquisitely chaste in design; two winged angels are kneeling by the tomb, as if in prayer; so true to reality is the sculpted marble, that it almost seemed to me as if I might, if I would, pluck the feathers from their beautiful wings. But I will linger amidst the tombs no longer. Leaving the garden for a season, we entered the monumental chambers, where, "all around at our feet, an eternity slumbered quiet." The walls of these silent chambers are thickly studded with tablets, telling the country, name and deeds of those who are asleep beneath, and on whose "dull, cold ear," "praise or blame now fall alike."—At the end of the chain of monumental chambers, stands a most touching and beautiful monument. The figures represented are a father and daughter. The contour of their faces is

strikingly similar. He is laying on a couch, the pallid hue of sickness is on his features; and the daughter kneels by his side, with an open bible in her hands. Her eyes are rivetted on her father and his loving, lingering gaze is on her lovely face. I called to mind Scott's beautiful lines:

"Some feelings are to mortals given,

With less of earth in them than heaven;

And if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refined and clear,

A tear so limpid and so meek

It would not stain an angel's cheek,

'Tis that which pious fathers shed

Upon a duteous daughter's head."

It was a relief to come forth into the open air, and once more to see "the silver habit of the clouds come down upon the autumn's sun."

The grounds of Kensal Green are beautifully kept. Some of the avenues are planted with Scotch fir, and line trees alternatively; others with the arba vita and horse-chestnut. In sober mood we drove home, through winding lanes, (one of which a junior of our party appropriately names a "twirliferous lane;")and the shades of evening had rapidly stolen o'er us, ere we entered the grounds of Mapes Hill House.

For to-day we had a lengthy excursion in contemplation; but our our fickle climate frequently deceives us, and to plan, on a bright Thursday, what you will do on an imaginary bright Friday, is often fruitless—so, after divers hesitations, sundry lamentations on the state of the weather, numerous inspections of the heavy, leaden skies, and unanimous convictions that it, really, did rain, we decided that it would not do to venture on, so we turned our faces homeward, and by and bye, the wet day that was, became a fine one; the sun peeped out from behind the clouds, laughing to see the mischief his absence had occasioned; and we, gladdened by his beams, contented ourselves with a drive thro' pretty "West End Lane," and a Willesdon stroll.

~~~~~

ISLINGTON, October 9th.

Rain! rain! RAIN! we have had little else than rain since I wrote last.

Hyde Park presented a somewhat gloomy and desolate aspect as we drive through it on Saturday on our return home. The trees that [i]n spring and early summer impart so much freshness and beauty to its promenades no wear a sickly hue, rather than a rich, autumnal tint; and, as for the promenaders, they are scattered far and wide—some of the Black Sea—some at the White Sea—some at the Red

Sea—and the masses are on the banks of the Rhine, the Rhone, and the Seine, or the "Blue Moselle."

The Parks, and Kensington Gardens, should (to my thinking) be visited by foreigners, for the first time, in May or June, and never in October—for let us poetize, as we may, on the "mellow richness of the clustered foliage," and the "thousand hues of autumn," there are few among us but must admit that a London tree, in the autumnal season, presents a somewhat dingy aspect, to the passer by. Lime and horse-chestnut trees predominate in town. By the end of May, or beginning of June, they are generally in full "verdure clad," and radiant in beauty—now, a few seared and yellow leaves, and the blackened stems are all that appear, and when taking a mournful survey of them, we may sing, with the Bard of Erin:

"All that's bright must fade!

The brightest e'vn the fleetest!"

But soon "a change come o'er the spirit of my dream," and a far different scene meets my view. I stand in the centre of that gorgeous edifice, the interior of which has been pronounced the finest specimen of Gothic civil architecture in Europe. I refer to that portion of the New Palace of Westminster, denominated the House of Lords. Lofty in height, with walls lined with richly curved panelling—with roof most elaborately painted, its massive beams and sculpted ornaments being richly gilded—with twelve lofty windows to light it—six on either side—each window filled with stained glass, representing the Kings and Queens of the United Kingdom, with archways at each end of the House, to correspond with the size and mouldings of the windows, and beautifully painted Frescoes within the arches—with the Throne (glistening in gold colors) at the Southern end of the apartment—with galleries balconics, angels, pillars, niches, and pedestals, canopics, corbels, and spandrils, &c., all richly gilded, and innumerable devices, that is out of my power, my friend, to describe, and out of yours to comprehend—in truth, the tout ensemble presents a scene of Royal magnificence, that cannot easily be surprised.

But time fails me. I cannot attempt to describe the amount and extent of grandeur, pomp, and architectural splendor that passed before my aching eyes that day; and when it is remembered that this New Palace of Westminster stands on an area of eight acres, and

contains, within this area, no less than eleven quadrangles, or courts, and five hundred apartments; it will be admitted by all, that any attempt at minute description in less than a volume, must prove an entire failure.

I looked with more interest on the marble statues of those great men whom England de lights to honor, than on all the gold and glitter round me. It is meet and right that in St. Stephen`s Hall, (the arena where, in days of yore, our best, and wisest statesmen acted their parts,) Hampden and Falkland, Clarendon and Somers, Selden and Walpole, Chatham and Mansfield, Pitt and Fox, Burke and Grattan should again stand forth, the guardian spirits (as it were) of the place. Who, that is British in heart and feeling can look on the statues of these men without emotion?

The Encaustic Tiled Pavement forms a peculiar feature in the decorations and arrangements of the Westminster Palace, and is, from the richness of the colors, particularly striking.

With the exception of a beautiful new stained glass window, the venerable Westminster Hall (so full of historic interest) stands untouched. Some mention has been made of raising its unique and ancient roof; but it seems to me, that it would be a great desecration to disturb it, and that what it would gain in height thereby it would lose in interest. Westminster Hall, you will remember, was, originally, built by William Rufus, about 1197, and the present roof was erected by Richard II in 1398. The beauty and constructive skill of this roof, have been a source of wonder and interest to architects, and antiquarians, for many an age; and after the lapse of nearly five centuries, this elaborately carved, and curiously constructed canopy seems to stand as firm as ever. On what stirrig scenes has it looked down! Beneath it (by a strange fatality) was the very monarch deposed who raised it aloft. It witnessed the condemnation of Sir Thomas More, and beheld the trial of Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. It canopied the regicides, as they sat in conclave, and summoned King Charles the first, for trial before them. It heard judgement pronounced on the monarch, all unmoved, and beheld with equal nonchalance, the installation of the Protector. It shuddered not, when a few years later the head of that same Protector was ignominiously exposed to view upon a pole. With equal stolidity it beheld the trial of the Seven Bishops, and none discerned its