Chapter X: Work in Northern Counties (2)

I cannot remember whether it was in this or the preceding winter that I spent an evening with Dr. Lushington, the famous judge, who, having been born in the beginning of 1782, and preserving evergreen all the recollections of his long life, was one of the most delightful of men. I remember his describing how all the places ending in _s_ in England take their names from people who have lived there. Leeds is so called from an old person called Leed or Lloyd, of whom the great city is now the only memorial. Levens is from Leofwin.

He said that "the Duchesse d'Angoulême never forgave the Court of Rome for not canonising her father." She always regarded Louis XVI. as a saint. Of her mother she spoke with less confidence--"she had faults," she said, "but they were terribly expiated."

Dr. Lushington said that when he was a very little child travelling alone with his father, the carriage stopped near a public-house, and the footman and coachman, with the license of those times, went in to drink. He was himself asleep in the corner of the carriage, when a pistol, directed at his father, came crashing in at the window, with a demand for money. Dr. Lushington distinctly remembered his father drawing out a long green silk purse, in which were one hundred guineas, and deliberately counting out twelve guineas into the man's hand, and saying, "There, take that, that is enough." "Well," said the man, "but I must have your watch."--"No," said his father, "it is an old family watch, and I cannot give it to you." Upon this the man said, "Well, God bless you," and went away. Immediately after the servants came out of the inn, and hearing what had happened, said they were armed, they could pursue the highwayman, and they could easily take him. "No," said Dr. Lushington's father, "let him go. The man God-blessed _me_, and I'll be damned if I hang _him_."

At this time I took the opportunity of persuading Dr. Lushington to tell me himself the most celebrated of his stories, which I had already heard from his son Godfrey and from Arthur Stanley. I wrote it down at the time, and here it is, in the very words of the old judge.

"There was once, within my memory, an old gentleman who lived in
Kent, and whose name, for very obvious reasons, I cannot mention,
but he lived in _Kent_. He was a very remarkable old man, and
chiefly because in the whole course of his very, very long
life--for he was extremely old--he had never been known on any
single occasion to want presence of mind; he had always done
exactly the right thing, and he had always said exactly the right
word, at exactly the right moment. The old gentleman lived alone.
That is to say, he had never married, and he had no brother or
sister or other relation living with him, but he had a very old
housekeeper, a very old butler, a very old gardener--in fact, all
the old-fashioned retinue of a very old-fashioned household, and,
bound together by mutual respect and affection, the household was a
very harmonious one.

"Now I must describe what the old gentleman's house was like.
Upstairs, there was a very long passage, which ended in a blank
wall. At the end of the passage, on the left, was a dressing-room,
and on the right was a bedroom, the room in which the old gentleman
himself slept. The bedroom was entered by a very heavy swing-door,
which could only be opened from the inside--that is to say, the old
gentleman carried the key upon his watch-chain, and let himself in
and out. When he wished housemaids or other persons to go in or
out, he left the door open; but when he was inside and shut the
door, no one could come in unless he opened the door to them.
People may say 'it was very eccentric;' it _was_ very eccentric:
but the old gentleman was very peculiar; it was the way he chose
to live: at any rate, it was a fact. Through the bedroom, opposite
the door into the passage, was another door which led into the
plate-room. This was also a very heavy swing-door, which could only
be opened from the _outside_, and very often in summer the old
gentleman would set it open at night, because he thought it gave
more air to the bedroom. Everything depends upon your attending to
and understanding the geography of these rooms. You see they were
all _en suite_ cross-wise. If you stood in the plate-room, and all
the doors were open, you would see the dressing-room, and _vice
versâ_.

"One morning when the old gentleman came down to breakfast, he
found upon his plate a note. He opened it, and it contained these
words--'Beware, you are in the hands of thieves and robbers.' He
was very much surprised, but he had such presence of mind that he
threw the note into the fire and went on buttering his toast,
having his breakfast. Inwardly he kept a sharp look-out upon all
that was going on. But there was nothing special going on whatever.
It was very hot summer weather; the old gardener was mowing the
lawn, the old housekeeper cooked the dinner, the old butler brought
it in: no, there was nothing whatever especial going on.

"That night, when the old gentleman went to bed, he took particular
care to examine his room, and to see that his heavy swing-door was
well fastened, so that no one could come in to disturb him. And
when he had done this, he went to bed and fell asleep, and slept
very well till the next morning, for nothing happened, nothing
whatever.

"When the next morning came, he rang his bell for his hot water as
usual, but nobody came. He rang, and rang, and rang again, but
still nobody came. At last he opened his bedroom door, and went out
down the passage to the head of the staircase, and called to the
butler over the banisters. The butler answered. 'Why did you not
attend to my bell?' said the old gentleman. 'Because no bell rang,'
answered the butler. 'Oh, but I have rung very often,' said the old
gentleman; 'go downstairs again, and I will pull the bell again;
watch if it rings.' So the butler went downstairs, and the old man
pulled the bell, but no bell rang. 'Then,' said the old gentleman,
'you must send for the bell-hanger at once; one cannot live with
broken bells; that sort of thing cannot be allowed to go on in the
house,'--and he dressed and went down to breakfast.

"While he was eating his breakfast, the old gentleman found he had
forgotten his pocket-handkerchief, and went up to his room to get
it. And such was the promptitude of that old-fashioned household,
that the village being close to the house, and the bell-hanger
living in the village, the master's orders had already been obeyed,
and the bell-hanger was already in the room, standing on a ladder,
arranging the new wire of the bell. In old-fashioned houses, you
know, the bell wires come through the wall and go round the top of
the room, so that you can see them, and so it was in this house in
Kent. You do not generally perhaps observe how many wires there are
in your room, but it so happened that, as he lay in bed, the old
gentleman had observed those in his, and there were three wires.
Now he looked, and there were four wires. Yes, there was no doubt
there were four wires going round his room. '_Now_,' he said,
'_now_ I know exactly what is going to happen,' but he gave no
outward sign of having discovered anything, and he went down and
finished his breakfast.

"All that day everything went on as usual. It was a dreadfully hot
day in July--very sultry indeed. The old gentleman was subject to
bad nervous headaches, and in the afternoon he pretended to be not
quite so well. When dinner-time came, he was very suffering indeed.
He spoke of it to the butler. He said, 'It is only one of my usual
attacks; I have no doubt it is the weather. I shall be better
to-morrow; but I will go to bed early.' And towards half-past nine
he went upstairs. He left the door of the bedroom ajar, so that any
one could come in; he set the door of the plate-room wide open, for
the sake of more air to the bedroom, and he went to bed. When he
was in bed, he rang the bell, the new bell that the bell-hanger had
put up that morning. The butler came. The old gentleman gave some
orders about horses for the next day, and then said, 'Do not
disturb me in the morning. I had better sleep off my headache; I
will ring when I want to get up. You can draw the curtains round
the bed, and then shut the door.' So the butler drew the curtains
round the bed, and went out, shutting the door after him.

"As soon as the old gentleman heard the footsteps of the butler die
away down the passage, he dressed himself completely from head to
foot; he took two loaded pistols and a blunderbuss. He stealthily
opened the heavy swing-door of the bedroom. He let himself out
into the dark passage. He shut to the bedroom door behind him. It
fastened with a click; he could not go in himself any more, and he
crossed the passage, and stood in the dark dressing-room with the
door open.

"It was still very early, and eleven o'clock came, and nothing
happened; and twelve came and nothing happened; and one o'clock
came and nothing happened. And the old gentleman--for he was
already very old--began to feel very much exhausted, and he began
to say to himself, 'Perhaps after all I was wrong! Perhaps after
all it is a hallucination; but I will wait till two o'clock.'

"At half-past one o'clock there was a sound of stealthy footsteps
down the passage, and three figures passed in front of him and
stood opposite the bedroom door. They were so near that he could
have shot them every one; but he said to himself, 'No, I'll wait,
I'll wait and see what is going to happen.' And as he waited, the
light from the dark lantern which the first man carried fell upon
their faces, and he recognised them. And the first figure was the
butler, and the second figure was the bell-hanger, and the third
figure, from having been long a magistrate on a London bench, he
recognised as the most notorious ruffian of a well-known London
gang. He heard the ruffian say to the butler, 'I say, it's no use
mincing this kind of thing: no use doing this kind of thing by
halves: better put him out of the way at once, and go on to the
plate afterwards.'--'Oh no,' said the butler, 'he has been a good
master to me; I'll never consent to that. Take all he has; he'll
never wake, not he; but you can't do him any harm; I'll never
consent to that.' And they wrangled about it for some time, but at
last the butler seemed to get the better, and the ruffian had to
consent to his terms.

"Then exactly what the old gentleman had expected happened. The
butler, standing on tiptoe, could just reach the four wires of the
bells, which came through into the low passage above the bedroom
door. As the butler reached the lowest of the wires, and by leaning
his weight upon it, pulled it downwards, it was seen that the wire
was connected with the bolt of the door on the inside; the bolt
rolled up, and the heavy swing-door of the bedroom, of which the
hinges were well oiled for the occasion, rolled open. 'There,' said
the butler, as they passed into the room, 'master always sleeps
like that. Curtains drawn all round the bed. He'll not hear
anything, not he.' And they all passed in through the open door of
the plate-room. The old man waited till they were entirely occupied
with the plate-chest, and then he slipped off his slippers, and,
with a hop, skip, and a jump, he darted across the room, and--bang!
they were all caught in a trap. He banged to the heavy swing-door
of the plate-room, which could only be opened from the outside.

"Having done that--people may believe it or not, but I maintain
that it is true--the old man had such presence of mind, that he
undressed, went to bed, and slept soundly till the next morning.
Even if this were not so, till the next morning he did not send for
the police, and the consequence was that when he did send for the
police, and the door was opened, the following horrible scene
revealed itself: The ruffian had tried to make a way of escape
through the roof, had stuck fast, and was dreadfully mangled in the
attempt: the bell-hanger had hung himself from the ceiling: and the
butler was a drivelling idiot in the corner, from the horror of the
night he had gone through."

Dr. Lushington had been employed in the inquiry which ensued, and had personal knowledge of all he narrated. I must record one more story which he told me--in his words:--

"I had a great-uncle, and as I am a very old man, you may imagine
that my great-uncle was alive a very long time ago. He was a very
eccentric man, and his peculiar hobby when in London was to go
about to dine at all sorts of odd places of entertainment, to amuse
himself with the odd characters he fell in with. One day he was
dining at a tavern near St. Bride's in Fleet Street, and at the
table opposite to him sat a man who interested him exceedingly, who
was unusually amusing, and quaint, and agreeable. At the end of
dinner the stranger said, 'Perhaps, sir, you are not aware that you
have been dining with a notorious highwayman?'--'No, indeed,' said
my great-uncle, not the least discomposed. 'What an unexpected
pleasure! But I am quite sure, sir, that you cannot always have
been a highwayman, and that your story must be a very remarkable
one. Can I not persuade you to do me the honour of telling it to
me?'--'Well,' said the stranger, 'we have had a very pleasant
dinner, and I like your acquaintance, and I don't mind if I do
tell you my story. You are quite right in thinking that I was in
early life as free as you are, or indeed, for that matter, as I
myself am now. But one day, as I was riding over Hounslow Heath, I
was surrounded by highwaymen. They dragged me from my horse, and
then said, "We don't want your money, and we don't want your life,
but we want _you_, and you we must have. A great many of us have
been taken, and we want recruits; you must go with us." I protested
in vain; I said it was impossible I could go with them; I was a
respectable member of society, it was quite impossible that I could
become a highwayman. "Then," they said, "you must die; you cannot
be allowed to live, to go out into the world, and tell what has
been proposed to you." I was in a terrible strait, and eventually I
was obliged to promise to go with them. I was obliged to promise,
but I made such difficulties that I was able to exact two
conditions. One was that at the end of seven years I should be
allowed to go free, and that I should never be recognised or taken
by them again. The other was that in the seven years I was with
them, no deed of actual cruelty should ever be committed in my
presence.

"'So I rode with the highwaymen, and many strange things happened.
I saw many people robbed and pillaged, and I helped to rob and
pillage them, but no deed of actual cruelty was ever committed in
my presence. One day, after I had been with the band four years, we
were riding in Windsor Forest. I saw a carriage approaching down
the long avenue. It was sure to have ladies in it; there was likely
to be a disagreeable scene; it was not necessary that I should be
present, so I lingered behind in the forest. Presently, however, I
was roused by so dreadful a scream from the carriage that I could
no longer resist riding forward, and I spurred on my horse. In the
carriage sat a lady, magnificently dressed, evidently just come
from Windsor Castle, and the highwaymen had torn the bracelets from
her arms and the necklace from her neck, and were just about to cut
off her little finger, because there was a very valuable diamond
ring upon it, which they could not otherwise get off. The lady
implored me to have pity upon her, to intercede for her, and I did.
I represented that the highwaymen had made me a solemn promise that
no deed of personal cruelty should ever be committed in my
presence, that on that condition only I was with them, and I called
upon them to keep their promise. They disputed and were very angry,
but eventually they gave in, and rode off with the rest of their
booty, leaving me alone with the lady.

"'The lady then said she owed me everything. She certainly owed me
her life, for she was quite sure that she should never, never, have
survived the loss of her little finger. She was quite sure, she
said, that I could not like being a highwayman, and she entreated
me to abandon the road and reform my life. "I can get you a
pardon," she said, "I can set you up in life--in fact, I can do
anything for you." Then I told her my story. I told her how the
highwaymen had made a promise to me, and they had kept it; and I
told her how I had made a promise to them, and I must keep it also.
I had promised to go with them for seven years, and I had only been
with them four; I must go with them for three years more. "Then,"
said the lady, "I know what will happen; I know what stringent
measures are going to be enforced for the suppression of
highwaymen. I am certain you cannot escape for three years: you
will be taken, and you will be condemned to death. When this
happens, send for me, and I will save your life. I am Mrs. Masham."

"'It was indeed Mrs. Masham, the great favourite of Queen Anne.

"'Before the expiration of the three years I was taken, I was
tried, and I was condemned to death. While I was lying in Newgate
under sentence of death, I sent to Mrs. Masham, and Mrs. Masham
flung herself at the feet of Queen Anne, and the Queen spared my
life.'"

This was the story of Dr. Lushington's great-uncle's friend.

* * * * *

In April I returned to my work in the North. My first visit worth recording was one to the old house of Mainsforth in Durham, the home of Mrs. Surtees, widow of the genial and delightful historian, who was the intimate friend of Sir Walter Scott, though he offended him when it was discovered that he had himself written the glorious ballads which he had imposed upon Sir Walter as originals.[205] He was also the author of many ballads of a simpler and more touching character, which have never attained to the position in English poetry which they surely deserve.

* * * * *

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Mainsforth, April 26, 1862._--This has been a most interesting
visit, both the old ladies of the house so amusing, and so full of
stories of the past, in which they are still living, having shut
out the present ever since the death of Mr. Surtees, twenty years
ago. Miss Robinson has lived with 'my Sister Surtees' for the last
fifteen years, and thinks there is no place in the world like
Mainsforth: and indeed it is a most pleasant old house, thoroughly
unpretending, but roomy and comfortable, close to the road on one
side, but a very quiet road, with a fringe of ancient trees and a
rookery, and on the other looking out on the wide green lawn and
broad terrace-walk, bordered by clumps of hyacinths and tall
turncap lilies. My room has two low windows, which slide back like
doors, and look down through glades of hollies, like a picture, to
the silvery windings of the Skene. It is quiet, and stillness
itself; no sound but the cawing of the rooks, and the ticking of
the clock on the broad old staircase.

"Ever since an accident five years ago, 'my Sister Surtees' has sat
on a sofa in a sitting-room covered with fine old prints pasted on
the walls, with a large tapestry screen on one side of her, and
during the three days I have been here, I have never seen her move
from this place, to which she appears to be glued. 'My Sister Mary'
does all the hospitalities of the house, in the heartiest, most
cordial way, and both always keep open house at Mainsforth for
every one who likes to come. University students from Durham are
constantly here, and the house is a second home to all the poor
clergy of the neighbourhood, who come whenever they want a good
dinner, or ready interest and kindly sympathy. A new curate was
appointed to the neighbouring church of Bishop Middleham, and was
asked to stay here while he looked out for lodgings: he stayed on
and on, till he never went away again: he stayed here three years!
The students of Durham University have just put up two stained
glass windows in the church here, in token of gratitude for the
kindness they have received at Mainsforth. Imagine the students of
Oxford doing such a thing!

"On Thursday I went by the early train to Darlington, and, after
seeing the town, set off in a gig on a long round of country
villages. I saw the 'Hell Kettles,' three pools which are supposed
to be fathomless, and into which, if a sheep falls, it is believed
to be always 'a going' to the end of all time: and at one o'clock
came to Sockburne, a lovely peninsula on the Tees, where an old
ruined chapel stands on the edge of the green lawn above the
rushing river, and beside it 'the Wishing-Tree,' a chestnut 1100
years old, where everything wished for comes true. I had an
introduction to Mrs. Blackett, the owner, who lives in a beautiful
modern house with terraces above the river, and when I was shown
in, I found with her, in three young ladies spinning, three
friends of last year, daughters of Sir Edward Blackett of Matfen.
After luncheon, though it rained, they all walked with me three
miles along the lovely hanging woods by the Tees to 'the Leper's
Bath.'

"Yesterday I went off again, before the family breakfast, to
Stockton-on-Tees, a manufacturing town, celebrated for possessing
the widest street in England. I dined at Greatham Hospital with Mr.
Tristram, the Master. It seemed a most melancholy place morally, no
one speaking to anybody else, every one quarrelling about their
rights of way, the keys of their church, even about their interest
in the poor old men of the Hospital. The country is now all
blackened with coal-pits, and it is curious to hear my present
hostesses describe it all trees and verdure, as it was in their
youth. But the natives are still wonderfully simple and full of
kind-heartedness. At Billingham a poor woman having spent
half-an-hour in trying to find the keys of the church for me, said,
when I begged her to give it up, 'Na, na, I'll try once again, if
only to show a willin'.'"

JOURNAL.

"_Mainsforth, April 24, 1862._--Sitting alone with Miss Robinson
just now, she talked much of Sir Walter Scott.

"'I knew Sir Walter Scott very well: to hear him talk was like
hearing history with all the disagreeable parts weeded out. I often
dined with him in Edinburgh. I went with my Sister Surtees to his
house just after his first paralytic seizure. We went to take him
a book, and, not knowing of his illness, my Sister Surtees asked if
he was at home. The servant said he did not know; so my sister told
him just to give Sir Walter the book and say it was left by Mrs.
Surtees of Mainsforth. But Sir Walter, who was sitting in his
study, heard my sister's voice, and said, "I am sure that is Mrs.
Surtees of Mainsforth," and sent to desire us to come in. We found
him dreadfully altered, and he described to us all that had
happened. "I was sitting with Sophy, when I was taken," he said
(she is dead--they are all dead now), "and I could not speak; so I
ran upstairs into the drawing-room, where there were several ladies
in the room, and there I soon became insensible and could not be
roused. I remember it as if it were to-day," he said; "they all
began to beel, and they made such a tiran, you can scarcely imagine
it. I did not wish to frighten them more, so I did not say what I
felt, but I'll tell you what it was, Mrs. Surtees--_I shook hands
with death_."

"'Lady Scott was brought up in France. She was a very frivolous
person--very exceedingly. The first time I dined with them, I sat
next to her, and she wore a brocaded silk gown which she told me
cost two hundred guineas. "Dear me, Lady Scott," I said, "but is
not that a very large price?"--"Yes," she replied, "but that's what
my dressmaker charges _me_." People never knew what present to give
to Sir Walter; so, when they wished to make a present, they gave
ornaments to Lady Scott, and she would come down to a common dinner
with her arm quite covered with bracelets. What more she could have
worn if she went to court, I cannot imagine. She never entered
into Sir Walter's pursuits at all.

"'Donald was the old piper, and a very fine-looking person he was.
He used to walk about the gallery outside playing the pibroch on
the bagpipes. He could not have done it in the room, it was so
deafening. Even from outside, the noise was tremendous, but Sir
Walter liked it because it was national.'"

"_April 25._--I have had a long talk with Mrs. Surtees. I wish I
could put down half she said about the Ettrick Shepherd.

"'Once we wanted to go to the Highlands. There were my sister and
two other ladies: we were a party of four. Surtees would not go
with us because he said we should be such a trouble to him; but he
said, "What I advise you to do is, to go to Mr. Blackwood when you
get to Edinburgh, and ask him to give you a tour." So when we got
to Edinburgh, we went to Mr. Blackwood, and told him what Surtees
said. "Oh dear, Mrs. Surtees," said Mr. Blackwood, "what a pity you
were not here a minute ago, for Mr. Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, has
only just gone out of the shop, and he would have been the very
person to have told you all you wanted to know." Now you must know
that Surtees had been very kind to Hogg, and I was very anxious to
see him, so I said, "Oh dear, but can we not still see
him?"--"Well," said Mr. Blackwood, "he is going out of town now,
but he will be back in a short time, and if you like to leave your
address, he will come and call upon you." So I was just going to
write my name on a card, when who should come in again but the
Ettrick Shepherd. "Oh, sir," said Mr. Blackwood, "I'm so glad to
see you back, for this is Mrs. Surtees, and she wants you to give
her a tour in the Highlands."--"Eh!" said the Shepherd, "coom awa
then wi' me into th' backshop, and I'll do't."

"'So we went into the backshop, and he told me where to go, and
showed me all the route on a large map that was there; and when he
had done he said, "Weel, Mrs. Surtees, an noo I've shown ye the
route, I'd jist like to go wi' ye."--"Well," I said, "Mr. Hogg, we
are only four ladies, but we would do all we could to make it
agreeable to you, if you liked to go."--"Eh," said the Shepherd,
"but I could'na just leave the lammies."

"'So then he said, "Eh, Mrs. Surtees, but my wife's here, and I'm
just a going to choose her a silk gown: will ye coom awa along wi'
us an' help to choose it?" So I went with them (a very nice-looking
woman too Mrs. Hogg was) and helped to choose the gown.

"'Once I met them at dinner at Sir Walter's. Sir Walter treated
Mrs. Hogg very well, and thought her (as the poet's wife, you know)
every bit as good as Lady Scott; but Lady Scott thought her very
different, and she did not carry it off very well.

"'We were at Abbotsford when Washington Irving was there. When
people went away, Sir Walter used to conduct all those he
especially liked over the hill as far as a particular little
wicket. When Mr. Irving went, he said, "Now I'll take you as far as
the wicket." I walked with them, and when they parted, I so well
remember Mr. Irving saying what a pleasant visit he had had, and
all that kind of thing--and then Sir Walter's hearty, earnest "Coom
again."'

"Mrs. Surtees had also much to say of Mrs. Siddons.

"'I used often to meet Mrs. Siddons at the house of the Barringtons
when they lived at Sedgefield. She was always acting. I remember as
if it were yesterday her sitting by me at dinner and asking George
Barrington how Chinamen eat their rice with chopsticks. "Well, but
I pray you, and how do they do it?" she said in a theatrical tone;
and then, turning to the footman, she said, "Give me a glass of
water, I pray you; I am athirst to-day." After dinner, Lord
Barrington would say, "Well now, Mrs. Siddons, will you give us
some reading?"

"'Her daughter was with her, who was miserably ill-educated. She
could not even sew. The Miss Barringtons took her in hand and tried
to teach her, but they could make nothing of her.'"

"_April 26._--Miss Robinson has been telling me, 'When we were in
London, we went to a chapel in Bedford Place where Sydney Smith
often used to preach, and we were shown into a pew; for, you know,
in London you do not sit where you like, but they show you into
pews--the women people that keep the church do. There was a strange
lady in the seat, and I have never seen her before or since. It was
not I that sat next to her--my Sister Surtees was the person. The
service was got through very well, and when the preacher got up, it
was Sydney Smith. I remember the sermon as if it were to-day. It
was from the 106th Psalm. He described the end of man--the "portals
of mortality." "Over those portals," he said, "are written Death!
Plague! Famine! Pestilence!" &c., and he was most violent. I am
sure the poor man that had read the service and was sitting
underneath would rather have been at the portals of mortality than
where he was just then, for Sydney Smith thumped the cushion till
it almost touched his head, and he must have thought the whole
thing was coming down upon him. The lady in the pew was quite
frightened, and she whispered to my Sister Surtees, "This is Sir
Sydney Smith, who has been so long in the wars, and that is what
makes him so violent."--"Oh dear, no," said my Sister Surtees, "you
are under a great mistake," &c.

"Miss Robinson described her youth at Houghton-le-Spring, now
almost the blackest place in Durham.

"'Houghton-le-Spring was a lovely rustic village. There was not a
pit in the neighbourhood, and the neighbourhood was the best that
was known in England. Sixteen or seventeen carriages waited at the
church-gate every Sunday. My father lived at Herrington Hall, and
our family were buried in Bernard Gilpin's tomb, because they were
related.

"'The Lyons[206] of Hetton were a beautiful family, but Mrs.
Fellowes was the loveliest. Jane and Elizabeth died each of a rapid
decline. Mrs. Lyon embarked £60,000 in the pit at Hetton, lost it,
and died of a broken heart. People used to say, 'Do you know where
Mrs. Lyon's heart is? At the bottom of Hetton coal-pit.'"

After a visit to the George Liddells at Durham, I went on to Northumberland.

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Westgate Street, Newcastle, May 6, 1862._--Yesterday afternoon I
came here, to the old square dark red brick house of the Claytons,
who are like merchant-princes in Newcastle, so enormous is their
wealth, but who still live in the utmost simplicity in the
old-fashioned family house in this retired shady street. The family
are all remarkable. First comes Mr. John Clayton of Chesters, the
well-known antiquary of North Tyne, a grand, sturdy old man, with a
head which might be studied for a bust of Jupiter;[207] then there
is his brother Matthew, a thin tall lawyer, full of jokes and queer
sayings; then the venerable and beautiful old sister, Mrs. Anne
Clayton (beloved far and wide by the poor, amongst whom she spends
her days, and who are all devoted to 'Mrs. Nancy Claytoun'), is the
gentlest and kindest of old ladies. And besides these, there is the
nephew, George Nathaniel, a college friend of mine, and his wife,
Isabel Ogle, whom we have often met abroad.

"Last night, Dr. Bruce[208] dined, the leader of the 'Romanist'
antiquarians in the county, in opposition to Dr. Charlton and the
'Mediævalists.'"

"_May 7._--How amused my mother would be with this quaintest of
families, who live here in the most primitive fashion, always
treating each other as if they were acquaintances of the day, and
addressing one another by their full titles, as 'Miss Anne Clayton,
will you have the goodness to make the tea?'--'Mr. Town-Clerk of
Newcastle, will you have the kindness to hand me the toast?' &c.
Miss Anne is a venerable lady with snow-white hair, but her brother
Matthew, who is rather older, is convinced that she is one of the
most harum-scarum young girls in the world, and is continually
pulling her up with 'Miss Anne Clayton, you are very
inaccurate,'--'Miss Anne Clayton, be careful what you say,'--'Miss
Anne Clayton, another inaccuracy,'--while the poor old sister goes
on her own way without minding a bit.

"This afternoon we have been to Tynemouth, and most refreshing was
the sea-air upon the cliffs, and the sight of that enchanting old
ruin standing on its rocky height. The journey was very curious
through the pit, glass, and alkali country.

"This evening old Mr. Matthew has been unusually extraordinary, and
very fatiguing--talking for exactly two hours about his bootmakers,
Messrs. Hoby & Humby, whence they came, what they had done, and how
utterly unrivalled they were. 'Miss Anne Clayton,' he said at the
end, 'I hope you understand all I've been saying. Now wait before
you give an opinion, but above all things, Miss Anne Clayton,
don't, don't be inaccurate.'"

"_Dilston Hall, May 8, 1862._--I left Westgate Street this morning
directly after breakfast, and getting out of the train at Blaydon,
walked by Stella and Ryton to Wylam. Ryton was very interesting to
me, because the church is full of monuments of my Simpson
relations, including that of old Mrs. Simpson, the mother-in-law of
Lady Anne, of whom we have a picture, and of her father, Mr.
Andersen,[209] from whom the property came. As I was going through
the churchyard, the sexton poked up his head from an open grave to
stare at me. 'Where can I get the church keys?' I said. 'Why, I'll
tell you wherefrom you'll get them; you'll just get them out of my
coat-pocket,' he answered, and so I did. It was a beautiful church,
with rich stained windows, oak stalls, and tombs, and outside it
lovely green haughs sloping down to the Tyne.

"Thence I walked on to see Bradley,[210] the home of my
great-grandmother Lady Anne Simpson. It is a charming place, with
deep wooded glens filled with what Northumbrians call rowan and
gane trees, and carpeted with primroses and cowslips.

"I arrived at Dilston by tea-time, and afterwards we went out along
the terraced heights, and I longed for you to see the view--the
rich hanging woods steeped in gold by the setting sun, while behind
rose the deep blue moorlands, and from below the splash of the
Devil's Water came through the gnarled oaks and yellow broom."

"_Old Elvet, Durham, May 4._--On Friday I drew in the lovely woods
by the Devil's Water, and then walked, overtaken by a dreadful
storm on the way, to Queen Margaret's cave in Deepden, where she
met the robber. Yesterday a wild moorland drive took me to
Blanchland,[211] a curious place, with a monastic church and
gateway, and a village surrounding a square, in the deep ravine of
the Derwent. Then a still wilder drive brought me to Stanhope,
whence I came here by rail to the kind Liddell cousins.

"George Liddell has been telling me how, when they lived out of the
town at Burnopside, a poor woman lived near them at a place called
'Standfast Hill,' who used to have periodical washings, and put out
all the things to dry afterwards on the bank by the side of the
road. One day a tramp came by and carried them all off: when the
daughter came out to take the things in, they were all gone, and
she rushed back to her mother in despair, saying that they were all
ruined, the things were all gone, &c.

"The Liddells went up to see that poor woman afterwards and to tell
her how sorry they were; but she said, 'Yes, there's my poor Mary,
she goes blearing about like a mad bull; but I say to her, "Dinna'
fash yersel, but pray to the Lord to have mercy on them that took
the things, for they've paid far dearer than I ever paid for
them."'"

In June I was at Chartwell in Kent, when Mr. Colquhoun (who was one of the most perfect types of a truly Christian _gentleman_ I have ever known), told me the following story, from personal knowledge both of the facts and persons:--

"On awaking one morning, Mr. Rutherford of Egerton (in
Roxburghshire) found his wife dreadfully agitated, and asked her
what was the matter. 'Oh,' she said, 'it is something I really
cannot tell you, because you could not possibly sympathise with
it.'--'But I insist upon knowing,' he said. 'Well,' she answered,
'if you insist upon knowing, I am agitated because I have had a
dream which has distressed me very much. I dreamt that my aunt,
Lady Leslie, who brought me up, is going to be murdered; and not
only that, but in my dream I have seen the person who is going to
murder her:--I have seen him so distinctly, that if I met him in
any town of Europe, I should know him again.'--'What bombastical
nonsense!' said Mr. Rutherford; 'you really become more and more
foolish every day.'--'Well, my dear,' said his wife, 'I told you
that it was a thing in which you could not sympathise, and I did
not wish to tell you my dream.'

"Coming suddenly into her sitting-room during the morning, Mr.
Rutherford found his wife still very much agitated and distressed,
and being of choleric disposition, he said sharply, 'Now do let us
have an end once for all of this nonsense. Go down into Fife and
see your aunt, Lady Leslie, and then, when you have found her
alive and quite well, perhaps you will give up having these foolish
imaginations for the future.' Mrs. Rutherford wished no better; she
put a few things into a hand-bag, she went to Edinburgh, she
crossed the Firth of Forth, and that afternoon at four o'clock she
drove up to Lady Leslie's door. The door was opened by a strange
servant. It was the man she had seen in her dream.

"She found Lady Leslie well, sitting with her two grown-up sons.
She was exceedingly surprised to see her niece, but Mrs. Rutherford
said that having that one day free, and not being able to come
again for some time, she had seized the opportunity of coming for
one night; and her aunt was too glad to see her to ask many
questions. In the course of the evening Mrs. Rutherford said,
'Aunt, when I lived at home with you, whenever I was to have an
especial treat, it was that I might sleep in your room. Now I am
only here for one night; do let me have my old child's treat over
again: I have a special fancy for it;' and Lady Leslie was rather
pleased than otherwise. Before they went to bed, Mrs. Rutherford
had an opportunity of speaking to her two cousins alone. She said,
'You will be excessively surprised at what I ask, but I shall
measure your affection for me entirely by whether you grant it: it
is that you will sit up to-night in the room next to your mother's,
and that you will tell no one.' They promised, but they were very
much surprised.

"As they were going to bed, Mrs. Rutherford said to Lady Leslie,
'Aunt, shall I lock the door?' and Lady Leslie laughed at her and
said, 'No, my dear; I am much too old-fashioned a person for
that,' and forbade it. But as soon as Mrs. Rutherford saw that Lady
Leslie was asleep, she slipped out of bed and turned the lock of
the door. Then, leaning against the pillow, she watched, and
watched the handle of the door.

"The reflection of the fire scintillated on the round brass handle
of the door, and, as she watched, it almost seemed to mesmerise
her, but she watched still. Suddenly the speck of light seemed to
appear on the _other_ side; some one was evidently turning the
handle of the door. Mrs. Rutherford rang the bell violently, her
cousins rushed out of the next room, and she herself threw the door
wide open, and there, at the door, stood the strange servant, the
man she had seen in her dream, with a covered coal-scuttle in his
hand. The cousins demanded why he was there. He said he thought he
heard Lady Leslie's bell ring. They said, 'But you do not answer
Lady Leslie's bell at this time in the night,' and they insisted
upon opening the coal-scuttle. In it was a large knife.

"Then, as by sudden impulse, the man confessed. He knew Lady Leslie
had received a large sum for her rents the day before, that she
kept it in her room, and that it could not be sent away till the
next day. 'The devil tempted me,' he said, 'the devil walked with
me down the passage, and unless God had intervened, the devil would
have forced me to cut Lady Leslie's throat.'

"The man was partially mad--but God had intervened."

JOURNAL (The Green Book).

"_Holmhurst, July 27, 1862._--A gorgeous beautiful summer day at
length, and it is our last here. To-morrow we go north. It has been
a pleasant summer, and it will be a very bright one to look back
upon. I have had the great delight of having Charlie Wood here for
four days--days of endless conversations, outpourings of old griefs
and joys, of little present thoughts and anxieties, of hopes and
aspirations for the future, which I should not venture upon with
any one else. And besides, we have had a succession of visitors,
each of whom has enjoyed our home, whilst our little Holmhurst
daily twines itself more and more round our own hearts. Sometimes I
have a sort of inward trembling in thinking that I trace an
additional or increasing degree of feebleness or age in my sweetest
mother, but I do not think her ill now, and may go to the North
with a confident feeling that it will be at the time which will
suit her best, as she will have other friends with her with whom
she would rather be alone. My sweet darling! what should I do
without her? and how blank and black the whole world would seem!
Yet even then I should bless God that this place, now consecrated
by memories of her, would still be my home, and, in fulfilling her
wishes, her designs, I should try to link the desolate present to
the sunny past. I cannot be grateful enough for her power of
bearing and rallying from great blows. The loss of Aunt Kitty in
the spring, the impending loss of Aunt Esther, are furrows which
God permits, but which He too smooths over. I have even the comfort
of feeling that it would be thus in case of my own death, dreadful
as that would be to her at the time."

Early in August I went with my mother for a long visit to Buntingsdale in Shropshire, the old pleasant friendly home of the Tayleurs. The master of the house, William Tayleur, had come very late into his property, after a long period of almost cruel repression during the life of his eccentric father; but, unlike most people, the late attainment of great wealth only made him full of anxiety that as many as possible should benefit by it, and he was the very soul of courtesy, hospitality, and generosity. With him lived his two delightful old sisters (already mentioned in the account of my childhood), emancipated when past fifty from a thraldom like that of the schoolroom. Of these, my mother's great friend, Harriet, was the younger--a most bright, animated, clever, and thoroughly excellent person, exceedingly popular in Shropshire society. The elder, Mary, was very delicate in health, but a very pretty, gentle old lady, who always wore an immense bonnet, ending in a long shade of the kind called "an ugly," so that people used to call her "the old lady down the telescope." Buntingsdale is one of the finest houses in Shropshire, a large red brick mansion, with very handsome stone mouldings and pillars, and a most splendid flower-garden, bordered by a high terrace overlooking the little shining river Terne and its pretty watermeadows. I have seldom known my mother happier than during this visit. It touched her so much to find how she was considered by these faithful old friends--how, after many years' absence, all the people she wished to see were asked to meet her, yet all arranged with thoughtful care, so as to cause her the least possible amount of fatigue and emotion.

We went to Stoke to visit my grandfather's grave, and any of his old parishioners who wished to see my mother were bidden to meet her in the churchyard. There we found fourteen poor women and three old men waiting. To the changed Rectory she never looked. Then we were for some days at Hodnet, where Lady Valsamachi[212] was staying, and both at Hodnet and Hawkestone my mother was warmly welcomed by old friends. I was glad to have the opportunity of walking with her in the beautiful fields consecrated to her by recollections of her happy life long ago in intimacy with the Hebers. From Hodnet we went to spend a few days with Henry de Bunsen at Lilleshall Rectory, which had a charming garden, where all his parishioners were invited to walk on Sunday afternoons. Thence my mother returned home, and I went towards my northern work.

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Weeping Cross, Stafford, August 21, 1862._--Miss Sarah Salt met
me at the Stafford station, and drove me here--a moderate-sized
house, simply furnished, but with the luxury of a cedar-wood
ceiling, which smells delicious. Out of a window-seat in the low
comfortable library rose the thin angular figure of Harriet Salt,
speaking in the subdued powerless way of old. She had a huge cat
with her, and an aunt--rather a pretty old lady. 'What is your
aunt's name?' I said afterwards to Miss Sarah. 'Oh, Aunt
Emma.'--'Yes, but what is her other name? what am I to call
her?'--'Oh, call her Aunt Emma; she would never know herself by any
other name.'--'And what do you do when your Aunt Emma Petit is here
too?'-'Oh, she is only Aunt Emma, and this is the other Aunt Emma;
so when Aunt Emma from Lichfield is here, and we want this one, we
say, "Other Aunt Emma, will you come here?"'

"After luncheon, we went out round the domain--paddocks with round
plantations, and a good deal of garden. Miss Salt rode a white
pony, we walked. Then the aunt mounted the pony, and she and Miss
Sarah and I went a longer round, Miss Sarah breaking down the
fences and pulling the pony through after her. 'Will not the
farmers be angry?' I said. 'Oh, no; I threatened to have them up
before the magistrates for stopping up a road, so we compromised;
they are to have their road, and I am to break down their fences
and go wherever I like, whether there is a road or not.'

"At seven the clergyman and his wife came to dinner. I took in the
aunt, a timid old lady, who seldom ventured a remark, and then in
the most diffident manner. This was her first--'I think I may say,
in fact I believe it has been often remarked, that Holland is a
very flat country. I went there once, and it struck me that the
observation was correct.' In the evening Miss Sarah looked at my
drawings, and said, 'Well, on the whole, considering that they are
totally unlike nature, I don't dislike them quite so much as I
expected.'

"We breakfasted this morning at half-past seven, summoned by a
gong; Miss Sarah having said, 'At whatever hour of the day or night
you hear that gong sound, you will know that you are expected to
appear _somewhere_.' She presided at the breakfast-table with a
huge tabby-cat seated on her shoulder. 'Does not that cat often
tear your dress?' I asked. 'No,' she replied, 'but it very often
tears my face,' and went on pouring out the tea."

"_August 22._--Yesterday was hot and steamy, without a breath of
air. Miss Sarah drove me and the clergyman's wife to Cannock Chase,
a wild heathy upland, with groups of old firs and oaks, extending
unenclosed for fifteen miles, and surrounded by noblemen's houses
and parks. Here we joined a picnic party of fifty people. English
fashion, scarcely anybody spoke to anybody else, and the families
sat together in groups. Afterwards the public played at 'Aunt
Sally,' and I walked with Miss Salt and her friends Misses
Anastasia and Theodosia Royd far over the moorlands. A ridiculous
old gentleman went with us, who talked of 'mists, while they
enhanced the merits of nature, obscuring the accuracy of vision.'
He also assured us that whenever he saw a snake, he shut his eyes
and cried 'Murder!' We mounted another hill for kettle-boiling and
tea, and then danced country-dances to the sound of a fiddle. It
was seven o'clock and the mists were rolling up from the hollows
when we turned to go home. Mr. Salt was heard blowing a horn in the
distance, which his daughter answered by a blast on her whistle,
and so we found the carriage."

I am sorry not to find any letters recording the visit I paid after this to Mr. Petit, the ecclesiologist. He lived at Lichfield in a house built by Miss Porter, Dr. Johnson's step-daughter. With him resided his three sisters and seven cats, who appeared at all meals as part of the family, and rejoiced in the names of "Bug, Woodlouse, Nebuchadnezzar, Ezekiel, Bezor, Rabshakeh, and Eva--'the mother of all the cats.'" Mr. Petit was most extraordinary, but a very interesting companion. I had a capital sight of the cathedral with him, beautiful still, though sadly "jemmyfied" by Scott, who has added some immense statues in the choir which put everything out of proportion, and has put up a bastard-gothic metal screen. At the end of an aisle is Chantrey's monument of the two Robinson children. One of them was burnt to death in reaching to get from the chimney-piece the snowdrops represented in her hand; the other died of consumption caused by too much rowing. When I was at Lichfield their mother was still living there with her third husband.