A Cathedral Courtshp[FrmTR Ödev Tim]

[turkmmo]

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A Cathedral Courtshıp




She



Wınchester, May 28, 1891
The Royal Garden ınn.

We Are Doing The English Cathedral Towns, Aunt Celia And ı. 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.

We Are Traveling Under The Yoke Of An Iron Itinerary, Warranted
Neither To Bend Nor Break. ıt 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 ı Believe She Thinks This Tour Of The Cathedrals
Will Give Me A Taste For Ritual And Bring Me Into The True Fold. ı
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.

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. ı Went To See The Livery Stable, After
One Of These Miriam-like Flights Of Prophecy On The Might-have-been.
ıt Isn't Fair To Judge A Man's Promise By One Performance, And That
One A Livery Stable, So ı Shall Say Nothing.

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. ı Am Not At All The Sort Of Girl Who
Makes Notes, And ı Have Told Her So; But She Says That ı Must At
Least Record My Passing Impressions, If They Are Ever So Trivial And
Commonplace.

ı Wanted To Go Directly From Southampton To London With The Abbotts,
Our Ship Friends, Who Left Us Yesterday. Roderick Abbott And ı 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."

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.

So Here We Are At Winchester; And ı Don't Mind All The Roderick
Abbotts In The Universe, Now That ı Have Seen The Royal Garden ınn,
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!

Aunt Celia Has Driven To St. Cross Hospital With Mrs. Benedict, An
Estimable Lady Tourist Whom She "picked Up" En Route From
Southampton. ı Am Tired, And Stayed At Home. ı Cannot Write
Letters, Because Aunt Celia Has The Guide-books, So ı 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! ı 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?" ı Long To Ask Her To Sit Down Comfortably And Be
English, While ı Study Her As A Type, But Of Course ı Mustn't.
Sometimes ı Wish ı Could Retire From The World For A Season And Do
What ı Like, "surrounded By The General Comfort Of Being Thought
Mad."

An Elegant, Irreproachable, High-minded Model Of Dignity And Reserve
Has Just Knocked And Inquired What We Will Have For Dinner. ıt Is
Very Embarrassing To Give Orders To A Person Who Looks Like A Judge
Of The Supreme Court, But ı Said Languidly, "what Would You
Suggest?"

"how Would You Like A Clear Soup, A Good Spring Soup, To Begin With,
Miss?"

"very Much."

"and A Bit Of Turbot Next, Miss?"

"yes, Turbot, By All Means," ı Said, My Mouth Watering At The Word.

"and What For A Roast, Miss? Would You Enjoy A Young Duckling,
Miss?"

"just The Thing; And For Dessert"--ı Couldn't Think What We Ought To
Have For Dessert In England, But The High-minded Model Coughed
Apologetically And Said, "ı Was Thinking You Might Like Gooseberry
Tart And Cream For A Sweet, Miss."

Oh That ı Could Have Vented My New World Enthusiasm In A Shriek Of
Delight As ı Heard Those Intoxicating Words, Heretofore Met Only In
English Novels!

"ye-es," ı Said Hesitatingly, Though ı Was Palpitating With Joy, "ı
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."

Now ı Had Never Met A Lemon Squash Personally, But ı Had Often Heard
Of It, And Wished To Show My Familiarity With British Culinary Art.

"one Lemon Squash, Miss?"

"oh, As To That, It Doesn't Matter," ı Said Haughtily; "bring A
Sufficient Number For Two Persons."

* * *

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; ı Thought It Was A Pie; But We Shall Find Out At
Dinner, For, As ı Said, ı Ordered A Sufficient Number For Two
Persons.

At Four O'clock We Attended Even-song At The Cathedral. ı Shall Not
Say What ı Felt When The White-surpliced Boy Choir Entered, Winding
Down Those Vaulted Aisles, Or When ı Heard For The First Time That
Intoned Service, With All Its "witchcraft Of Harmonic Sound." ı Sat
Quite By Myself In A High Carved-oak Seat, And The Hour Was Passed
In A Trance Of Serene Delight. ı Do Not Have Many Opinions, It Is
True, But Papa Says ı Am Always Strong On Sentiments; Nevertheless,
ı Shall Not Attempt To Tell Even What ı Feel In These New And
Beautiful Experiences, For It Has Been Better Told A Thousand Times.

There Were A Great Many People At Service, And A Large Number Of
Americans Among Them, ı 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 ı Looked The Other Way, He Looked At Me. Of Course ı
Could Feel His Eyes,--anybody Can, At Least Any Girl Can; But ı
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.

After We Had Finished (think Of "finishing" A Cathedral In An Hour
Or Two!), Aunt Celia And ı, 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. ıt Did Not Strike Me As Being Remarkable. ı 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. ıt 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, ı Loathe Them, And Would Not For Worlds Be Seen Carrying
One, Though ı Do Slip A Great Many Necessaries Into Aunt Celia's.

ı 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, ı
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 ı; And Oh, ı Hope ı May Never Look Upon His Face Again

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. (ı Hope He Guessed Aunt Celia Is A Dyspeptic, And
Not Intemperate!) All This Was Hopelessly Vulgar, But ı 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.

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 ı Fled After
Aunt Celia And Her Verger.

Memoranda: The Winchester Cathedral Has The Longest Nave. The
Inside Is More Superb Than The Outside. ızaak Walton And Jane
Austen Are Buried There.



He



Wınchester, May 28, 1891
The White Swan.

As Sure As My Name Is Jack Copley, ı Saw The Prettiest Girl In The
World To-day,--an American, Too, Or ı'm Greatly Mistaken. ıt Was In
The Cathedral, Where ı Have Been Sketching For Several Days. ı 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! ı Took A Sketch Of Her During Service, As She
Sat Under The Dark Carved-oak Canopy, With This Latin Inscription
Over Her Head:-


Carlton Cum
Dolby
Letanıa
ıx Solıdorum
Super Flumına
Confıtebor Tıbı
Duc Probatı


There Ought To Be A Law Against A Woman's Making A Picture Of
Herself, Unless She Is Willing To Sit And Be Sketched.

A Black And White Sketch Doesn't Give Any Definite Idea Of This
Charmer's Charms, But Some Time ı'll Fill It In,--hair, Sweet Little