The Lure of the Camera. Charles S. Olcott

      It was curious to note, when we explored the village the next morning, that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was in the time of George Eliot’s father. I had never expected to find the real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as represented—except that Adam Bede’s cottage has been enlarged and repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the village as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was the original of the old squire in “Adam Bede.” This fine old estate was the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of a visit. We found the fine old “hoaks” there, which Mr. Casson mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained the hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the place from all the best points of view.

      It has not been my intention to follow in detail the events of our exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real pleasure when the people one meets manifest a genuine interest and a spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.

      II

      There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder. There are surly butlers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we encountered one of the species in the Lake District. I had called at the country residence of Captain——, a wealthy gentleman and a member of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His High-and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening of the muscles of the back and shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was “not at ’ome.” I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum. “Captain—— is ex-treme-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He’s obliged to be in Lunnun to-day, sir, but he towld me to sai to you, sir, that you’re to taik everythink in the ’ouse you want, sir.” And then the Important One gave me full possession while I photographed the most interesting rooms, coming back occasionally to inquire whether I wished him to move “hany harticles of furniture,” afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the sacred precincts of his own particular domain.

      At another time, also in connection with Mrs. Ward’s novels, I came dangerously near to another break. It was down in Surrey, whither we had gone to visit the scenery of “Robert Elsmere.” I knocked at the door of a little stone cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown into the presence of a very old gentleman, who looked suspiciously, first at my card, and then at me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. I explained that I was an American and had come to take a picture of his house. He looked puzzled, and after some further scrutiny of my face, my clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, “Well, you people in America must be crazy to come all the way over here to photograph this house. I have always said it’s the ugliest house in England, owned by the ugliest landlord that ever lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the parish.” Fortunately he was not possessed of the Oriental delusion that a photograph causes some of the virtue of an individual (or of a house) to pass out into the picture, and upon further reflection concluded that if a harmless lunatic wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, it wouldn’t matter much after all.