Chapter Eighteen
There dwells a fond desire in human minds,
When pleas'd, their pleasure to extend to those
Of kindred taste; and thence the' enchanting arts
Of picture and of song, the semblance fair
Of nature's forms produce. This fond desire
Prompts me to sing the lonely silvan scenes
Of AMWELL, which, so oft in early youth,
While novelty enhanc'd their native charms,
Gave rapture to my soul; and often, still,
On life's calm moments shed serener joy.
- John Scott
Monday 14 December 1812
Lydia read the poem aloud as Mr Bennet’s carriage carried their part of the party to Ware. Jane listened attentively as the girl read the words of the poet, John Scott. Mr Bennet ignored them, immersed in a book of philosophy.
“By winding pathways through the waving corn,
We reach the airy point that prospect yields,
Not vast and awful, but confin'd and fair;
Not the black mountain and the foamy main;
Not the throng'd city and the busy port;
But pleasant interchange of soft ascent,
And level plain, and growth of shady woods,
And twining course of rivers clear, and sight
Of rural towns and rural cots, whose roofs
Rise scattering round, and animate the whole.”
Lydia looked up when she finished reading the lengthy poem aloud. “He certainly loved his home a great deal more than the city. You must take an interest in his work, Papa, if you go to visit his family every year. Do you like his work because he prefers the glories of the country to town?”
Mr Bennet lowered his volume and regarded her with a raised brow. “I do enjoy the work of Mr Scott, though I will admit that I find a great deal more to discuss with his son-in-law. I prefer Apology for Retirement to his descriptive work of Amwell.”
Lydia lifted the volume she held, and found the verse in question.
“WHY asks my Friend what cheers the passing day,
Where these lone fields my rural home inclose;
That me no scenes the pompous city shows
Lure from that rural residence away?
Now thro' my laurel groves I musing stray,
Now breathe the gale that o'er the lilac blows,
Now in my grotto's solemn cells repose,
Or down the smooth vale wind at evening gray;
Now charms the lofty Poet's tuneful lay,
Where Music fraught with fair Instruction flows;
Now Delia's converse makes the moments gay,
The nymph for love and innocence I chose:
O Friend! the man who joys like these can taste
On Vice and Folly needs no hour to waste.”
“I believe it sounds like you, Papa.” she looked at Jane. “Do you have a favourite, Miss Jane?”
“Read The Drum next,” advised Jane.
“I hate that drum’s discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when ambition’s voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.
I hate that drum’s discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag’d plains,
And burning towns, and ruin’d swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow’s tears, and orphan’s moans;
And all that misery’s hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.
“That makes me quite sad,” Lydia said when she finished. “To think of all the young men being lured away by the drum to die.”
“I always think of it when my brother Charles is sent away.” Jane worked on embroidering the white wrap for Mrs Bingley as she spoke.
“So one of your brothers is named Charles, and is an officer?” Mr Bennet noted. “We must remember to record that when we return. Sent away where?”
Jane made a show of looking up in the air in thought.
“I do not know. The memories escape me just as quickly as they arrive. But I think, knowing that I have a great number of brothers–at least as many as there are Bennet sisters–that it would be astonishing if at least one were not named Charles, and that one or more must be in the army. It would be as likely that I also have a brother named George, and even one called Edward.”
“If only you could recall their surname,” Bennet drawled, returning to his book.
“I am certain it must come eventually,” answered Jane good-naturedly. “Mr Jones is so certain of it; and the megrims improve daily. Mrs Nicholls was very good to ensure we had headache powders with us today, and a spot of laudanum if that fails.”
“Welcome to Amwell!” boomed their host, Mr Hooper, as Mr Bennet handed the ladies down one by one.
Several feet away, Colonel Fitzwilliam was assisting Miss Kitty, Miss Darcy, and Mrs Annesley down from Darcy's carriage.
All of the ladies were bundled up warmly, and wore their kid gloves so they could enjoy the outdoors for the afternoon.
The weather had not turned yet, as Mr Bridges had sworn it would, and the travellers were grateful.
“Hooper, this is my daughter Miss Kitty, it is her outing today.” Mr Bennet introduced his host to his daughter and her guests.
“And this is The Honorable Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Miss Darcy, Mrs Annesley, our guest, Miss Jane, who has amnesia and does not know her surname, and my youngest, Miss Lydia Bennet.”
“Amnesia you say! How did you find such a person, Bennet?” Mr Hooper asked in surprise.
“I shall tell you over a glass of port in your library.” Mr Bennet, a misanthrope to his core, waved away his daughter and her guests.
“Allow me to introduce your guide, Mr Dean.” Mr Hooper gestured to another man nearby in his fifties–with a walking stick and whose waistcoat was stained with moss–who doffed his cap.
“Mr Dean is our head gardener here at Amwell. He will give you a guided tour of the grove, and if you wish to part ways for sketching or other adventures on the grounds after, he will find you a few boys to show you around. When you are ready to return to the house, there will be tea laid in the parlour for you. If Mrs Hooper is available later, she may join you.”
“Thank you for your kind hospitality, Mr Hooper.” Miss Kitty curtsied.
“You are quite welcome, Miss Kitty, I do hope you and your friends enjoy your visit.” The man bowed and entered the house with Mr Bennet, as the others turned away from the brick edifice and followed Mr Dean.
Miss Kitty took Miss Darcy’s arm–and–steadily ignoring both Lydia and Jane–followed the guide with the others.
“Ladies, sir, welcome to the humble marvel of Amwell, Scott’s Grotto.
Cut into the chalk hillside, and built by the poet–Mr Scott–some eighty years past. A man of verse, of virtue–and–by all accounts–of excellent disposition.
” Mr Dean stood in front of the entrance of the grotto and held his audience spellbound.
Jane examined with interest the rain headers which were used to direct water away from the roof as she listened to Mr Dean speak.
“Mr Scott walked these hills of Hertfordshire daily, and built this labyrinth of stone with his own hands, side by side with his workers.” Mr Dean turned and led the way into the grotto.
“This passage leads to the Consultation Room.
This was the first part of Scott's Grotto or, as he termed it, his Shell Temple. Now, if you will follow me, we shall enter what Mr Scott called his outer hall of meditation. Please, do mind your head, sir; the ceiling was not made for modern hats.”
The group stepped into the glimmering entrance chamber and admired the walls, which were studded with shells and mirror glass, by the light of the many thoughtfully provided torches.
The light flickered in unpredictable patterns as they all heard Miss Kitty whisper to Miss Darcy, “Did he really build it himself?”
Mr Dean overheard and smiled. “Indeed he did, miss, though I daresay he was more skilled with a pen than a stonemason’s tool. Still, he oversaw every stone that was laid, every shell placed.”
“Rather like a soldier’s campaign, only with more amethysts,” Colonel Fitzwilliam observed.
“And with fewer casualties, Colonel.” Mr Dean smiled again. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, when their party had explored the room thoroughly, and marvelled over all of the stones, shells, and colourful glass, he invited them to follow him to the next room.
“The grotto is formed of six chambers. The first is to welcome guests. The poet kept a stool in that corner, a little table with ink and paper for visitors to sign, and a flask of brandy.” Mr Dean again waited patiently for the guests to explore the room and then led them down another passage.
“This room, Mr Scott called The Oracle. Here, he would sit for hours, listening to the wind pass through the chimney. He believed the wind could answer questions if one listened closely enough.”
Later, as they passed under narrow arches, and into a chamber lined with thick chunks of colored glass, Mr Dean continued. “This room is the chapel.”
“It does seem like a place for prayer,” Miss Darcy whispered.
“We shall shortly come to the inner chamber, Mr Scott’s writing room. Take your time as you enjoy the chambers and passages. The grotto rewards close attention to detail.”