Chapter X: Work in Northern Counties (1)

"Al ogni uccello suo nido par bello."

--_Italian Proverb._

"O my life! have we not had seasons
That only said, Live and rejoice?
That asked not for causes or reasons,
But made us all feeling and voice."

--LOWELL.

On our arrival in England, we were delighted with our little Holmhurst, which we arranged to be as much like Lime as possible, while many of the plants and shrubs we had brought with us, were, in the garden, a perpetual reminder of our old home. To my mother, however, our return was greatly clouded by the loss of her only brother, my Uncle Penrhyn, who died at Sheen while we were at Mentone, passing away most peacefully, surrounded by his family. This uncle is one of the few figures connected with my childhood with whom I have no associations but those of unvarying kindness, and in later years we had been brought nearer to him in our long winter visits at Sheen, and we missed him greatly.

My Handbook (nominally Murray's) of Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and Berkshire had been published during our winter absence: my little book "A Winter at Mentone" appeared soon after our return. With Murray's Handbook I had taken as much pains as if it were to appear in my own name, and felt as strongly the responsibility of what Miss Edgeworth calls "irremediable words," once past the press. The "Winter at Mentone" fell perfectly flat, but Murray was so pleased with the laudatory notices which followed the appearance of the Handbook, that he asked me to select any other counties I liked. I chose Durham and Northumberland, and after the middle of July went there for three months. In undertaking these counties, I again assented to an arrangement by which I was never repaid for my work; but the work was one which I liked extremely, bringing me in contact with endless interesting persons, enabling me to be much with "Cousin Susan," who gave me a second home at Ridley Hall, and opening a field of historic study of the most interesting kind. On the way north I went to the Vaughans at Doncaster, of which Dr. Vaughan had lately become Vicar.

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Doncaster, July 24, 1861._--The people here are a perpetual
amusement to Kate, they are so quaint and original. She spoke to
one old woman the other day about her sinful ways and the necessity
for amendment. 'Na, na, Mrs. Vaughan,' she replied, 'I be got too
old for Mr. Satan noo; he canna hurt I noo.' Another old woman who
was brought into the hospital swore dreadfully all night long, to
the great annoyance of her neighbours; but when they complained she
said, 'Wal, I niver did it afore I coomed here, but I be gettin'
old, and I canna help it--and it's the will o' God, and I canna
help it.'

"Kate said to an old man, 'What are you so low about, my man?'
'Why,' he said, 'what wi' faith, and gas, and balloons, and
steam-ingines a-booming and a-fizzling through t' warld, and what
wi't' arth a going round once in twenty-four hours, I'm fairly
muzzled and stagnated.'

"I have been to call on the daughters of 'Presence-of-mind Smith,'
who was Dean of Christ Church, and to the close of his life used to
tell this story of himself. 'In my life,' he said, 'there has been
one most fortunate incident. A friend of mine persuaded me to go
out with him in a boat upon a lake. I did not wish to go, but he
persuaded me, and I went. By the intervention of Providence, I took
my umbrella with me. We had not been long on the lake when the
violence of the waves threw my friend out of the boat drowning, and
he sank. Soon, as is the case with drowning persons, he came up
again, and clutched hold of the side of the boat. Then such,
providentially, was my presence of mind, that I seized my umbrella
and rapped him violently on the knuckles till he let go. He sank,
and I was saved.'"

When I arrived at Durham, I presented myself at once to my cousins the George Liddells, who lived at a dingy brick house in the suburb called Old Elvet. They had never seen me before, but welcomed me with the utmost kindness and hospitality, making me quite at home with them. I took a little lodging close by, but they made me dine with them almost every day, and I went constant expeditions with them, staying to dinner at the neighbouring houses, Elemore, Aldin Grange, &c. Durham itself I always found charming. The smoke only gave a picturesqueness of its own, and on Sunday there was a Sabbath of nature, for when the chimneys ceased smoking, the birds began to sing, the flowers to bloom, and the sky to be blue. Sunday, however, was a severe day with the George Liddells, almost entirely spent in going to church, reading prayers, and listening to long sermons at home. Even on ordinary days, _after_ long morning prayers, we were expected to read all the Psalms and Lessons for the day, verse by verse, before we went out. But with all this, George Liddell was the very dearest and kindest of old men, and I was very fond too of his wife--"Cousin Louise"--who was most amusing and original.

Other cousins, who were intensely good to me at this time, were old Henry Liddell, brother of my great-uncle Lord Ravensworth, and his wife, who was daughter of Thomas Lyon of Hetton, my great-grandmother's youngest brother. I had known them first at Bath many years before, where they were kind to me when I had very few friends. With them lived their daughters Charlotte and Amelia, and their youngest son William, a very tall, very excellent, and very shy clergyman, who was his father's curate at Easington. Here I paid my first visit to them. It is an ugly village in the Black Country, but the Liddells' house was most comfortable, having the sea close by, with delightful sands and rocks, and many wooded "denes" running down to it, of which Castle Eden is especially beautiful.

I remember one day, after returning from Easington, dining with Dr. Phillpotts, the celebrated Bishop of Exeter, who had a Canonry at Durham. He was very old, and was obliged to have a glass of wine given to him to obtain strength to go in to dinner, and every one wished him good-night when he left the dinner-table. He was good enough also to send for me alone to wish success to my book, &c. It was my only sight of this kindly old man, though I knew his daughter well, and valued her many good qualities. They both died shortly afterwards. Amongst the company at the Bishop's were Mr. and Mrs. Johnson of Akeley Heads, whom I also visited at their own beautiful place, which is on a high terrace overlooking Durham. It came to them in a curious way. Mr. Johnson was at school at Durham, and went out with his two elder brothers to spend the day with a rich old uncle who lived there. The eldest brother was his uncle's heir. They were sent to play in the garden, and seeing there a beautiful ripe peach upon the wall, they were unable to resist it, and ate it up. Soon the uncle came into the garden to look for that identical peach. "Where is my peach gone?" he said. The three boys were dreadfully frightened, and the two eldest denied knowing anything about it, but the youngest said, "We picked it and ate it up." The old man said nothing, but went home and altered his will that very afternoon, and when he was killed by an accident three weeks afterwards, his youngest nephew was found to be the heir of Akeley Heads.

I was frequently invited by Dean Waddington, who was a man of stately presence, "grand seigneur, fastueux, homme du monde," and had a great reputation for learning and cleverness; but in my acquaintance with him he seemed to care for nothing but his dinner, and his chief topic of conversation was his sherry of 1815, for which he gave £12 a dozen. "What with _diner à la Russe_, crinoline, and pale sherry," he said one day, "England is fast going to the dogs."

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Dilston, August 28._--The Greys gave me a warm welcome to
Dilston--Mr. Grey being agent for the Greenwich Hospital Estates
there, and a great agriculturist. Dilston is lovely. The house
stands on a terraced height, covered with hanging woods, beneath
which flows the Devil's Water, the most beautiful of Northumbrian
rivers, with trout dancing about in its transparent brown currents,
and floating away over its crumpled-looking rocks. On the hilltop
is the ruined castle of the Earl of Derwentwater, with his nursery,
now overgrown by huge elder-trees, and the little chapel beneath
which he was buried at night beside his ancestors. Below is the old
grey pointed bridge, upon which, as he rode over, he repented of
his rebellion and turned back to the castle, when his wife threw
her fan at him, and calling him a coward, drove him forth to his
destruction."

"_Ridley Hall, Sept. 1._--'How happily the days of Thalaba roll by'
might be applied to all the dwellers at Ridley Hall; for 'Cousin
Susan' is so truly genial to her many guests, that they cannot fail
to enjoy being with her."

"_Chillingham Castle, Sept. 6._--I went with Cousin Susan to spend
two days at Matfen, Sir Edward Blackett's, a large modern Tudor
house with a church beside it, looking into a great park, and
entered through a stately gothic hall. Sir Edward and Lady
Blackett have not been married many years, but four of his
daughters by his first wife are now out. Lady Blackett also had
another Northumbrian husband, Mr. Orde of Whitfield, and, as
daughter of Sir Charles Lorraine, was once thought a great beauty.
Sir Edward drove me to see Aydon, a curious old castle which
belongs to him.

"Yesterday I came to Chillingham from Belford, a beautiful drive,
over hills first, and then descending into moorland, purple with
heather, and bounded by the Cheviots, which rose deep blue against
the sunset sky. The castle, which is partly as old as King John, is
built round a great courtyard, from which flights of stone steps go
up to the principal apartments. On the stairs I found Lord
Tankerville, a handsome middle-aged man, with grey hair, romping
with his children. He is quite charming, so merry and so courteous.
He took me at once to my room, which is high up in one of the old
towers, and at eight we dined. Lady Tankerville is sister of the
Duke of Manchester, very pretty, and looks quite a girl, though her
three boys must be eight, nine, and ten years old."

"_Chillingham, Sept. 8._--This park is quite as beautiful in its
way as any scenery abroad, and much more so, I think, than any in
Scotland. It is backed by the Cheviot Hills, and often broken into
deep dells, with little streamlets rushing down them, and weird old
oaks whose withered branches are never cut off, sheltering herds of
deer. Great herds too of wild cattle, which are milk-white, and
have lived here undisturbed from time immemorial, come rushing
every now and then down the hillsides like an army, to seek better
pasture in the valley. Deer of every kind are to be seen upon the
hills, and Lady Tankerville hunts them furiously, tiring out twelve
horses in succession, placed to await her at different points in
the park. Nothing can be more lovely than the evening effects each
day I have been here, the setting sun pouring streams of golden
light into the great grey mysterious basins of the Cheviots, amid
which Marmion died and Paulinus baptized the ancient Northumbrians.

"If the place is charming, the people are even more so. The family
is the happiest and most united I have ever seen. Lord Tankerville
is the best and kindest of human beings. Lady Tankerville, whose
spirits are so exuberant she scarcely knows how to get rid of them,
dotes on her 'Hossinun,' plays with her children, gallops on her
horses, hunts her deer, and manages her household, with equal
vivacity. She is the most amusing person possible, is never ill,
laughs fine-ladyism to scorn, and scrambles about the park,
regardless of colds and crinolines, in all states of the weather.
The three little boys, Charlie, Georgie, and Peddie, are all quite
as engaging in their different ways, and the two little girls are
lovely little creatures.

"The prettiest story of an acceptance I ever heard of is that of
Lord Tankerville. He was playing at billiards with Lady Olivia
Montagu when he proposed, but she gave no definite answer. At last
she said, 'I think we must go into the drawing-room now; we have
been away long enough.'--'But what may I think, what may I say?' he
asked in agitation. 'Say that we have played our game, and that
you have won,' she answered.

"Yesterday, as soon as luncheon was over, Lady Tankerville and I
set off for a regular good sketching, in which she soon outstripped
me, for her drawings are first-rate. In some she has been helped by
Landseer, who is often here, and who has added beautiful misty
backgrounds, and put herds of deer into her fern.

"In the park is a beautiful old Peel tower, the home of the
Hepburns."

"_Chillingham, Sept. 10._--Lord Tankerville says, 'I do not see why
any one should ever go away from a place as long as he can make
himself happy there.' On that principle I should certainly never
leave Chillingham, which is the pleasantest place I ever was at. I
feel as if I had known Lord and Lady Tankerville all my life, his
kindness and her fun make one so entirely at home; and as for
Charlie, Georgie, and Peddie, there never were such little boys.

"Yesterday I was awakened by the servant saying that an order had
just come out to have breakfast ready in twenty minutes, as we were
all going to Dunstanborough for the day. So we hurried down, and as
soon as we had eaten our breakfast, set off in two little
basket-carriages across the park and up the steep hills to the
moors. At the top we found a larger carriage, packed with luncheon,
and with plenty of wraps, for the day was most unpromising; but
Lady Tankerville had quite made up her mind that it _should_ be
fine, and that we _would_ enjoy ourselves; and so we most
certainly did. The drive across the moorlands was charming, such
sweeps of purple heather, with blue mountain distance. Then, after
twelve miles, we descended through the cornland to Dunstanborough,
and walked through the sandhills covered with rye-grass and bloody
cranesbill to the castle, on a reef of basaltic rocks overhanging
the sea, which in one place roars up beneath in a strange cavern,
known as the Rumbling Churn. Lady Tankerville and I drew Queen
Margaret's Tower, where she was concealed after the battle of
Hexham, and then we picnicked and rambled about. Coming home we
told stories. A tremendous shower came on, and then the sky cleared
for a golden sunset over the mountains, and a splendid descent into
the old deer-park."

"_Bamborough Castle, Sept. 12._--Yesterday, at four, we set off on
a gipsy picnic from Chillingham--little 'Co' (Corisande) on a pony,
with the tea-things in panniers; Lady Tankerville, a fat Mr.
Athelstane from Portugal, Charlie, Georgie, Peddie, and I walking.
The pouring morning turned into a beautiful afternoon, and we had a
delightful scramble through the ferny glades of the park, and up
the steep craggy hills to the moorlands. Here Lady Tankerville went
off through the heather to look after her little girl, and I told
the three boys the story of Littlecot Hall, till the Shetland pony,
'Piccolomini,' arrived by the longer path. Then we lighted a fire
between two rocks, and Lady Tankerville and her children boiled a
kettle and cooked omelets over a fire of heather and fern, and
beautiful grapes, greengages, jam, and cakes unfitted us for the
eight-o'clock dinner. Then we came down like bushrangers, breaking
a path through the bracken, a great deal taller than ourselves, and
seeing in the distance the herds of wild white bulls. One or two
people came to dinner, but it was just the same simple merry meal
as usual.

"The Tankervilles sent me here to-day--twelve miles--in their
carriage."

"_Bamborough Castle, Sept._ 13.--It is very pleasant, as you will
imagine, to be here again, and I have much enjoyed the delightful
sands and the splendid green waves which came rolling in all
yesterday afternoon. It was a lovely evening, warm enough to enjoy
sitting out on the seat amongst the tall bent-grass, and to watch
Holy Island quite distinct in the sunset, with all the little fleet
of red-sailed herring-boats coming round from North Sunderland. Old
Mrs. Liddell sits as usual in her deep window and looks through the
telescope. Amelia wanders about with her black spaniel, and
Charlotte rides furiously on the sands when out, and talks
incessantly, though pleasantly, when in."

"_Bamborough, Sept. 16._--Yesterday I set off at 8 A.M. in a
dogcart for Holy Island, one of the castle cart-horses being
harnessed for the purpose, and the castle joiner going with me to
find old wood for repairs. It was a wild morning, but gleams of
light made the country picturesque, and Waren Bay looked very
striking, backed by its angular purple hills, and strewn with
pieces of wreck, over which sea-birds were swooping. Only one bit
of sand was visible when we reached the ford, but the horse plunged
gallantly in. Then we had a very rough crossing of a quarter of an
hour in a boat through the great green waves to the island, where
we landed on the yellow rocks. Close by, on the green hill, stand
the ruins, so well described in 'Marmion,' of St. Cuthbert's Abbey,
the old cathedral of Lindisfarne--rather small after descriptions,
but beautiful in colour, and its massive round pillars, with
patterns upon them, almost unique in England. Beyond, was the still
blue harbour filled with fishing-boats, and the shore was lined
with men and women packing herrings in barrels of salt. At one
corner of the bay rises the castle on a conical hill like a
miniature Mont St. Michel, and Bamborough and Dunstanborough are
blue in the hazy distance."

"_Sept. 17._--Stephen Denison is here (my cousin by his marriage
with Miss Fellowes[196]), and I have been with him to pay a long
visit to Grace Darling's[197] old father, an interesting man, with
as much information as it is possible for any one to have who has
lived since he was one year old on a desolate island rock tending a
lighthouse. He lent us his diary to read, which is very curious,
and an awful record of wrecks and misery."

"_Ridley Hall, Sept. 19._--Cousin Susan and her old friend Miss
Coulson, with 'the boys' (the dogs), were waiting to welcome me in
the avenue, when I got out at the private station here. The house
is quite full of people, to whom it is amusing to help to do the
honours. Great is the autumnal beauty of the place. I have been
with Cousin Susan up the Birky Brae, and down by the Craggy Pass
and the Hawk's Nest--streams of sunlight falling upon the rocks and
river, and lighting up the yellow and red leaves which now mingle
with the green. The dogs walked with us to church to-day--Tarlie
was allowed to enter with the family, and Bloomer with the maids,
but Perette, Bianca, Fritz, and the Chowdy-Tow were sent back from
the door!

"We have had a remarkable visit from an old Miss Clayton, an
eccentric, strangely-attired, old, very old lady, who had travelled
all the way from Chesters, on North Tyne, to see Staward Peel, and
then had rambled on foot hither down the rocks by the Allen. Both
she and her friend had fallen into the river in crossing the
stepping-stones above the wood, and arrived, carrying a large
reticule basket, and dripping with wet and mud, about five o'clock;
yet, as soon as she had been dried and fed, she insisted on setting
off again on foot to visit Haltwhistle and Bellister Castle before
going home at night!"

"_Streatlam Castle, Sept. 25._--I came with Cousin Susan to this
curious place, to which our cousin Mr. Bowes[198] has welcomed us
very cordially. The house is in a hollow--an enormous building of
the last century, enclosing a mediæval castle. I sleep in the
ghost-room, looking most grim and weird from its black oak with red
hangings, and containing a tall bed with a red canopy. Here the
only existing local Handbook says that 'the unfortunate Mary Queen
of Scots expired in captivity.' I am afraid the next Handbook will
be obliged to confess that she was beheaded at Fotheringay.

"The long galleries are full of family portraits--Hyltons,
Blakistons, and Bowes's--one of whom, Miss Bowes of Streatlam, was
Mrs. John Knox! More interesting to me is the great picture of
Mary Eleanor, the unhappy Countess of Strathmore,[199] walking in
the gardens of Pauls-Walden. This house was the scene of her most
terrible sufferings."

"_Streatlam Castle, Sept. 27._--This is the oddest house I ever was
in! Everything is arranged for you, from the moment you get up till
the moment you go to bed, and you are never allowed to deviate from
the rules laid down: I even write this in time stolen from the
half-hour for dressing. We are called at eight, and at ten march in
to breakfast with the same procession as at dinner, only at this
meal 'Madame Bowes' does not appear, for she is then reclining in a
bath of coal-black acid, which 'refreshes her system,' but leaves
her nails _black_. After breakfast we are all set down to
employments appointed for the morning. At twelve Madame appears,
having painted the under-lids of her jet-black eyes with
belladonna. At two the bell rings for luncheon, and we are fetched
if not punctual to an instant. At three we are all sent out driving
(the coachman having exact orders where to take us) immense drives
(twenty-four miles to-day) in an open barouche and pair. At seven
we dine in great splendour, and afterwards we sit in the oak
drawing-room and talk about our ancestors!

"The town of Barnard Castle is most picturesque, with a ruined
castle of the Baliols. Dickens, in early life, used frequently to
come down and stay there with some young artist friends of his. The
idea of 'Humphrey's Clock' first sprung from Humphrey, the
watchmaker in the town, and the picture in the beginning of the
book is of the clock over the door of his shop. While at Barnard
Castle, Dickens heard of the school at Bowes which he afterwards
worked up as Dotheboys Hall. Many of these schools, at £15 and £20
a year, existed at that time in the neighbourhood, and were
principally used for the sons of London tradesmen, who, provided
their sons got a moderate education, cared little or nothing what
became of them in the meantime. Dickens went over to see the school
at Bowes, and was carefully shown over it, for they mistook him for
a parent coming to survey it, with a view of sending his son there.
Afterwards the school was totally ruined. At one of Mr. Bowes's
elections, the Nicholas Nickleby or former usher of the school, who
was then in want of a place, wrote to him to say in what poverty he
was. He 'had formerly been living with Mr. Shawe at Bowes, and they
had been happy and prosperous, when Mr. Dickens's misguided volume,
sweeping like a whirlwind over the schools of the North, caused Mr.
Shawe to become a victim to paralysis, and brought Mrs. Shawe to an
untimely grave.'"

_"Morpeth Rectory, Oct. 8._--My present host is Mr. Francis Grey,
an old likeness of his nephew, Charlie Wood: his wife, _née_ Lady
Elizabeth Howard, is as sweet-looking as she is charming.

"Friday morning was pouring, with a thick sea-fog hiding the
country. Nevertheless Mr. Grey did not think it too bad for a long
expedition, and drove me in his little pony-carriage a dreary
twelve miles to Wallington, where we arrived about half-past
twelve. Wallington is a huge house of the elder branch of the
Trevelyans, represented in the North by Sir Walter, who is at the
head of teetotallers and Low Churchmen, while his wife is a great
friend of Ruskin, Rossetti, and all the Pre-Raphaelites. It is like
a French château, with tall roofs and chimneys, enclosing a hall,
once a court, which Lady Trevelyan and her artists have covered in
and painted with beautiful fresco studies of Northumbrian birds,
flowers, and insects, while the intervening spaces are filled with
a series of large pictures of the chief events in Northumbrian
history--very curious indeed.

"Lady Trevelyan[200] is a little, bright, black-eyed woman, who was
charmed to see us, and more to see my drawings, which Mr. Grey had
brought. Any good opinion of me, however, which they led her to
entertain was quelched by my want of admiration for some wretched
little scraps by Ruskin--very scratchy sketches, after his manner.
After luncheon, which was as peculiar as everything else (Lady
Trevelyan and her artists feeding solely on artichokes and
cauliflowers), we went to the upper galleries to look at more
pictures.

"Yesterday morning we went to the fine old Morpeth Church, which
has been 'restored,' one of the stained windows having been put in
by a poor old woman in the village. We saw her afterwards in her
garden gathering cabbages, and I told her I had seen the window.
'Eh, hinnie,' she said, 'and ain't it bonnie? and I be going to
case it i' marble afore I dee, to mak it bonnier.' And then she
said, 'And noo come ben, hinnie, my dear, and see me hoose;' and
she showed me her cottage.

"The Greys are one of the families who have a sort of language of
their own. A bad cold the Greys always call a _Shelley_, because of
a famous cold old Lady Shelley had when she came to stay with them.
This was the Lady Shelley who, when her carriage, full of people,
upset, and there was a great entanglement of legs, called out to
the footman, who came to extricate them, 'John, the black ones are
mine--the black ones are mine.'"

"_Warkworth, Oct. 6._--It is very pleasant being here with my kind
Clutterbuck cousins,[201] and this old-fashioned house, though
small, is most refined and comfortable, with its pervading smell of
roseleaves and lavender."

"_The Rock, Alnwick, Oct. 10._--I am now staying with the father of
a college friend, Charles Bosanquet, in a pleasant old-fashioned
house, an enlarged 'Peel tower.' The family are very united, genial
and kind; are friends of the Arnolds, Gaskells, &c., and related to
Mr. Erskine of Linlathen. I like Charlie Bosanquet so much in his
own home, that I am quite ashamed of not having tried to cultivate
him more when at Oxford. Yesterday he drove me to Craster Tower,
the old castellated house of the Crasters, a very ancient
Northumbrian family, now well represented by the old Squire and his
wife, their three tall daughters, and seven stalwart sons, one of
whom was at college with me. After luncheon we went over the tower,
its vaulted cellars and thickly walled rooms, and then walked to
the wild heights of Dunstanborough, with its ruins overhanging the
waves, and large white gulls floating up from the 'caverned shore'
of 'Marmion.' Then we went to Embleton to see one of the curious
fortified rectories of the North--fortified against the Scots."

"_Ford Castle, Oct. 15._--I enjoyed my visit at Rock increasingly,
and we made interesting excursions to Falloden and Howick. At the
former we dined with Sir George and Lady Grey. On Sunday the
beautiful little Norman chapel at Rock was filled from end to end
with the whole population of the village, all responding, all
singing, and forty-three (in that tiny place) remaining to the
Sacrament. Mrs. Bosanquet says they are truly a God-fearing people.
They live (as all over Northumbria) bound by the year like serfs,
close around the large farms. At Rock the people seem perfectly
devoted to the Bosanquets, who are certainly quite devoted to them.
'My Missis herself can't feel it more than I do,' said the
gamekeeper when he heard the sailor son was coming home.

"Yesterday morning I set off directly after breakfast with Charles
Bosanquet, in the sociable, on a long expedition. It was a really
lovely day, and the drive over the wild moorlands, with the pink
and blue Cheviot distances, was quite beautiful. At one we reached
Hedgeley, where we had been asked to luncheon at the fine old house
of the Carrs, looking up a mountain ravine, but a soldier-son first
took us up to Crawley Tower, a neighbouring ruined Peel. At three
we came on to Roddam, where an uncle and aunt of Charlie
Bosanquet's live--a beautiful place, with a terraced garden almost
overhanging the moorlands, and a dene stretching up into the
Cheviots. I had ordered a gig to meet me and take me to Ford, where
I arrived about half-past six, seeming to be driving into a sort of
gothic castle of Otranto, as we passed under the portcullis in the
bright moonlight. I found Lady Waterford sitting with her charming
old mother, Lady Stuart de Rothesay.... Her drawings are
indescribably lovely, and her singing most beautiful and pathetic.
Several people appeared at dinner, amongst them Lord Waterford (the
brother-in-law), who sat at the end of the table, a jovial
white-headed young-old man."

"_Ford Castle, Oct. 17._--Being here has been most pleasant, there
is so much to do and see both indoors and out. Lady Waterford is
perfectly charming.... She is now occupied in putting the whole
architecture of the castle back two centuries. Painting is her
great employment, and all evening she makes studies for larger
drawings, which she works upon in the mornings. She is going to
make a 'Marmion gallery' in the castle to illustrate the poem.

"Yesterday we went to Palinsburn, where Paulinus baptized, and on
to Branxton to see Mr. Jones, who is the great authority about the
battle of Flodden, which he described to us till all the dull
ploughed fields seemed alive with heroes and armies. He is coming
to-night to talk about it again, for Flodden seems to be the great
topic here, the windows of the castle looking out upon the
battle-field. The position of the different armies and the site of
Sybil's Well are discussed ten times a day, and Lady Waterford
herself is still sufficiently a stranger here to be full of her
first interest about it.

"To-day the pony-carriage took me part of the way to the Rowting
Lynn, a curious cleft and waterfall in the moorland, with a
'Written Rock,' supposed to have been the work of ancient Britons.
Thence I walked by a wild path along the hills to Nesbitt, where I
had heard that there was a chapel of St. Cuthbert, of which I found
no vestiges, and on to Doddington, where there is a Border castle.
If you look on the map, you will see that this was doing a great
deal, and I was very glad to get back at five to hot tea and a talk
with Lady Stuart."

"_Roddam, Oct. 20._--I had not promised to return here, and I was
received almost rapturously, so welcome is any stray guest in this
desolate place.... Sunday here was a curious contrast to that at
Rock, for though there is a population of nine hundred, the Rector
waited for us to begin afternoon service, as no one else came!"

"_Roddam, Oct. 22._--Yesterday was terribly dark and cold, but we
went a long expedition across the moorland to the Raven's Burn, a
wild tumbling rivulet in a chaos of grey rocks, and thence by the
farm of 'Blaw Weary'--picturesquely perched upon rocks which were
covered with white goats, like a bit of Roman Campagna--to the
'Raven's Rock' in a rugged cleft of the moorland. To-day I have
been to Linhope Spout, a waterfall at the end of a gorge, and
to-morrow we go to the Three Stone Burn, where there are Druidical
remains."

"_Ripley Castle, Yorkshire, Oct. 25._--Lady Ingilby (who is sister
of Mr. Bosanquet of Rock) kindly pressed my coming here on my way
south, and here I am. It is a fine old castle added to, about four
miles from Harrogate, with beautiful gardens and a lovely
neighbourhood. At the head of the stairs is the portrait of a Nun,
who is said to descend from her picture at night and tap at the
bedroom doors, when, if any one says, 'Come in'--in she comes.
Eugene Aram was the gardener here, and the Ingilbys have all his
letters. Cromwell insisted on taking the castle, but the then Lady
Ingilby, a staunch Royalist known as 'Trooper Jane,' would not let
him have either food or rest there, and sat opposite him all the
night through with two loaded pistols in her girdle."

"_Hickledon Hall, Yorkshire, Oct. 27._--Sir Charles Wood's carriage
was waiting at Doncaster for me and a very nice young Seymour.[202]
Charlie seems delighted to have me here, and I think Sir Charles
quite charming, not a bit as if he had the government of all India
upon his shoulders."

Many of the visits which I paid in 1861 laid the foundation of after friendships, but chiefly that to Ford, whither I went again and again afterwards, and where I have passed some of the happiest days of my life. Lord and Lady Tankerville, after a few years, passed out of my horizon--I never have quite known how or why. The Liddells, Mrs. Clutterbuck and her daughters, and the saintly Lady Ingilby, added much to my enjoyment for several years. This was especially happy for me, as I see by my journals of the time how in the following winter I felt more than ever depressed by the constant snubbing I received from different members of my immediate family. Such snubs are trifling in themselves, but, like constant dropping of water in one place, they wear away the spirit at last. All this time my sister was bravely exerting herself in cheering her mother and aunt, as well as in a clever (and eventually successful) scheme for the improvement of their fortunes. Miss Hughan (afterwards Lady John Manners) showed her at this time an unwearied kindness which I can never forget.

_To_ MY SISTER.

"_Holmhurst, Dec. 18, 1861._--I went to-day to see three ladies
take the veil in the convent at Hastings. I had to get up in the
cold early morning and be in the chapel by half-past eight. At nine
the Bishop of Brighton arrived in a gold robe and mitre, and took
his place with his back to the altar, leaning against it. Then a
side door opened, and a procession came in singing--some nuns, and
the three brides of Christ dressed in white watered silk, lace
veils, and orange flowers. There were six little bridesmaids also
in white veils and wreaths. The brides looked ghastly livid, and
one of them would have fallen if a nun had not rushed forward to
support her. The Bishop then made them an address, the point of
which was that they were not going into a convent for their own
benefit or that of the world, but for 'the consolation of
Christ'--_that_ was to be their work and duty through life--'the
consolation of Christ for the sins of the world.' Then he fixed his
eyes upon them like a basilisk and cried, 'Venite.' They tottered,
quivered, but scarcely moved; again in a louder voice he called
'Venite;' they trembled and advanced a few steps. Once more
'VENITE,' and they all three fell down prostrate at his feet.

"Then the most solemn music was played, the most agonising wailing
dirges were sung, and the nuns coming behind with a great black
pall, spread it over the prostrate figures. It was as if they were
dead. The bridesmaids strewed flowers, rosemary and laurestinus, as
they sang out of their books: the spectators cried and sobbed till
they were almost hysterical; but nothing was to be seen but the
sunlight streaming in upon a great black pall.

"Then all the saints of the monastic orders were invoked and
responded to, and then the nuns closed in, so that no one could see
how the three novices were hurried away, only to reappear in their
nun's dress. Then they received the Sacrament.

"It is impossible to say how well this little Holmhurst seems
suited to the mother. There is still a lingering of autumnal leaves
and flowers, and the grey castle rises against a gleaming sea.
Thinking of her, and of our home view as it is now, one cannot help
recalling Keble's lines:--

'How quiet shows the woodland scene,
Each flower and tree, its duty done,
Reposing in decay serene,
Like weary men when age is won,
Such calm old age as conscience pure
And self-commanding heart ensure,
Waiting their summons to the sky,
Content to live, but not afraid to die.'"

JOURNAL.

"_Holmhurst, Dec. 27._--It was on Monday, the 16th, that I was
sitting in my study in the twilight, when the mother came in
suddenly. She had been down to Hastings with Mrs. Colegrave and
Miss Chichester to see Florence Colegrave at the convent, and there
first heard the dreadful news of the event of Saturday. Seeing her
so much agitated terrified me to the last degree. I thought that it
was Arthur who was dead, and when I heard that it was the Prince
Consort, the shock was almost as great. It seems impossible to
realise that one will not be able to say 'the Queen and Prince
Albert' any more: it is a personal affliction to every one, and the
feeling of sympathy for the Queen is overpowering. The Prince sank
from the time he read the letter about the deaths of the King and
Princes of Portugal. Then they tried to persuade him not to see
the messengers who returned from taking the letters of condolence:
he insisted upon doing so, and never rallied.... From the first the
Prince thought that he should not live, and from the Wednesday Sir
Henry Holland thought so too, and wrote in the first bulletin,
'_Hitherto_ no unfavourable symptoms,' to prepare the public mind;
but the Queen came into the anteroom, saw the bulletin, and
scratched out the 'hitherto:' she would entertain no idea of danger
till the last[203].... When the Prince was dying, he repeated the
hymn 'Rock of Ages.' ... A letter from Windsor Castle to Mr. P.
describes the consternation and difficulty as to how the Queen was
to be told of the danger: no one would tell her. At last Princess
Alice relieved them all by saying, 'I will tell her,' and took her
out for a drive. During the drive she told the Queen that the
Prince could not recover. When he died, the Queen gave one
piercing, heart-rending scream, which echoed all over the castle,
and which those who stood by said they could never forget, and
threw herself upon the body. Then she rose and collected her
children and spoke to them, telling them that they must rally round
her, and that, next to God, she should henceforth look to them for
support.

"C. W. sends an odd story about the King of Portugal. After his
death, Princess Alice made a drawing of him lying dead, and, at the
top of the drawing, the gates of heaven, with Queen Stephanie
waiting to receive the spirit of her husband. A little while after,
M. Lavradio sent the Queen a long account of the King's illness, in
which it was said that when the King lay dying he fell into a deep
sleep, and woke up after some little time saying that he had
dreamt, and wished he could have gone on dreaming, that he lay
dead, and that his spirit was going up to heaven, and that at the
gates he saw 'Stephanie' waiting to welcome him in. Everything
fresh that one hears of Prince Albert makes one realise, 'Le prince
était grand, l'homme l'était davantage.'"[204]

In the course of the winter I was at Miss Leycester's house in Wilton Crescent, and saw there Miss Marsh and Sir Culling Eardley, both of whom told me much that was curious. I remember Sir Culling Eardley's saying, "I feel sure that the destruction of the temporal power will be the end of the Papacy, and I am also sure that there is one person who agrees with me, and that is Pio Nono!" He also told me that--

"One morning Mrs. Pitcairn at Torquay told her husband that she had
been very much disturbed by a dream. She said she had seen her
little boy of four years old carried into the house dreadfully
crushed and hurt, and that all the principal doctors in the
town--Madden, Mackintosh, &c.--had come in one after the other to
see him.

"Her husband laughed at her fears, but said, 'Whatever you do,
don't tell this to the boy; it would only frighten him
unnecessarily.' However, Mrs. Pitcairn did not promise, and when
her husband was gone out, she called her little boy to her, and
taking him on her knee, spoke to him very seriously, saying, 'If
anything happened to you now, where would you be?' &c.

"That afternoon, the little boy went with his elder brother to see
some new houses his father was building. In crossing the highest
floor, the ill-fastened boards gave way, and he fell, passing
through all the floors, into the cellar. Half-an-hour afterwards
his mother saw him carried into the house, and all the doctors
come in to see him, one after another, in the exact order of her
dream.

"The little boy recovered; but four years after, his elder brother,
playing on the shore at Babbicombe, pulled down some rocks upon
himself, and was killed upon the spot."

In March 1862 an event occurred which caused a great blank in our circle, and which perhaps made more change in my life than any other death outside my own home could have done--that of my aunt Mrs. Stanley.

JOURNAL.

"_Holmhurst, March 23, 1862._--In March last year dear Uncle
Penrhyn died. Aunt Kitty was with him, and felt it deeply. Now she
also, on the same day of the same week, the first anniversary of
his death, has passed away from us--and oh! what a blank she has
left! She was long our chief link with all the interest of the
outside world, writing almost daily, and for years keeping a little
slate always hanging to her davenport, on which, as each visitor
went out, she noted down, from their conversation, anything she
thought my mother might like to hear.

"Five weeks ago Arthur went to join the Prince of Wales at
Alexandria. He was very unwilling to leave his mother, but he took
the appointment by her especial request, and she was delighted with
it. He took leave of her in the early morning, receiving farewells
and blessings as she lay on the same bed, from whence she was
unable afterwards to speak one word to her other children. When he
went, my mother was very ill with bronchitis. Aunt Kitty also
caught it, but wrote frequently, saying that 'her illness did not
signify, she was only anxious about my mother.' It did signify,
however. She became rapidly weaker. Congestion of the lungs
followed, and she gradually sank. The Vaughans were sent for, and
Mary was with her. We were ready to have gone at any moment, if she
had been the least bit better, but she would not have been able to
have spoken to the mother, perhaps not have known her, so that I am
thankful for my sweet mother's sake that she should have been here
in her quiet peaceful home.

"There were none of the ordinary features of an illness. Aunt Kitty
suffered no pain at all: it was a mere passing out of one gentle
sleep into another, till the end.

"Kate wrote--'What a solemn hour was that when we were sitting in
silence round her bed, watching the gradual cessation of
breathing--the gradual but sure approach of the end! Not a sound
was heard but the sad wailing of the wind as her soul was passing
away. She lay quite still: you would hardly have known who it was,
the expression was so changed--Oh no, you would never have known it
was the dear, dear face we had loved so fondly. And then, when all
ceased, and there was stillness, and we thought it had been the
last breath, came a deep sigh, then a pause--then a succession of
deep sighs at long intervals, and it was only when no more came
that we knew she was gone. Charles then knelt down and prayed for
us, "especially for our dear absent brother, that he might be
comforted"--and then we rose up and took our last look of that
revered countenance.'

"When people are dead, how they are glorified in one's mind! I was
almost as much grieved as my mother herself, and I also felt a
desolation. Yet, on looking back, how few words of tenderness can I
remember receiving from Aunt Kitty--some marigolds picked for me in
the palace garden when I was ill at Norwich--a few acknowledgments
of my later devotion to my mother in illness--an occasional
interest in my drawing: this is almost all. What really makes it a
personal sorrow is, that in the recollection of my oppressed and
desolate boyhood, the figure of Aunt Kitty always looms forth as
that of _Justice_. She was invariably just. Whatever others might
say, she never allowed herself to be biassed against me, or indeed
against any one else, contrary to her own convictions.

"I went with Mary and Kate to the funeral in Alderley churchyard.
We all assembled there in the inner school-room, close to the
Rectory, which had been the home of my aunt's happiest days, in the
centre of which lay the coffin covered with a pall, but garlanded
with long green wreaths, while bunches of snowdrops and white
crocuses fell tenderly over the sides. 'I know that my Redeemer
liveth' was sung as we passed out of the church to the churchyard,
where it poured with rain. The crowds of poor people present,
however, liked this, for 'blessed,' they said, 'is the corpse that
the rain falls on.'"

During this sad winter it was a great pleasure to us to have our faithful old friend the Baroness von Bunsen at St. Leonards, with two of her daughters--Frances and Matilda. She had been near my mother at the time of her greatest sorrow at Rome, and her society was very congenial at this time. We were quite hoping that she would have made St. Leonards her permanent winter-home, when she was recalled to live in Germany by the death of the darling daughter of her heart--Theodora von Ungern-Sternberg--soon after giving birth, at Carlsruhe, to her fifth child.

In this winter I went to stay at Hurstmonceaux Rectory with Dr. Wellesley, who was never fitted to be a country clergyman, but who never failed to be the most agreeable of hosts and of men. In person he was very like the Duke of Wellington, with black eyes, shaggy eyebrows, and snow-white hair. His courtesy and kindness were unfailing, especially to women, be their rank what it might. A perfect linguist, he had the most extraordinary power of imitating Italians in their own peculiar dialects. Most diverting was his account of a sermon which he heard preached in the Coliseum. I can only give the words--the tone, the gestures are required to give it life. It was on the day on which the old Duke of Torlonia died. He had been the great enemy of the monks and nuns, and of course they hated him. On that day, being a Friday, the Confraternità della Misericordia met, as usual, at four o'clock, in SS. Cosmo and Damiano in the Forum, and went chanting in procession to the Coliseum. Those who remember those days will recall in imagination the strong nasal twang of "Sant' Bartolome, ora pro nobis; Santa Agata, ora pro nobis; Sant' Silvestro, ora pro nobis," &c. Arrived at the Coliseum, the monk ascended the pulpit, and began in the familiar style of those days, in which sermons were usually opened with "How do you do?" and some remarks about the weather.

"Buon giorno, cari fratelli miei. Buon giorno, care sorelle--come
state tutti? State bene? Oh, mi fa piacere, mi fa molto piacere! Fa
bell' tempo stasera, non e vero? un tempo piacevole--cielo sereno.
Oh ma piacevole di molto!

"Ebbene, cari fratelli miei--Ebbene, care sorelle--sapete cosa c' è
di nuovo--sapete che cos' è successo stammattina in città? Non lo
sapete--maraviglia! Oh, non vi disturbate--nò--nò--nò--non vi
disturbate affatto--ve lo dirò, io ve lo spieghierò tutto.

"Stammattina stessa in città è morto qualcheduno. Fu un uomo--un
uomo ben inteso--ma che specie d' uomo? Fu un uomo grande--fu un
uomo ricco--fu un uomo potente--fu un uomo grandissimo,
ricchissimo, potentissimo, magnificentissimo, ma morì!--morì, cari
fratelli miei, quell' uomo così grande, così ricco, così
potente--morì!--così passiamo tutti--così finisce il
mondo--moriamo.

"E che fu quell' uomo così importante che è morto? Fu un Duca! un
Duca, cari fratelli miei! E, quando morì, cosa fece? È montato
sopra, montato sopra su alla porta del Paradiso, dove sta San
Pietro, colle sue sante chiavi. Picchia il Duca.... 'Chi è là,'
disse San Pietro. 'Il Duca di Torlonia!'--'Ah, il Duca di
Torlonia,' disse San Pietro, 'quel nome è ben conosciuto, ben
conosciuto davvero.' Quindi si voltò San Pietro all' angelo custode
che teneva il libro della vita, e disse, 'Angelo mio, cercate un pò
se trovate quel nome del Duca di Torlonia.' Dunque l'angelo cercò,
cercò con tanta pena, con tanta inquietudine, voltò tante pagine in
quel libro così grande della vita, ma disse infine, 'Caro Signor
San Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto, ma quel nome lì non mi riesce
di trovarlo.'

"Allora si voltò San Pietro, e disse, 'Caro Signor Duca mio, mi
rincresce tanto, ma il suo nome non si trova nel libro della vita.'
Rise il Duca, e disse, 'Ma che sciocchezza! cercate poi il titolo
minore, cercate pure il titolo maggiore della famiglia, cercate il
Principe di Bracciano, e lo troverete sicuramente.' Dunque l'angelo
cercò di nuovo, cercò con sollecitudine, voltò tante tante pagine
in quel libro così immenso--ma alla fine disse, 'Caro Signor San
Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto--ma quei nomi non si trovan qui, nè
l'uno, nè l'altro.' Allora disse San Pietro, 'Mi dispiace tanto,
Signor Duca mio--ma bisogna scendere più giù--bisogna scendere più
giù.'

"Scese dunque il Duca--poco contento--anzi mortificato di
molto--scese giù alla porta del Purgatorio. Picchia il Duca. 'Chi è
là,' disse il guardiano. 'Il Duca di Torlonia' (_piano_). 'Ah, il
Duca di Torlonia,' disse il guardiano. 'Anche qui, quel nome è ben
conosciuto, molto ben conosciuto--ma bisogna scendere più
giù--bisogna scendere più giù.'

"Scese dunque il Duca. Ahimè! quant' era miserabile! come gridava,
quanto piangeva, ma--gridando, piangendo--scendeva--scendeva
giù--alla porta dell' Inferno, dove sta il Diavolo. Picchia il
Duca. 'Chi è là,' disse il Diavolo. 'Il Duca di Torlonia'
(_pianissimo_). 'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse il Diavolo, 'oh
siete il benvenuto, entrate qui, caro amico mio, oh quanto tempo
siete aspettato, entrate qui, e restate per sempre.' Ecco cari
fratelli miei, ecco care sorelle, quel ch' è successò quest' oggi,
stammattina, in città, a quel povero Duca di Torloni-a!" &c.

I narrated this story afterwards to Mrs. F. Dawkins and her daughters, and they told me that some friends of theirs were at Rome on August 10, St. Laurence's Day--which fell on a Friday that year--and St. Laurence, as all know, was roasted on a gridiron. That day, the monk began as usual--

"Buon giorno, cari fratelli miei--buon giorno, care sorelle (sniff,
sniff, sniff)--ma sento qualche cosa (sniff, sniff)--che cosa sento
io (sniff)--sento un odore. E l'odore de che? (sniff, sniff,
sniff)--è l'odore di carne (sniff). Chi specie di carne può essere?
E l'odore di carne bollito? (sniff). Nò, nò, nò, non e bollito
(sniff, sniff, sniff). Ah, lo vedo, è l'odore di carne arrosto, è
l'odore di carne arrostito--è l'odore d'un santo arrostito--è
l'odore di San Lorenzo."

Lady Marian Alford used to tell a similar story. Lord Brownlow was at S. Agostino, when a monk, who was walking about, preaching, in the great pulpit there, said, "Che odore sento io? E l'odore di montone?--nò! È l'odore di presciutto?--nò! È l'odore delle anime che friggono nell' inferno."