Chapter X: Work in Northern Counties (3)

We went up Borrow Copp, a charming mound near the town, crowned by a chapel-like summer-house. Here the three Saxon kings are supposed to be buried whose bodies are represented in the arms of Lichfield.

The Petits are Petits des Etampes, and were refugees from Caen. They had a valuable miniature of Mary Queen of Scots by Bernard Lens, from their family connection with the Guises. Far more extraordinary than any other house I have ever seen was their country place of--"Bumblekite Hall!"

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Ripley Castle, August 28, 1862._--In coming down to dinner, I
found a tall distinguished-looking lady upon the staircase, with
whom I made friends at once as Charlie Wood's aunt, Lady Georgiana
Grey. This afternoon I went with her and Miss Ingilby to
Knaresborough, a town with stone roofs on a height above the Nid,
crowned by the ruins of the castle which contains the vaulted
dungeon where the murderers of Thomas à Becket were confined. Below
the castle is the public-house called 'Mother Shipton,' bearing her
picture and the inscription--

'Near to this petrifying well
I first drew breath, as records tell.'

Through the inn--kept "by one 'Almeda Burgess'--is a walk by the
wooded bank of the river to the petrifying well, which is highly
picturesque. The water falls from an overhanging umbrella-like
cliff into a deep basin. A chain of stuffed birds is hung up for
petrifaction, taking from twelve to fifteen months to turn into
stone: bird's-nests take twelve months.

"Also in the valley of the Nid, on the east of the town, is St.
Robert's Cave, excavated, as the guide told us, by St. Robert, 'a
gentleman who wished to live very retired.' This was the place
where the body of Clarke was discovered, which led to the execution
of Eugene Aram. It is a most curious story.

"Eugene was the son of Peter Aram, who was head-gardener at Ripley
Castle, and very respectable. But, together with two others,
Housman and Clarke, Eugene arranged a curious scheme of robbery.
They gave out that they were going to give a grand supper, and
borrowed a quantity of plate, which they made away with, and on the
night of the supposed supper Eugene and Housman murdered Clarke,
that it might be supposed, when he was not forthcoming, that he
alone was the robber. Afterwards Eugene went at night to Housman's
house and talked over what was to be done. Before they left he
said, 'If your wife is in bed upstairs, she must have heard us; we
must make this secure,' and they went up intending to murder her if
she was awake, but they passed the candle before her eyes, and she
bore it without flinching. Then they went down again and burnt the
clothes of the murdered man. Only the buttons fell uninjured
amongst the cinders, and were found next morning by the wife.
Afterwards, whenever she had a quarrel with her husband, she
frightened him by saying, 'How about those buttons?'

"Housman and Aram buried the body in St. Robert's Cave, which was
then filled with earth. Brushwood and briars grew over it, and no
trace was left; but the murderers had a perpetual dread that some
day the Nid would rise and lay the body bare, and whenever there
was a very high wind, Housman for years used to go to see that it
was not uncovered.

"Eugene Aram went away to Norfolk, where he prospered exceedingly,
and 'visited with the best families.' But fourteen years after the
murder, some workmen digging in St. Robert's Cave found a skeleton.
'I shouldn't wonder if this were Clarke,' said one of them. 'No, it
is not,' said one of his companions, and this led to his arrest.
It was Housman. He then confessed to the murder, and said that
Eugene Aram was his accomplice; but Eugene Aram was gone.

"It happened, however, that a Knaresborough pedlar, in his walks
through Norfolk, accidentally recognised Eugene Aram in a garden.
On his return home, he gave notice to the constables, who went to
Norfolk and fetched him away, and he was executed. The murder took
place in 1745, the execution in 1759. It is said that after the
murder Eugene never gave his right hand to any one. After he was
executed, the 'finger of scorn pointed at his family,' and they
went to America. The mother of the old woman who showed us the cave
knew Clarke's widow intimately.

"A letter of Eugene Aram is preserved at Ripley Castle.[213] There
were many letters there from Peter Aram, his father, but they were
destroyed by the late Lady Ingilby, because they were 'so wicked
and blasphemous.' The chief point against Eugene Aram was that,
when he was discovered, a defence was found which he had written
twelve years before: this is made use of in Bulwer's novel.

"In the evening something was said about many ghost-stories being
the result of a practical joke. Lady Georgiana Grey, who had been
sitting quietly, suddenly rose--awful almost with her white face
and long black velvet dress--and exclaimed, 'If any one ever
_dared_ to play a practical joke upon me, _all_ my fortune, _all_
my energies, my whole _life_ would be insufficient to work my
revenge.' And she swept out of the room. They say it is because of
the Grey story about a head. Lady Georgiana first saw the head,
when she was in bed in Hanover Square, in the autumn of 1823. She
rushed for refuge to her mother's room, where she remained all
night. Lady Grey desired her on no account to mention what she had
seen to her father. But a fortnight later Lord Grey came into the
room where Lady Georgiana was sitting with her mother and sister,
much agitated, saying that he had just seen a head roll towards
him."

"_Ripley Castle, August 30._--The old Ladies Ruthven and Belhaven
came to-day. They appear to have spent their lives in an atmosphere
of dukes, but are very simple great ladies, chiefly interested by
art and artists, and draw well themselves. Lady Belhaven is allowed
by her husband to be with her sister now because of the odd illness
of the latter, an invincible sleeplessness, which makes her very
peculiar, and gives her a habit of talking to herself in a low
murmur, however many people are around her. Rather to my alarm, I
had to take her in to dinner, and as she is very deaf, to talk to
her the whole time at the pitch of my voice; but we got on very
well notwithstanding, so well indeed, that before the fish had been
taken away she had asked me to come to stay with her at her castle
in Scotland. As soon as dinner was over she made me bring my
portfolio and sit the whole evening talking to her about my
drawings. However, I was very glad of it, as, when she went to
bed, she said, 'I have been so very happy this evening.'

"_September 1._--Saturday was a dismally wet day. We sat in the oak
parlour, drew, and told stories. Lady Ruthven has lived many years
at Athens, and four years--winter and summer--at Rome, and in
summer used to study 'Roma Adombrata,' which taught her how to walk
in the shade. On Sundays she invited all the artists, who never
went to church, to her house, and 'read them a sermon, poor things,
for the good of their souls.'

"She used when at Rome to go to 'La toilette des pieds' of Pauline
Borghese. Regular invitations were issued for it. When the guests
arrived, they found the Princess--supremely lovely--with her
beautiful little white feet exposed upon a velvet cushion. Then two
or three maids came in, and touched the feet with a sponge and
dusted them with a little powder--'ç'était la toilette des pieds.'
The Duke of Hamilton used to take up one of the little feet and put
it inside his waistcoat 'like a little bird.' ... Lady Ruthven and
all her household are still wearing mourning for Lord Ruthven, who
died seven years ago.

"The people here are full of quaint character, especially two
brothers 'Johnny and Jacky.' Said Johnny to Jacky the other day,
'I've found a saxpence.'--'That's moine,' said Jacky, 'for I've
lost un.'--'Had thoine a haule in it?' said Johnny.--'Ees,' said
Jacky.--'Then this ain't thoine,' said Johnny, 'for there's na
haule in't.'

"Mrs. Ingilby herself is perfection--so refined and agreeable. No
one would believe, when they see how admirably and unaffectedly she
manages the castle and £20,000 a year, that seven years ago she and
her husband lived in a Lincolnshire cottage with only £300 a year
of income.

"Lady Georgiana Grey told me a curious story of some friends of
hers.

"Lady Pennyman and her daughters took a house at Lille. The day
after they arrived they went to order some things from a warehouse
in the town, and gave their address. 'What,' said the man, 'are you
living there, ma'am? Did I not misunderstand you?'--'Yes,' said
Lady Pennyman, 'that is where I live. Is there anything against the
place?'

"'Oh dear, no, ma'am,' said the warehouseman; 'only the house has
been for a long time without being let, because they say it's
haunted.' Going home, Lady Pennyman laughed to her daughters, and
said, 'Well, we shall see if the ghost will frighten _us_ away.'

"But the next morning Lady Pennyman's maid came to her and said,
'If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Crowder and me must change our rooms.
We can't remain where we are, ma'am; it's quite impossible. The
ghost, he makes such a noise over our heads, we can get no sleep at
all.'--'Well, you can change your room,' said Lady Pennyman; 'but
what is there over your room where you sleep? I will go and see;'
and she found a very long gallery, quite empty except for a huge
iron cage, in which it was evident that a human being had been
confined.

"A few days after, a friend, a lady living in Lille, came to dine
with them. She was a very strong-minded person, and when she heard
of the servants' alarm, she said, 'Oh, Lady Pennyman, do let me
sleep in that room; I shall not be frightened, and if I sleep
there, perhaps the ghost will be laid.' So she sent away her
carriage and stayed; but the next morning she came down quite pale
and haggard, and said certainly she had seen the figure of a young
man in a dressing-gown standing opposite her bed, and yet the door
was locked, and there could have been no real person there. A few
days afterwards, towards evening, Lady Pennyman said to her
daughter, 'Bessie, just go up and fetch the shawl which I left in
my room.' Bessie went, and came down saying that as she went up she
saw the figure of a young man in a dressing-gown standing on the
flight of stairs opposite to her.

"One more attempt at explanation was made. A sailor son, just come
from sea, was put to sleep in the room. When he came down in the
morning, he was quite angry, and said, 'What did you think I was
going to be up to, mother, that you had me watched? Why did you
send that fellow in the dressing-gown to look after me?' The next
day the Pennymans left the house.

"Lady Georgiana also told me:--

"There was once a Bishop Thomas.[214] His mother one day awoke,
having dreamt that her husband had fought a duel and was killed.
She was much frightened by her dream, and, having great influence
over her husband, she persuaded him not to go out that day as
usual, but to stay at home with her. They lived in Spring Gardens,
and having stayed in all day, towards four o'clock Mr. Thomas began
to repine, and to wish to go out and walk in the Park. Mrs. Thomas
assented on condition of going with him, and they walked in the
Park and enjoyed it very much. While they were out, they met an old
Indian friend of Mr. Thomas, whom he had not seen for years, and
was delighted to meet. They talked over old times and scenes with
great avidity, and at last Mr. Thomas said that he would see his
old friend back to his hotel. Mrs. Thomas, being tired, begged to
be left at her own house on the way.

"Mrs. Thomas waited long for her husband's return. At last she
heard a sound of many footsteps coming down the street, and a voice
asking which was Mrs. Thomas's house. She rushed down saying, 'You
need not tell me; I know what has happened,' and she found her
dream realised. Mr. Thomas had gone back to the hotel with his
friend. According to the custom of that time, they drank a good
deal together: they quarrelled over their wine, they fought, and
Mr. Thomas was killed. The child that was born afterwards was
Bishop Thomas."

"_Middleton in Teesdale, Sept. 3._--Yesterday I went with the party
at Ripley to Brimham Rocks, a most curious place--the rocks
clustered in groups of enormous and fantastic forms on the very top
of the Yorkshire range, and with a splendid view over the country,
even York Minster appearing in the hazy distance.

"I slept at Barnard Castle last night, and set out at eight this
morning for the Fells. It was gloomy and dismal, with mists
gathering black over the distance, and constant rain falling; but
there was no alternative. The valley of Upper Teesdale is in some
ways like a valley in the Alps, the glaringly white farmhouses
scattered thinly over the brilliantly green meadows, the hedgerows
and trees replaced by low rugged stone walls, 'the Grass of
Parnassus' springing up by the side of all the clear streams. The
people are all 'kin' to one another, and are singularly honest and
truthful. 'They are all sincere men in these parts,' said the
guide, 'and if they tell you a tale, you may know it's because
they're deceived.' We met a man on a horse. 'What a long cloak that
man has,' I said. 'Yes,' answered the driver, 'but he's a good man
and a just, and he fears God rather than men.'

"The High Force is a truly grand waterfall, where the whole river
tosses over a huge precipice in the black basaltic cliff. We left
the gig at a little inn at Langdon Beck, whence we set out on a
weary foot-pilgrimage--a most fatiguing walk of ten miles, over
broken edges of scars, along the torrent-bed, through rushes and
bogs and heather, and across loose slippery shale--all this too in
ceaseless rain and wind, and with the burden of a thick Scotch
cloak. But Cauldron Snout is a very curious waterfall, quite out in
the desolate moorlands, with the Westmorland Fells looming behind
it. I was completely wet through before we got there, and came back
plunging from tuft to tuft of rushes in the boggy moorlands. At
one time we took refuge in a shepherd's hut, where an old shepherd,
with flowing white hair and horn spectacles, was reading the Bible
to his grandchildren--a group like many pictures one has seen. Here
my socks were dipped in hot water and put on again, the
mountaineer's remedy against cold."

"_Ridley Hall, Sept. 7._--Yesterday Cousin Susan sent me to
Bonnyrigg, Sir Edward Blackett's place in the moors--an enchanting
drive, out of the inhabited country into the purple heather-land,
where the desolate blue Northumbrian lakes lie at the foot of their
huge precipitous crags. Bonnyrigg itself is embosomed in woods, yet
surrounded on all sides by rock and moorland, and with a delightful
view of Greenlea Lough. The Scotts were staying there, and I walked
with the General[215] along the Roman Wall, high on the cliffs and
running from crag to crag, as perfect in its 1600th year as in its
first."

"_Chesters, Hexham, Sept. 10._--I came here yesterday. My aged
hostess, the eldest sister of the Newcastle Clayton family, is of a
most tall, weird figure, and speaks in an abrupt, energetic,
startling manner, but she is the most perfect _lady_ imaginable,
both in feeling and manners, and her kindness and thoughtfulness
and consideration for others make her beloved far and wide.
Chesters is famous for its liberal unostentatious hospitality, and
Miss Clayton always lives here, though it is her brother's place,
and he resides at Newcastle. She reads everything, and is ready to
talk on any subject, but her great hobby is Roman antiquities, and
she is one of the best antiquarians in the North, which is only as
it should be, as Cilurnum, one of the finest of the Roman stations,
is here in the garden, where there is also a museum of Roman
relics. This house is about the size of Hurstmonceaux Place,[216]
and most thoroughly comfortable, with wide well-lighted galleries
on each storey, filled with water-colour drawings by Richardson,
with Roman antiquities, and curiosities of all kinds.

"This morning we were called at six, breakfasted at seven, and at
half-past seven in the bright cold morning Miss Clayton herself
drove me down to the train at Chollerford. A delightful journey
brought me to Kielder, where, under the heather-clad hills, close
to the Scottish Border, is the Duke of Northumberland's favourite
castle and the scene of the beautiful ballad of the 'Cout of
Kielder.' I wandered through the valley:--

"Up to 'the bonny brae, the green,
Yet sacred to the brave;
Where still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Kielder's grave.

'Where weeps the birch with branches green
Without the holy ground,
Between two old grey stones is seen
The warrior's ridgy mound.'

Coming back, I left the train at Bellingham, and walked to
Hesleyside, the fine place of the Roman Catholic Charltons, where
the celebrated Charlton spur is preserved, which the lady of the
house, in time of Border raids, used to serve up at dinner whenever
she wished to indicate that her larder needed replenishing."

"_Chesters, Sept. 13._--On Thursday Miss Clayton drove me in her
Irish car up North Tyne to Chipchase Castle, a noble old Jacobean
house on a height, with a Norman tower, and afterwards to Simonburn
and Tecket Lynn--a most picturesque waterfall through fern-fringed
rocks; a very artistic 'subject,' too little known. Mr. John
Clayton and Dr. Bruce arrived in the evening, and Roman antiquities
became the order of the next day. We set off in a hurricane of cold
wind, in the Irish car, along the Roman Wall, and spent the whole
day amongst Roman remains, lunching at Hotbank Farm, where the
Armstrongs live--last relics of the great mosstrooping
family--inspiring a sort of clannish attachment still, as, when the
last farmer died in 1859, two hundred mounted Borderers escorted
him across the moorland to his grave.

"The great Roman station of Housesteads (Borcovicus) is a perfect
English Pompeii of excavated houses and streets. Hence we clambered
across stone walls and bogs for several miles to Sewing Shields,
where Arthur and Guinevere and all their knights lie asleep in a
basaltic cavern.... The Claytons are indescribably kind, and spare
no pains to amuse, interest, and instruct me, and their horses seem
as untirable."

"_Chesters, Sept. 15._--I am becoming increasingly attached to
'Aunt Saily,' who is always finding out all the good she can in her
neighbours and guests, and doing everything possible to make the
world bright and pleasant to them: being really so loving and
gentle herself, she influences all around her. On Saturday she took
me to Houghton Castle, one of the most perfect inhabited feudal
fortresses in the county; and to-day to Fallowfield, where there is
a Roman inscription on a grey rock--'the Written Rock'--in the
moorland."

"_Otterburn, Sept. 18._--I left the train at Bellingham, where I
found no further means of locomotion except a huge chariot with two
horses. So, after going on a vain search for a cart to all the
neighbouring farmhouses, I was obliged to engage it; but then there
was another difficulty, for the key of the coach-house was lost,
and I had to wait an hour till a smith could be brought to break it
open. At length I set off in the great lumbering vehicle across the
roughest moorland road imaginable--mere blocks of stone, scarcely
chipped at all, with gates at every turn, over hideous barren
moorland, no heather, only dead moss and blackened rushes and fern.
It was like the drive in 'Rob Roy.' At last, in the gloaming, we
drove over a rude bridge and up to this gothic castle, with
terraces in front sloping down to the sullen Reedwater and barren
deserted Fells. My host, Mr. James, has nine sons, of whom the two
youngest, Charlie and Christie, are here now, and scamper on two
little ponies all over the country. The whole family are inclined
to abundant rude hospitality, and delight to entice visitors into
these deserts. They have taken me to Elsdon, a curious desolate
village in the hills, where the Baillies are rectors, and live in a
dismal old castle, built to fortify the rector in mosstrooping
times. It is a place quite out of the world, so very high up, that
the coming of any chance stranger is quite an event: its people
live entirely by keeping sheep and rearing geese in large flocks."

"_Matfen, Sept. 20._--We had a very long excursion from Otterburn
on Thursday. In these high moorlands, thirty-five miles is thought
nothing extraordinary, and we drove in a brilliant morning all up
the course of the Reedwater, through rocky valleys and relics of
ancient forest, and by the Roman station of High Rochester to the
Scottish border, upon the famous Reedswire. Here we carried our
baskets up the hills and picnicked just inside Scotland, looking
over the Lammermoor Hills and the valley of Jedburgh to Edinburgh
far in the hazy distance. I long for my mother in all these
moorland scenes--such feasts of beauty to mind and eye. The next
morning we walked to Troughend, the grim haunted house of the
Border hero Percy Reed.[217] Then I went with 'Christie' to Percy's
Cross, where Percy fell in the battle of Chevy Chase, and
Witherington fought upon his stumps.[218] Altogether it is an
enchanting neighbourhood, full of ballads and traditions.... I much
enjoy, however, the comparative rest at Matfen, nine or ten hours
being the least time I was out any day at Chesters or Otterburn.
Lady Blackett has been telling me a very curious story--from her
personal knowledge.

"Mrs. Bulman went up from Northumberland to London, taking her
little child with her. The evening after she arrived at her London
house, she had occasion to go downstairs, and at the foot of the
stairs passed a man talking to her maid; at that time she happened
to have a bank-note in her hand. Afterwards she went upstairs
again, and put her child to bed. In a little while she went up to
see if it was comfortable. When she went into the room, the child
was in bed, but appeared to be in rather an excited state, and
said, 'Mama, I feel quite sure that there is somebody under the
bed.' Mrs. Bulman said, 'Nonsense, my dear; there is nothing of the
kind: only you are over-tired; so go to sleep, and do not think of
anything else foolish;' and she went downstairs.

"I don't know what the child did then, but when Mrs. Bulman went up
again, there was no one under the bed, but the window was open, and
the lock of the desk on the table had been tried.

"Many years afterwards, Mrs. Bulman had occasion to visit a London
prison. When she was going away, the governor came to her and said
that there was a man there who was under sentence of death, and
that he could not account for it, but, having seen Mrs. Bulman pass
as she went into the prison, he was exceedingly importunate to be
allowed to speak to her, if it were only for a moment. 'Well,' said
Mrs. Bulman, 'if it will be any comfort to the poor man, I am sure
I shall be very glad to speak to him,' and she went to his cell.
She did not recollect ever having seen the man before, but he said
that as he was so soon to go into another world, it could not
matter to him what he confessed now, and that he thought it might
be some satisfaction to her to know what a very narrow escape she
had once had of her life.

"He said he was in the house talking to her maid, having gone in to
visit one of her servants, when she came downstairs with the
bank-note in her hand, and that he could not say what tempted him,
but that he had seized a knife and hidden himself behind a door
till she passed on her way upstairs again. Then he found his way to
her room and concealed himself under her bed. There he had heard
her come in and put the child to bed and leave it, and then, amazed
at the strangeness of his situation, he turned round. She came
back, and he heard the child tell her that there was a man under
the bed, and if at that moment she had looked under, he should have
sprung out and murdered her. She did not, and afterwards hearing a
noise downstairs, he thought it was better to make his escape,
which he did by the window, leaving it open behind him."

"_Wallington, Sept. 24._--On the way here I stopped to see Belsay,
the finest of the Border fortresses, a grand old gothic tower,
standing in a beautiful garden and amongst fine trees.

"Opening from the enclosed courtyard, which now forms a great
frescoed hall in the centre of this house of Wallington, are
endless suites of huge rooms, only partly carpeted and thinly
furnished with ugly last-century furniture, partly covered with
faded tapestry. The last of these is 'the ghost-room,' and
Wallington is still a haunted house: awful noises are heard all
through the night; footsteps rush up and down the untrodden
passages; wings flap and beat against the windows; bodiless people
unpack and put away their things all night long, and invisible
beings are felt to breathe over you as you lie in bed. I think my
room quite horrid, and it opens into a long suite of desolate rooms
by a door which has no fastening, so I have pushed the heavy
dressing-table with its weighty mirror, &c., against it to keep out
all the nasty things that might try to come in. Old Lady Trevelyan
was a very wicked woman and a miser: she lived here for many years,
and is believed to wander here still: her son, Sir Walter, has
never been known to laugh.

"Sir Walter is a strange-looking being, with long hair and
moustache, and an odd careless dress. He also has the reputation of
being a miser.[219] He is a great teetotaller, and inveighs
everywhere against wine and beer: I trembled as I ran the gauntlet
of public opinion yesterday in accepting a glass of sherry. Lady
Trevelyan is a great artist. She is a pleasant, bright little
woman, with sparkling black eyes, who paints beautifully, is
intimately acquainted with all the principal artists, imports
baskets from Madeira and lace from Honiton, and sells them in
Northumberland, and always sits upon the rug by preference.

"There is another strange being in the house. It is Mr. Wooster,
who came to arrange the collection of shells four years ago, and
has never gone away. He looks like a church-brass incarnated, and
turns up his eyes when he speaks to you, till you see nothing but
the whites. He also has a long trailing moustache, and in all
things imitates, but caricatures, Sir Walter. What he does here
nobody seems to know; the Trevelyans say he puts the shells to
rights, but the shells cannot take four years to dust."

"_Sept. 26._--Such a curious place this is! and such curious
people! I get on better with them now, and even Sir Walter is
gruffly kind and grumpily amiable. As to information, he is a
perfect mine, and he knows every book and ballad that ever was
written, every story of local interest that ever was told, and
every flower and fossil that ever was found--besides the
great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers of everybody dead or
alive. His conversation is so curious that I follow him about
everywhere, and take notes under his nose, which he does not seem
to mind in the least, but only says something more quaint and
astonishing the next minute. Lady Trevelyan is equally unusual. She
is abrupt to a degree, and contradicts everything. Her little black
eyes twinkle with mirth all day long, though she says she is ill
and has 'the most extraordinary _feels_;' she is 'sure no one ever
had such extraordinary feels as she has.' She never appears to
attend to her house a bit, which is like the great desert with one
or two little oases in it, where by good management you may
possibly make yourself comfortable. She paints foxgloves in fresco
and makes little sketches à la Ruskin in the tiniest of
books--chiefly of pollard willows, which she declares are the most
beautiful things in nature. To see pollard willows in perfection
she spent six weeks last spring in the flattest parts of Holland,
and thought it lovely--'the willows so fine and the boat-life so
healthy.' 'Well, you _will_ go to the bad,' she said to me
yesterday, because I did not admire a miserable little drawing of
Ruskin: my own sketches she thinks quite monstrous.

"We went the day before yesterday to Capheaton, the home of the
Swinburnes, a very curious old house, and Sir John Swinburne, a
very pleasing young miser, is coming to dinner to-day. Yesterday we
went through fog and rain to Camphoe, Kirk Whelpington, and Little
Harle, a fine inhabited castle. Sir Walter made me wade through the
Wansbeck as we came back!"

"_Sept. 28._--The more one knows Sir Walter and Lady Trevelyan, the
more one finds how, through all their peculiarities, they are to be
liked and respected. Everything either of them says is worth
hearing, and they are so full of information of every kind, that
the time here has been all too short for hearing them talk.[220] On
Thursday, Miss Ogle, the authoress of that charming novel 'A Lost
Love,' came. She has lived here a great deal, and says the
Wallington ghost is a lady with her head under her arm, who walks
about at night. She has heard all the extraordinary rappings very
often, and says they cannot be accounted for in any way, but she
has never seen the lady.

"The library here is delightful, full of old topographical books
and pamphlets; and sleek Mr. Wooster, with whites of his eyes
turned up to the skies, is always at hand to find for you anything
you want.

"On Friday Sir Walter took me a long drive through the beautiful
forest-land called the Trench, and by Rothley Crags to
Netherwitton, where the Raleigh Trevelyans live. Mrs. Raleigh
Trevelyan, a stately and beautiful old lady, is the direct
descendant of the Witherington who fought upon his stumps. She has
pictures of Lord Derwentwater and his brother, and one of her
ancestors concealed Simon, Lord Lovat, in his house for months: the
closet where he was hidden is still to be seen, and very curious.
Then we went to Long Witton, to Mrs. Spencer Trevelyan, a great
botanist and eccentric person, who breakfasts at six, dines at
twelve, teas at four, and goes to bed at seven o'clock.

"Yesterday Miss Ogle and I went to Harnham, where Mrs. Catherine
Babington, a famous Puritan lady who was excommunicated, is buried
in the rock; to Shortflat Tower, the old peel castle of the Dents;
and to the Poind and his Man, Druidical antiquities, and Shaftoe
Crag, a beautiful wild cliff overgrown with heather. The country
round this is singularly interesting--the view from the church
(Cambo), where we have just been, quite beautiful over the endless
waves of distant hill."

"_Warkworth, Oct. 2._--My mother will like to think of me with the
Clutterbucks in this charming sunny old house, the most perfect
contrast to Wellington; but if Sir Walter saw his house papered and
furnished like those of other people's, he would certainly pine
away from excess of luxury. I have spent two days with the Ogles,
whom we have often met abroad, with their dark handsome
daughters--dark, people say, because their grandmother was a
Spaniard. They are proud of their supposed Spanish blood, and when
Isabel Ogle married George Clayton, all her sisters followed in
long _black_ lace veils. Near their modern house is the old moated
family castle of Ogle."

"_St. Michael's Vicarage, Alnwick, Oct. 4._--I have been kindly
received here by the Court Granvilles: he is a fiery, impetuous
little man; she (Lady Charlotte) a sister of the Duke of Athole.
The Duke of Northumberland sent for me to his hot room at the
castle, where he sits almost immovable, fingers and toes swollen
with gout, and talked a great deal about the importance of my work,
the difficulty of getting accurate information, &c.; but I do not
think he heard a word that I said in reply, for when he has the
gout he is almost quite deaf. Then he sent for the Duchess, who
good-naturedly knotted her pocket-handkerchief round her throat,
and went through all the rooms to show me the pictures. We went
again to dinner--only Sir Cresswell Cresswell, the famous judge,
there, and Lady Alvanley, sister of the Duke of Cleveland. Sir
Cresswell was most amusing in describing how, when a lady was being
conveyed in a sedan-chair to a party at Northumberland House, the
bottom fell out, and, as she shouted in vain to make her bearers
hear, she was obliged to run as fast as she could all the way
through the mire inside the shell of the chair."

"_Blenkinsopp Castle, Oct. 11._--This is the castellated house of
the Coulsons, in the upper part of South Tyne Valley--very large
and comfortable. The owner, Colonel Coulson, is a great invalid,
and his daughter-in-law, a daughter of Lord Byron, does the
honours. We have made pleasant excursions to Gilsland Spa, and to
Llanercost and Naworth, the latter--externally a magnificent feudal
castle--the home of Belted Will Howard in mosstrooping times."

"_Bamborough Castle, Oct. 17._--How enchanting it is in this grand
old castle looking out on the sea, with all the Farne Islands
stretched out as on a map. I think even the Mediterranean is
scarcely such a beautiful sea as this, the waves are so enormous
and have such gorgeous colouring. I have had delightful walks with
the dear old cousin on the sands, and to Spindleston, where the
famous dragon lived."

"_Winton Castle, Tranent, Oct. 17, Evening._--As my mother will
see, I have come here for holidays, and shall be glad of a day or
two in which the mind is not kept in perpetual tension. I heard
from Lady Ruthven that I was to meet Lord Belhaven at Prestonpans
station, and had no doubt which was he--an old gentleman in a white
hat with white hair and hooked nose. We drove here together, and
very pleasant it was to exchange the pouring rain without for the
large, low, old-fashioned drawing-room, with a splendid ceiling and
sculptured chimney, thick Indian carpets, and fine old pictures and
china. Soon Lady Ruthven and Lady Belhaven came in, calling out
'welcome' as they entered the room. The other guests are Lady
Arthur Lennox and her youngest daughter, who looks, as Lady Ruthven
says, 'just like a Watteau;' also Lord Leven, cousin of our
hostess, and Miss Fletcher of Saltoun."

"_Winton Castle, Oct. 20._--When I awoke on Saturday, I was
surprised to see a fine old tower opposite my windows, with high
turrets and richly-carved chimneys and windows; but the castle has
been miserably added to. Lady Ruthven is most original, with a
wonderfully poetical mind, and is very different from her
regal-looking sister, Lady Belhaven, who, still very handsome,
sweeps about the long rooms, and for whom 'gracious' is the only
befitting expression. All the guests are pushed together by Lady
Ruthven in a way which makes it impossible that they should not be
intimate. For instance, as we went in to breakfast on Saturday, she
said, 'Now, Mr. Hare, you are to sit next to Lord Leven, for you
will not see any more of him; so mind you devote yourselves to one
another all breakfast time.'

"On Saturday we all went to luncheon at Saltoun, the great place of
the neighbourhood, where Mr. Fletcher lives, whose wife, Lady
Charlotte, is one of Lady Ruthven's nieces. It is a large, stately,
modern castle, containing a fine library and curious MSS. The
tables were loaded with 'loot' from the Summer Palace in China.

"Yesterday we all went at twelve o'clock to the Presbyterian church
at Pencaitland, one of the oldest in Scotland. The singing was
beautiful, and we had an admirable sermon from the minister, Mr.
Rioch, who came in the evening and made a very long 'exposition' to
the servants."

"_Oct. 21._--The Mount-Edgecumbes and I went to-day with Lady
Ruthven to Gosford--her nephew Lord Wemyss's place, near the sea. I
walked for some time in the shrubberies with Lady Mount-Edgecumbe,
till we were sent for into the house. There we found old Lady
Wemyss with her daughter, Lady Louisa Wells, and her
daughter-in-law, Lady Elcho. The last is a celebrated beauty, and
has been celebrated also for fulfilling the part of 'Justice' in a
famous tableau. In ordinary life she is perfectly statuesque, with
a frigid manner. She was very kind, however, and took us over the
house, full of works of art, of which we had not time to see a
tenth part, but there is a grand Pordenone."

"_North Berwick, Oct. 23._--It has been charming to be here again
with dear Mrs. Dalzel.... What a quaint place it is. Formerly every
one who lived in North Berwick was a Dalrymple: there were nine
families of Dalrymples, and seventeen Miss Dalrymples, old maids:
the only street in the town was Quality Street, and all its houses
were occupied by Dalrymples. North Berwick supported itself
formerly upon its herring-fishery, and it is sadly conducive to
strict Sabbatarianism that the herrings have totally disappeared,
and the place become poverty-stricken, since an occasion in the
spring when the fishers went out on a Sunday."

"_Kings Meadows, Oct. 25._--This comfortable house of kind old Sir
Adam Hay is close to Peebles. 'As quiet as Peebles or the grave,'
is a proverb. The Baillie, however, does not think so. He went to
Paris, and when he came back, all his neighbours were longing to
know his impressions. 'Eh, it's just a grand place, but Peebles for
pleasure,' he said. Ultra-Sabbatarianism reigns supreme. An old
woman's son whistled on a Sunday. 'Eh, I could just put up wi' a
wee swearing, but I canna thole whistling on the Sabbath,' she
lamented. Another woman, being invited to have some more at a
dinner given to some of the poor, answered, 'No, thank ye, mum, I
won't have any more, mum; the sufficiency that I have had is enough
for me.'"

"_Wishaw House, Motherwell, Oct. 27._--When I came here, I found
Lord and Lady Belhaven alone, but a large party arrived soon
afterwards, who have since been admirably shaken together by their
hostess. The place is almost in the Black Country, but is charming
nevertheless. A rushing river, the Calder, dashes through the rocky
glen below the castle, under a tall ivy-covered bridge, and through
woods now perfectly gorgeous with the crimson and golden tints of
autumn. Above, on either side, are hanging walks, and in the depth
of the glen an old-fashioned garden with a stone fountain, clipped
yew-trees, and long straight grass walks.

"We have been taken to Brainscleugh, a wonderful little place
belonging to Lady Ruthven--a sort of Louis XIV. villa, overhanging
the river Avon by a series of quaint terraces, with moss-grown
staircases and fountains--more like something at Albano than in
Scotland. Miss Melita Ponsonby, Sir Charles Cuffe, and I walked on
hence to the old Hamilton Chase, full of oaks which have stood
there since the Conquest, and part of the forest which once
extended across Scotland from one sea to the other. It poured with
rain, but we reached the place where the eighty wild milk-white
cattle were feeding together. Then we pursued the rest of the party
to Hamilton Palace, which is like a monster London house--Belgrave
Square covered in and brought into the country. There are endless
pictures, amongst them an awful representation of Daniel in an
agony of prayer in the lions' den. 'It is no wonder the lions were
afraid of him,' the Duchess of Hamilton overheard one of the crowd
say as they were being shown round. In the park is a huge domed
edifice something like the tomb of Theodoric at Ravenna. It was
erected by the last Duke for himself, his son, grandson, and his
nine predecessors. 'What a grand sight it will be,' he said, 'when
twelve Dukes of Hamilton rise together here at the Resurrection!'
He lies himself just under the dome, upon a pavement of coloured
marbles and inside the sarcophagus of an Egyptian queen, with _her_
image painted and sculptured outside. He had this sarcophagus
brought from Thebes, and used frequently to lie down in it to see
how it fitted. It is made of Egyptian syenite, the hardest of all
stones, and could not be altered; but when dying he was so haunted
by the idea that his body might be too long to go inside the queen,
that his last words were, 'Double me up! double me up!' The last
drive he took had been to buy spices for his own embalming. After
he was dead, no amount of doubling could get him into the
mummy-case, and they had to cut off his feet to do it![221] The
mausoleum is a most strange place, and as you enter mysterious
voices seem to be whispering and clamouring together in the height
of the dome; and when the door bangs, it is as if all the demons in
the Inferno were let loose, and the shriekings and screamings
around you are perfectly terrific. Beneath lie all the house of
Hamilton in their crimson coffins, which you survey by the light of
a single tallow candle.

"Yesterday I went to Dalzell, the old fortified house of the
Hamiltons, and we have also been taken to the Falls of the Clyde at
Stonebyres, which were magnificent, the river tossing wildly
through woods which now have all the gorgeous colouring of an
Indian autumn."

"_Ford Cottage, Nov. 5._--This is a charming little house, nestling
at the foot of the castle-hill, and it has been an amusement to
Lady Waterford to fit it up temporarily with the most interesting
contents of the castle. The walls are hung with beautiful pictures
and the rooms furnished with ivory and ebony cabinets, quantities
of old china, tall glasses piled with ferns and flowers,
old-fashioned tables and deep velvet arm-chairs. She will be here
for another year probably, and thoroughly enjoys the life, saying
that she never knew what it was to have a garden before.

"Dear old Lady Stuart is here in her deep mourning, and Lady
Waterford, now her only remaining child, has been more closely
united to her mother than ever since Lady Canning's death.[222]

"Lady Waterford is indeed perfectly delightful--brimming with
originality and enthusiasm, and with the power--which so few people
have--of putting all her wonderfully poetical thoughts into words,
and so letting others have the benefit of them. Sometimes she will
sit down to the pianoforte and sing in the most thrilling
way--Handel or Beethoven, or old Spanish ballads--without having
the music or words before her. At others she will draw, suddenly
and at once, the beautiful inspirations which come to her. Last
night it was a lovely child crowned and sporting with flowers, and
four other sweet little maidens dancing round her with garlands; it
was from the childhood of Mary Queen of Scots and her four Maries.
She is never tired of hearing of _people_; she says she sees so few
and knows so little of them now--_places_ she does not care to hear
about.

]

"In the afternoon we went up to the castle, which is entirely
changed since I saw it last, having gone back from a gingerbread
gothic house to the appearance of an ancient building. The
drawing-room is beautiful, with its ceiling and ornaments copied
from that at Winton. Lord Durham was drilling his volunteer corps
before the castle, and a mock siege was got up, with a storming of
the new bridge over the dene. Then we walked to a new lodge which
is building. All around are improvements--church restored, schools
built, cottages renewed, gardens made, and then the castle."

"_Nov. 5_ (_Evening_).--The hard frost last night preluded a bright
beautiful day. Lady Waterford let me have the pony-carriage with
two white ponies to go where I liked, and I went to a ruined peel
at Howtell Grange, and then through hollows in the Cheviots to
Kirk-Newton, where Paulinus baptized his Northumbrian converts.
'Oh! if my Lady were only here, for it is quite lovely!' exclaimed
the coachman, as we turned the corner of the mountains. He told me
about Lord Waterford's death, how he was riding by his side over
the mountain when his horse stumbled. He got up safely, and then
somehow overbalanced himself and fell from the saddle upon his
head. They could not believe that he was hurt at first, for he lay
in his hunting-coat quite unbruised and beautiful; but when they
raised him up, his head fell down, for his neck was broken and he
was dead. 'Then there was an awful wail,' said the man, 'though we
could none of us believe it. Dr. Jephson rode on to break it to my
Lady, and he met her driving her two white ponies up to the door,
all gay and happy, and told her at first that my Lord had broken
his thigh-bone and was very much hurt; but she saw by his face that
it was worse than that, and said so, and he could not speak to her.
Then she went away to her own room and locked herself in. When my
Lord had been brought home and night came on, she ordered every one
away from her, and she looked on his face once more, but what my
Lady did that night we none of us knew.'

"She cannot bear a horse now: she has only this little
pony-carriage.

"This afternoon I have been with her to her school. She is covering
it with large pictures which have the effect of frescoes. All the
subjects are Bible stories from the lives of good children. In the
first, of Cain and Abel, the devout Abel is earnestly offering his
sacrifice of the lamb; while careless Cain, attracted by the flight
of some pigeons, looks away and lets his apples fall from the
altar. All the children are portraits, and it was interesting to
see the originals sitting beneath the frescoes, slates and pencils
in hand.

"It seems to me as if Lady Waterford had become strangely
spiritualised this year since Lady Canning's death. She is just
what she herself describes Miss Boyle to have become, 'A calm
seeker after good, in whatever way she may find it.'"

"_Falloden, Nov. 7, 1862._--I have been most kindly received by Sir
George and Lady Grey.... He has the reputation of being the most
agreeable 'gentleman' in England, and certainly is charming, so
cordial and kind and winning in manner.... We have been this
evening to Dunstanborough--most lovely, the tall tower in the
evening light rising rosy-pink against a blue sea."

"_Roddam, Nov. 13._--I have been with Mrs. Roddam at Eslington, a
large grey stone house on a terrace, with a French garden and fine
trees. Hedworth Liddell received us, and then his many sisters came
trooping in to luncheon from walking and driving. 'We are sure this
is our cousin Augustus Hare: we saw you through the window, and
were sure it was you, you are so like your sister.' ... They were
much amused at my delight over the portraits of our ancestors."

"_Chillingham, Nov. 14._--There is a large party here, including
Captain and Mrs. Northcote, a very handsome, distinguished-looking
young couple, and my hitherto unknown cousins, Lord and Lady
Durham.[224] He has a morose look, which does him great injustice;
she is one of Lord Abercorn's charming daughters--excessively
pretty, natural, and winning."

"_Nov. 15._--Each evening we have had impromptu charades, in which
Lord Durham acts capitally. Yesterday we went to a review of his
volunteer corps on Millfield Plain, and afterwards to tea at
Copeland Castle, an old Border fortress on the Till, which the
Durhams are renting. You would be quite fascinated by Lady
Durham--'the little Countess,' as Lady Tankerville calls her. Lord
Durham does not look a bit older than I, though he has seven
children. They have given me a very cordial invitation to stay with
them."

"_Morpeth, Nov. 16._--We dispersed yesterday evening. Lord
Tankerville wished me to have stayed, and it was very pleasant at
the end of an enchanting visit to have one's host say, 'I am so
very sorry you are going; and, though the Greys are very nice
people, I quite hate them for taking you away from us.' They sent
me in one carriage, and my luggage in another, to meet the coach at
Lilburn. I had three-quarters of an hour to wait, and took refuge
in a shepherd's hut, where the wife was very busy washing all her
little golden-haired children in tubs, and putting them to sleep in
box-beds."

"_Morpeth, Nov. 19._--On Monday I got up in pitch darkness and went
off at half-past seven by coach to Rothbury, a lonely little town
amid moorland hills with sweeping blue distance. There I got a gig,
and went far up Coquetdale to Harbottle, a most interesting
country, full of peel towers and wild rocky valleys. Coming back, I
stopped at Holystone, where a tall cross and an old statue near a
basin of transparent water mark the place where Paulinus baptized
three thousand Northumbrians. Then, in the gloaming, I saw the fine
old Abbey of Brinkburn, close upon the shore of Coquet, celebrated
in many old angling songs.

"To-day I have been with the Greys to Cresswell, the largest modern
house in the county, with an old peel tower where an ancestress of
the family starved herself to death after seeing her three brothers
murder her Danish lover upon the shore."

Several more visits brought me home at the end of November, with an immense stock of new material, which I arranged in the next few months in "Murray's Handbook of Durham and Northumberland"--work for which neither Murray nor any one else gave me much credit, but which cost me great labour, and into which I put my whole heart.