Chapter XII: English Pleasures and Roman Trials (1)

"The holidays of joy are the vigils of sorrow."--_Proverb._

"Dear friend, not every herb puts forth a flower;
Nor every flower that blossoms fruit doth bear;
Nor hath each spoken word a virtue rare;
Nor every stone in earth its healing power."
--_Folgore da San Gemignano._

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."--HERRICK.

We were for some time at the Deanery at Westminster in the summer of 1865. I think it was then that Archbishop Manning's consecration took place. I heard much about it, though I was not there. Manning looked like the white marble statue of a saint, especially when the consecration was over and he moved slowly down the church, giving the benediction. Newman was there also, and looked even more statuesque still. Wonderful was the selfcontrolling power which both these priests had. Many years before, as the Stanleys were going into St. Margaret's, there was a scuffle, and a huge black cat was driven out of the church. No one thought any more about it, and nobody saw any more of it, till, just as Newman was coming forward within the altar-rail, and was in the act of reading the Communion Service, the black cat sprang from one of the rafters of the roof, and came crashing down upon him, falling upon the hem of his white surplice. Newman's face never changed a muscle, and quietly, reverently, and slowly he went on reading the service without moving: but it must have seemed like a demon.[268]

During this visit to London I frequently saw, at the house of Lady Franklin (widow of the Arctic voyager) the gentle and pleasing Queen Dowager (Emma) of the Sandwich Islands.[269] Her complexion was copper-coloured, but she was very good-looking, and simply but handsomely attired in the dress of an English widow lady. She had greatly looked forward to the fogs of England, having been used to nothing but the blue or copper-coloured sky of the Pacific, and was dreadfully disappointed when she saw the resplendent blue sky of the glorious day on which she arrived at Southampton. "Why, I might just as well have been in the Sandwich Islands." She went over Westminster Abbey with far more knowledge of the tombs and persons they commemorate than I have seen in European royalties with whom I have visited the Abbey in later days. In stepping back to allow the Queen to inspect the Coronation Chair, my mother had a bad fall on the pavement of Edward the Confessor's Chapel, and the concern and amiability she showed made her very attractive.

Mr. Evans, of St. Andrew's, Wells Street, preached in Westminster Abbey at the evening service whilst we were at the Deanery. He preached on the destruction of the Temple, applying it to Westminster--that we were not to be taken in by "the grandeur of the building, the solemn distances of the choir, the misty shadows of the roof, the windows by painters who dipped their pencils in the rainbow," &c. He described the different Jewish temples; the first, rising from the heart of David and the hand of Solomon; the second, of Zerubabel; the third built by Herod, and "certainly _he_ was no saint."

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After the sermon was over I rushed upstairs, and was preaching it to the family with all its quaintnesses, when I saw Mary Stanley making most unaccountable faces, and turning round, I found Mr. Evans close behind me. The little dark figure had hirpled itself into the room and was listening all the time.

Madame Mohl (whom I have described at Paris in 1858) was staying at the Deanery, where Arthur and Augusta were very fond of her, and always called her "Molina." She was most amusing.

"When I was leaving Paris, I asked my friend M. Bourdon whether I
could take anything to England for him, and he said that he was
obliged to me, and that if I would take a very valuable Indian
shawl, he would avail himself of my offer. However, before I left
Paris, my little friend Barbara was starting for England, and she
said to me that part of her box was empty, and that she could take
anything I wanted, so I was very glad to give her M. Bourdon's
Indian shawl. Now Barbara was in that dreadful accident at
Staplehurst, and so were all her boxes, and when the train went
over, the boxes went down into the water, and all the things were
spoilt. At first I hoped it was not so bad, but 'the fact is that
the shawl _is_ spoilt,' wrote Barbara to me, and ever since that M.
Bourdon and I have been _en froid_, which I am very sorry for, as
we used to be such good friends."

"Oh, that will soon pass," I said.

"No, I am afraid it will _not_," said Madame Mohl, "for remember we
are _en froid_, not merely _en delicatesse_. Being _en delicatesse_
is easily remedied. 'Je suis en delicatesse avec maman,' said a
young lady to me.... A little while ago I went to see the famous
author Jules Janin. He could not attend to me. He was sitting at a
table covered with papers and was writing notes. Messengers went
off with the notes, and almost immediately came back with the
answers, which were evidently written a very short distance off.
This went on for some time, till at last Jules Janin looked up and
said, 'Je vous demande mille pardons: faites bien d'excuses,
Madame: c'est que je suis en delicatesse avec ma femme.'"

One day Madame Mohl told me:--

"There was a handsome young woman married to a man who was in her
own, which was a very lowly station of life, but after her marriage
she consented to go a journey by sea with a family which she had
previously lived with. On the way the ship was wrecked, and she was
one of the few persons saved. It was a desolate coast, and one of
the officers who was saved with her fell in love with her--she was
a very pretty young woman--and married her. Eventually they
returned to England, and he died, leaving her a very fine place and
a large fortune. Some years after, her favourite maid told her that
she was going to be married, and, being attached to her maid, she
desired her to bring her betrothed that she might see what he was
like. When he came in, she recognised her own first husband. He did
not know her again, but going upstairs, she put on an old shawl,
and coming down said, 'Do you remember that shawl?'--'Yes,' he
said, 'it is the shawl which I gave to my wife on our
wedding-day.' Then the lady revealed herself and took her husband
back; but he was a low man, and led her an awful life and drank
dreadfully; but on the whole that was a good thing perhaps, for it
soon brought on delirium tremens, so that he died and she got rid
of him. 'What a fool she was ever to let him know who she was!' was
what I felt when I heard the story."

"Well, I suppose she wanted to save her maid from marrying a man
who was married already," I said; "it would have been very wrong if
she had not."

"So the Bishop of Winchester seemed to think," said Madame Mohl,
"for he was there when the story was told, and he was very much
shocked and very grave, and he said, 'I think, Madame, that you
should recollect our life is only a railway, and that it does not
signify so much if we are comfortable in the railway, as at the
home to which we are going.' But I told him I would rather be
comfortable in the railway as well, and that I would certainly not
have been such a fool--and the Bishop of Winchester thought I was a
very wicked person."

In August and September my mother was very well, and had a succession of visitors, so that I was able to be away from her.

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Hallingbury, August 10, 1865._--The Archer Houblons' carriage met
me at Bishop Stortford. This is a great red brick house in a large
park, comfortable inside, but perfectly filled with _oggetti_--too
many things. The country round is dull, except 'the forest,'
Hatfield Broadoake, which is a grand possession for a private
family--eight miles of green glades, old oaks, gnarled thorn-trees,
and a small lake."

"_Mainsforth, August 13._--I went to Cambridge on Friday, and saw
the dear Hurstmonceaux Rectory pictures, which no one seemed to
admire as we did, and the Hurstmonceaux books in Trinity College
Library, where nobody ever reads them. I dined with the Public
Orator, and the next day went to Ely.... The Cathedral is
beautifully situated, a green sloping lawn with fine trees on one
side, and it stands in a group of picturesque and venerable
buildings--Deanery, Palace, and Grammar-school."

"_Bamborough Castle, August 19._--My mother will be well able to
imagine me in this old castle: it is such a pleasure that she knows
it all. As we drove up the hill, I could see dear old Mrs. Liddell
sitting in her usual place in the great window of the
Court-room.... I walked till dinner with Mr. Liddell on those
delicious open sands, fitful gleams coming on with the sunset over
Holy Island, and the sea covered with herring-boats. Mr. Liddell
talked of his youth. 'The old Duchess of Gordon used to lead the
_ton_ in my day--so exclusive it was! She took care to marry all
her daughters well. With regard to their looks she said, "Give me
eyes and I will supply the rest." Every one used to struggle to get
into Almack's. When Lady Jersey was abroad, she heard of some
"little people" being admitted, and set off home directly, saying,
"I am obliged to come back to keep you all from going wrong." Lady
Londonderry and Lady Jersey were rival queens, and I am afraid
rejoiced in each other's misfortunes when their daughters married
ill.'

"Yesterday we went to Holy Island--Charlotte, Mrs. George Liddell,
Miss Parke, and I--crossing in a boat the emerald green waves, upon
which great seagulls were floating in the most bewitching manner.
We had luncheon in St. Cuthbert's Abbey, and by the time we were
ready to return, the sea was like a lake, the lights most lovely in
the still water, and the great castle looming against a yellow sky.
We have had a very pleasant evening since. Mr. Liddell has just
been telling me of an old man at Easington who said that the Bible
was like a round of beef, it was always 'coot and coom again.'"

"_Ford Cottage, August 22._--Lady Waterford had sent a kind
invitation for the whole party at Bamborough to come to luncheon,
so they drove with me here--sixteen miles. As we came down upon
Ford all was changed. The gingerbread castle of Udolpho had marched
back three centuries, and is now a grand massive building in the
Audley End style, but with older towers. The ugly village had moved
away from its old site to a hillside half a mile off, and
picturesque cottages now line a broad avenue, in the centre of
which is a fountain with a tall pillar surmounted by an angel.
Schools for boys and girls have sprung up, a school for washing,
adult schools, a grand bridge of three tall arches over the dens:
it is quite magical.

"The cottage is radiant--gorgeous beds of flowers, smoothly shaven
miniature lawns, and large majolica vases, while raised stands of
scarlet geraniums look in at the windows. Dear old Lady Stuart
received us, and then Lady Waterford came in. I felt rather shy at
bringing such an immense party, but I believe the visit was really
welcome to her, and all the guests were completely fascinated by
her beauty, her kindness, and her goodness.... The castle will be
magnificent inside. The ghost room is opened and a secret staircase
found at the very spot from which the ghost was said to emerge. The
Bamborough party went away after tea, and we had a delightful
evening, Lady Waterford singing and talking by turns. 'Here are my
two little choristers,' she said, showing her last picture. 'I
painted them against the grass in early spring: it has all the
effect of a gold ground. They like coming to me. They are the only
children who have come to me who have not been sick: after the
first hour, all the others used to turn perfectly livid and say
"I'm sick." It was something in the room, and having to look
fixedly at one object. Lady Marion Alford says it was just the same
with the children who came to her.... I have often seen skies like
this in my drawing, but I suppose others don't. I asked a little
schoolgirl that came to me if she had ever seen anything like it.
"No, _never_," she said.... I should like my fountain drawn either
with a black cloud behind the angel or with a very deep blue sky; I
have seen it both ways.... That is a sketch of a French town we
went through, where the arms of the town are three owls. We asked a
woman what it meant, and she said it was on account of a sermon.
Some one betted the priest that he would not bring an owl into his
sermon. So he preached on Dives and Lazarus, and, after describing
the end of the rich man, said "Il bou, Il bou, Il bou" (He boils,
boils, boils).... When Ruskin came here, he said I would never
study or take pains, so I copied a print from Van Eyck in
Indian-ink; it took me several months. When I took Ruskin into my
school he only said, "Well, I expected you would have done
something better than that."'

"But, in spite of Ruskin, my mother would be perfectly enchanted
with the schools, which are glorious. The upper part of the walls
is entirely covered with large pictures, like frescoes, by Lady
Waterford, of the 'Lives of Good Children'--Cain and Abel, Abraham
and Isaac, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his Brethren, &c., all being
really portraits of the Ford children, so that little Cain and Abel
sit underneath their own picture, &c. The whole place is unique.
The fountain in the centre of the village is worthy of Perugia,
with its tall red granite pillar and angel figure standing out
against the sky. All the cottages have their own brilliant gardens
of flowers, beautiful walks have been made to wander through the
wooded dene below the castle, and miles of drive on Flodden, with
its wooded hill and Marmion's Well. The whole country is wild and
poetical--deep wooded valleys, rugged open heaths, wind-blown
pine-woods, and pale blue distances of Cheviot Hill; and Lady
Waterford is just the person to live in it, gleaning up and making
the most of every effect, every legend, every ballad, and
reproducing them with her wonderful pencil, besides which her large
income enables her to restore all the old buildings and benefit all
the old people who have the good fortune to be within her reach."

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"_Ford Cottage, August 24._--I have been walking in the dene to-day
with Lady Stuart. She narrates very comically the effect which her
two beautiful daughters produced when they came out into the world,
and the way in which she saw a lady at a ball gaze at them, and
then at her, and heard her say, '_How_ beautiful they are, and
isn't it strange, _considering_?' Some one spoke of how Blake the
artist used to go into a summer-house with Mrs. Blake, and practise
for the Adam and Eve of his pictures, and how one day some visitors
came, and it was very awkward. 'It would not have been so with the
real Adam and Eve,' said Lady Stuart, 'for they could never dread
any droppers-in.' In her anecdotes of old times and people, she is
quite inexhaustible. Here are some of them:--

"'Yes, we were at George the Fourth's coronation; a great many
other ladies and I went with Lady Castlereagh--she, you know, was
the minister's wife--by water in one of the great state barges. We
embarked at Hungerford Stairs, and we got out at a place called
Cotton Garden, close to Westminster Hall. Lord Willoughby was with
us. When we got out, we were looking about to see where all the
ministers lived, &c., when somebody came up and whispered something
to Lord Willoughby. He exclaimed "Good God!" and then, apologising
for leaving us, went off in a hurry looking greatly agitated. Queen
Caroline was at that moment knocking at the door of the Abbey. She
had got Lady Anne Barnard, who was with her, to get her a peer's
ticket, which was given her, but it was not countersigned, and they
would not admit her. She was in despair. She stood on the platform
and wrung her hands in a perfect agony. At last Alderman Wood, who
was advising her, said, "Really your Majesty had better retire."
The people who had tickets for the Abbey, and who were to go in by
that door, were all waiting and pressing for entrance, and when the
Queen went away, there were no acclamations for her; the people
thought she had no business to come to spoil their sport.[273]

"'She had been married twenty-five years to the King then. They
offered her £100,000 a year to stay quietly abroad, but she would
come back at once and assert her rights as a queen. She died of
that Coronation-day. She went home and was very ill. Then came a
day on which she was to go to one of the theatres. It was placarded
all about that she was to appear, and her friends tried to get up a
little reaction in her favour. She insisted on going, and she was
tolerably well received, but when she came home she was worse, and
she died two days after.

"'The Duchesse de Berri[274] thought of marrying George IV. after
her Duke was dead. People began to talk to her about marrying
again. "Oh dear, no," she said, "I shall never marry again. At
least there is only one person--there is the King of England. How
funny it would be to have two sons, one the King of France and the
other King of England--yes, and the King of England the cadet of
the two." I never had courage to tell George IV. what she said,
though I might have done it. He once said to me, when his going to
France was talked of, "Oh dear, no, I don't want to see them. Poor
Louis XVIII., he was a friend of mine, but then he's dead; and as
for Charles X., I don't want to see him. The Dauphine! yes, I pity
her; and the Duchesse de Bern, she's dreadful ugly, ain't she?" I
wish I had said to him, "Yes, but she does not wish your Majesty to
think so."

"'I went down one day to St. Cloud to see the Duchesse de Berri;
she had been pleased to express a wish to see me. While I was
there, her son rushed in.[275] "Come now," she said, "kiss the hand
of Madame l'Ambassadrice. But what have you got there?" she said.
"Oh, je vous apportais mes papillons," said he, showing some
butterflies in a paper case, and then, with an air of pride, "C'est
une assez belle collection." The Duchesse laughed at them, and the
boy looked so injured and hurt, that I said, "But it is a very nice
collection indeed." Many years afterwards, only three years ago,
Lou and I were at Venice, and we went to dine with the Chambords.
He remembered all about it, and laughed, and said, "Après, je
regrettais mes papillons." For it was only a fortnight after I saw
them that the Revolution took place, and the family had to fly, and
of course the butterflies in their paper case were left behind in
the flight. We were in the Pyrenees then, and indeed when the
Duchesse sent for me, it was because she heard I was going there,
and she wished to tell me about the places she had been to, and to
ask me to engage her donkey-woman.

"'When they were at Venice, the Chambords lived in one palace, a
very fine one, and the Duchesse de Berri in another farther down
the canal, and the Duchess of Parma in a third. I did not see the
Duchesse de Berri, though I should have liked to have done so. She
was married then to a Marchese Lucchesi, by whom she had a quantity
of grown-up sons and daughters. They were dreadfully
extravagant--not Lucchesi, he never was, but she was, and her
sons-in-law. The Comte de Chambord paid her debts over and over
again, but at last her things were obliged to be sold.

"'When we went to dine with the Chambords, we were warned that we
must not allow anything to pass, or we should not get any dinner.
We went at half-past four, and the soup came, and the Duke (de
Bordeaux) was talking to me at that time, and, while I was
listening, the soup was carried away, and so it was with nearly
everything else. The party was almost entirely composed of French
exiles. Lou wrote down their names at the time, but I have
forgotten them now. At seven our gondola was ordered, and it came
too late, the royalties were so punctual. The Duke and Duchess got
up, and saying, "I wish you a pleasant evening," went out, and then
we had nothing for it but to go away. An old Venetian gentleman
helped us out of the scrape, and gave us a lift home in his
gondola, and very much aghast our gondoliers were when they met us
in another boat upon the canal, while they were rowing with all
their might to fetch us away. The royal family used to go in the
evening to an island, which the Duke had bought for them to have
exercise upon.

"'They would never do for France: they have not the manners. She is
ugly,[276] and then she dresses so badly--no, she would never do.
The only one who would do out of both sets is Aumale: he is really
a fine prince. The Comte de Paris would of course naturally come
first, but the Duke of Orleans used to say, 'I will never be a king
by anything but popular election,' and that is against his family
succeeding. All the members of the family _look up_ to Aumale.

"'Did you ever hear about the old Duc de Coigny and his arm? His
arm was shot during the Moscow campaign, and when it was amputated,
numbers of others having their limbs taken off at the same time, he
exclaimed, "Oh mon cher bras, qui m'a si bien servi, je ne puis
jamais me séparer de ce cher bras," and he insisted on its being
found for him, which was highly inconvenient, and packed it up in a
portmanteau, which he carried before him on horseback during the
whole of the return. The soldiers quite hated that arm; however,
the Duke insisted upon it. At last, as he was crossing a ford in a
carriage, the portmanteau rolled off his knee on to his foot and
hurt it exceedingly, upon which he was so exasperated that in a fit
of rage he opened the carriage door and kicked it out into the
river. When he got to his night quarters, however, the Duke was in
absolute despair--"Oh mon pauvre bras! mon pauvre cher bras!" He
had wished it to be buried with him; for was it not his most
faithful servant? he said. However, none of the soldiers were
inclined to go and fish it up for him, and since then, poor man, he
has had to be buried without it.

"'The wife of this Duc de Coigny was Henrietta Dalrymple Hamilton,
who brought him large estates. Her parents were miserable at her
marrying a foreigner, from the idea that the estates would
certainly then go out of the family; but of all his children only
two daughters survive; one is Lady Manvers, and the other married
Lord Stair, and thus brought back the estates to the elder branch
of the Dalrymples. The Duc died last year, chiefly of grief for the
death of another daughter who had married a Frenchman. His sister
married Maréchal Sebastiani and had five daughters. One of these
was the murdered Duchesse de Praslin.

"'Madame de Praslin was one of a society that there was in Paris
then, who used to laugh at anything like spiritualism or warnings
from another world. Madame de Rabuteau was her great friend and
partisan in these opinions. One day Madame de Praslin went with her
husband to Choiseul Praslin. Her room was magnificent, and she
slept in a great velvet bed. In the middle of the night, she awoke
with a sense of something moving in the room, and, lifting herself
up in bed, saw, by the expiring embers of the fire, a figure, and
as it turned, she saw, as it were, something green. She scarcely
knew whether she was asleep or awake, and, to convince herself,
stretched out her hand and encountered something cold, hard, and
which felt like steel. Then, widely awake, she saw the figure
recede and vanish out of the room. She felt a thrill of horror and
began to reason with herself. "Well," she said, "I have always
opposed and laughed at belief in these things, and now one of them
has come to _me_. Now what can it mean? It can only mean that I am
soon to die, and it has come as a warning."

"'Soon after Madame de Praslin returned to Paris, and at the house
of Madame de Rabuteau she met all her former intimates. "Oh," said
Madame de Rabuteau as she entered the room, "I am so glad you have
come to help me to laugh at all these people, who are holding forth
upon revelations from another world."--"Indeed, I think we had
better talk of something else," said Madame de Praslin; "let us
talk of something else."--"Why, my dear, you used to be such an
ardent defender of mine," said Madame de Rabuteau, "are _you_ going
over to the other side?" But Madame de Praslin resolutely refused
the subject and "parlons d'autre chose" was all that could be
extracted from her. When the rest of the company was gone, Madame
de Rabuteau said, "Well, now, what is it? what can have come over
you this evening? why do you not laugh at their
manifestations?"--"Simply because I have had one myself," replied
very gravely Madame de Praslin, and she told what had happened,
saying that she believed it to indicate her approaching death.
Madame de Rabuteau tried to argue her out of the impression, but in
vain. Madame de Praslin went home, and a few days after she was
murdered in the Hôtel Sebastiani.

"'When the Duke was taken, search was made, and amongst his things
were found a green mask and a dagger. He had evidently intended to
murder the Duchess at Choiseul Praslin, and it had been no spirit
that she saw.

"'Madame de Feuchères was originally a Miss Sophia Dawes, the
daughter of Mr. Dawes, who was a shipbuilder at Ryde and a very
respectable man. The Duc de Bourbon[277] saw her somewhere and took
a great fancy to her, and, to facilitate an intimacy with her, he
married her to his aide-de-camp, the Baron de Feuchères. But M. de
Feuchères was a very honourable man. When the marriage was proposed
to him, the Duke paying the dowry, he took her for a daughter of
the Duke, and when he found out the real state of things, he
separated from her at once, leaving all her fortune in her hands.
It was supposed that Madame de Feuchères was in the Orleans
interest, and that therefore the Duke would leave everything to the
Duc d'Aumale. I must say for the Duchesse de Berri that she was
exceedingly good-natured about that. When there was a question
about the Feuchères being received at the palace, she advocated it,
for the sake of _ma tante_,[278] and Madame de Feuchères came. But
when the Revolution took place and Charles X. fled, the feelings of
the Duc de Bourbon were changed; all his loyalty was roused, and he
said that he must follow _son roi_. Nothing that Madame de
Feuchères could say could change this resolution. They said that he
hanged himself (August 27, 1830), immediately after hearing of the
escape, but few believed it; most thought that Madame de Feuchères
had done it--unjustly perhaps, because, on arriving at an inn where
they were to sleep, the Duke observed that the landlord looked very
dispirited, and knowing the cause, said, "I am afraid you have had
some sad trouble in your family besides all these terrible public
events."--"Yes, Monseigneur," said the man, "my brother hanged
himself yesterday morning."--"And how did he do that?" said the
Duke. "Oh, Monseigneur, he hanged himself from the bolt of the
shutter."--"No, that is impossible," said the Duke, "for the man
was too tall." Then the landlord exactly described the process by
which his brother had effected his purpose, raising himself upon
his knees, &c., and it was precisely in that way that the body of
the Duke was found in the château of St. Leu. Still most people
thought that Madame de Feuchères had murdered him in his bed, and
then hung up his body to avoid suspicion.[279]

"'It was said that the Duke could not have hanged himself, because
he had hurt his hand and could not use it, and so could not have
tied himself up, but Lord Stuart always said that he was very
thankful that his evidence was not called for, because he had met
the Duke at a dinner-party a little while before, when he showed
that he could use his hand by carving a large turkey beautifully.
That dinner-party was at St. Leu. Madame Adelaide had wanted to buy
St. Leu, but the Duke said, "No; yet never mind; some day it will
come into your family all the same." The Duke sat by Madame
Adelaide at dinner and carved the turkey. "Pray do not attempt it,
Monseigneur," she said, "for it will be too much for you," but he
was able to do it very well.

"'In consequence of the Duke dying when he did, the Duc d'Aumale
got the Condé property. Madame de Feuchères came to England, and
her brother, Mr. Dawes, took a place for her near Highcliffe. I
never called on her, but Lord Stuart did. I remember Bemister, a
carpenter, being sent for by her, and coming to me afterwards. He
told me, "I felt very queer when she told me to hang up a picture
of the Duke on the wall of her room, and before I thought what I
was about I said, 'And where will _you_ hang _he_?'"--"And what in
the world did she answer?" I asked. "Well," he said, "I was looking
very foolish, and she said, 'Why, you don't think I really _did_
it, do you?'"--"And what did you really think, Bemister?" I said.
"Why, I don't think she _did_ it," answered Bemister, "but I think
she worrited of him into doing it himself," and I suspect this was
pretty near the truth.'

"I sleep at the castle, and at 10 A.M. go down to the cottage,
which looks radiant in its bowers of flowers and shrubs, with a
little burn tossing in front. Lady Waterford reads the lessons and
prayers to the household (having already been to church herself).
Then comes breakfast in the miniature dining-room opening into the
miniature garden, during which she talks ceaselessly in her
wonderfully poetical way. Then I sit a little with Lady
Stuart--then draw, while Lady Waterford has her choristers and
other boy models to sit to her. At two is luncheon, then we go out,
Lady Stuart in a donkey-chair. Yesterday we went all over Flodden;
to-day we are going to Yetholm, the gipsy capital. At half-past
seven we dine, then Lady Waterford paints, while I tell them
stories, or _anything_, for they like to hear everything, and then
Lady Waterford sings, and tells me charming things in return. Here
are some snatches from her:--

"'I wish you had seen Grandmama Hardwicke.[280] She was such a
beautiful old lady--very little, and with the loveliest skin, and
eyes, and hair; and she had such beautiful manners, so graceful and
so gracious. Grandmama lived till she was ninety-five. She died in
'58. I have two oak-trees in the upper part of the pleasaunce which
were planted by her. When she was in her great age, all her
grandchildren thought they would like to have oak-trees planted by
her, and so a row of pots was placed in the window-sill, and her
chair was wheeled up to it, to make it as little fatigue as
possible, and she dropped an acorn into each of the pots. Her old
maid, Maydwell, who perfectly doted upon her, and was always afraid
of her overdoing herself, stood by with a glass of port wine and a
biscuit, and when she had finished her work, she took the wine,
and passing it before the pots, said, "Success to the oak-trees,"
and drank it. I am always so sorry that Ludovic Lindsay (Lord
Lindsay's eldest boy) should not have seen her. Lord Lindsay wished
it: he wished to have carried on further the recollection of a
person whose grandfather's wife was given away by Charles the
Second; but it was Maydwell who prevented it, I believe, because
she was too proud of her mistress, and did not think her looking
quite so well then as she had looked some years before. The fact
was, I think, that some of the little Stuarts had been taken to see
her, and as they were going out they had been heard to say, "How
_awfully_ old she looks."

"'Her father, Lord Balcarres, was what they call "out in the '45,"
and his man was called on to swear that he had not been present at
a time when he was. The man swore it and Lord Balcarres got off.
When they were going away safe he said to his man, "Well now, how
_could_ you swear such a lie!"--"Because I had rather trust my
sowle to God," said the man, "than your body to deevils." The first
wife of Lord Balcarres's father[281] was Mauritia of Nassau, who
was given away by Charles II. When they came to the altar, the
bridegroom found that he had totally forgotten the ring. In a great
fright he asked if one of the bystanders could lend him a ring, and
a friend gave him one. He did not find out then that it bore the
device of a death's-head and cross-bones, but Mauritia of Nassau
found it out afterwards: she considered it a prophecy of evil, and
she died within the year.

"'When he was almost an old man, Lord Balcarres went to stay with
old Lady Keith. There were a quantity of young ladies in the house,
and before he came Lady Keith said, "Now there is this old
gentleman coming to stay, and I particularly wish that you should
all endeavour to make yourselves as pleasant to him as you can."
They all agreed, but a Miss Dalrymple[282] said, "Well, you may all
do what you like, but I'll bet you anything you please that I'll
make him like me the best of all of us," and so she did; she made
him exclusively devoted to her all the while he was there; but she
never thought of anything more than this, and when he asked her to
marry him, she laughed at the very idea. He was exceedingly
crestfallen, but when he went away he made a will settling
everything he possessed upon this Miss Dalrymple. Somehow she heard
of this, and said, "Well then, after all, he must really care for
me, and I _will_ marry him," and she did. He was fifty-eight then,
but they had eleven children. When Lady Balcarres was an old woman,
she was excessively severe, indeed she became so soon after her
marriage. One day some one coming along the road towards her house
met a perfect procession of children of all ages, from three
upwards, walking one behind the other, and the eldest boy, who came
first, gipsy fashion carrying the baby on his back. They were the
eleven children of Lady Balcarres making their escape from their
mother, with the intention of going out to seek their own fortunes
in the world. It was one of the family of this Lady Balcarres who
was the original of Lucy Ashton in the "Bride of Lammermoor." The
story is all true. The Master of Ravenswood was Lord Rutherford.
She rode to church on a pillion behind her brother that he might
not feel how her heart was beating.

"'In consequence of Grandmama Hardwicke's great age, people used to
be astonished at my aunt Lady Mexborough, when nearly eighty,
running upstairs and calling out 'Mama.' When my aunt Lady Somers
was at Bath, she sent for a doctor, and he said to her, "Well, my
lady, at _your_ age, you cannot expect to be ever much
better."--"At _my_ age!" she said, "why, my mother only died last
year." The doctor was perfectly petrified with amazement. "It is
the most wonderful thing," he said, "that I ever heard in my life."
My grandmother's sisters were very remarkable women; one was Lady
Margaret Lindsay, the other was Lady Anne Barnard. Lady Anne was
the real authoress of "Auld Robin Gray." She loved the tune,[283]
but the original words were bad and unfit for a lady to sing, so
she wrote, "Auld Robin Gray," though some one else has always had
the credit of it.'

]

"We have been walking this afternoon through the cornfields towards
Etal. Lady Waterford recalled how Lady Marion Alford had shown her
that all the sheaves leaning towards one another were like hands
praying. To-night Mr. Williams dined at the cottage. Asking Lady
Waterford about him afterwards, she said:--

"'I do not know if Mr. Williams is old or young. I think he is like
the French lady of whom it was said, "Elle n'avait pas encore perdu
l'ancienne habitude d'être jeune." Apropos of this, Lady Gifford
made such a pretty speech once. A little girl asked her, "Do tell
me, are you old or young? I never _can_ make out," and she said,
"My dear, I have been a very long time young."

"'The story of Mr. Williams is quite a pretty one. When Lord
Frederick FitzClarence was in India, there was a great scandal in
his government, and two of his aides-de-camp had to be sent away.
He wrote to his brother-in-law to send him out another in a hurry,
and he sent Mr. Williams. When he arrived, Lord Frederick was very
ill, and soon after he died. After his death, Mr. Williams had the
task of bringing Lady Frederick and her daughter home. Miss
FitzClarence was then very much out of health, and he used to carry
her up on deck, and they were thrown very much together. I believe
the maids warned Lady Frederick that something might come of it,
but she did not see it. Before the end of the voyage, Mr. Williams
and Miss FitzClarence had determined to be married, but she decided
not to tell her mother as yet. When the ship arrived at Portsmouth,
the coffin of Lord Frederick had to remain all night on the deck,
and Mr. Williams never left it, but walked up and down the whole
time watching it, which touched Lady Frederick very much. Still,
when her daughter told her she was going to marry him, she was
quite furious, contrary to her usual disposition, which is an
exceedingly mild one, and she would not hear of it, and sent him
away at once.

"'It was the time of the war, and Captain Williams went off to the
Crimea, but Miss FitzClarence grew worse and worse, and at last the
difference between them made her so uncomfortable with her mother,
that she went off to her grandmother; but while there she
continued to get worse, and at last it was evidently a case of
dying, and when her mother went to her, she was so alarmed that she
begged she would marry any one she liked; she would consent to
whatever she wished, and would send for Captain Williams at once.
So Williams threw up everything, though it was considered a
disgrace in time of war, and came home, but when he arrived, poor
Miss FitzClarence was dead.

"'Then Lady Frederick felt that she could not do enough for him,
and she took him to live with her as her son. The relations,
however, were all very angry, and the _mauvaises langues_ said that
she meant to marry him herself. So then she thought it would not
do, and she got him an agency on Lord Fife's property and sent him
to live alone. However, after a time, the agency somehow was given
up, and he came back, and he always lives now with Lady Frederick.
At Etal they always sit in church gazing into the open grave, which
Lady Frederick will never have closed, in which his love is to be
buried when she (the mother) dies, and is laid there also, and at
Ford he sits by his love's dead head.

"'I think Captain Williams must be no longer young, because he is
so very careful about his dress, and that is always a sign of a
man's growing old, isn't it?"

"The neighbours at Ford most of them seem to have 'stories' and are
a perpetual source of interest. Lady Waterford says:--

"'Grindon is a fine old manor-house near Tillmouth. Mr. Friar lives
there. One morning he was a carpenter working down a coal-pit, and
in the evening he was the master of Grindon: I believe an uncle
left it him.

"'Then there was that Sir F. Blake whose wife was a Persian
princess, who afterwards left a fine diamond necklace and two most
magnificent Persian vases to the family. I was so sorry when those
vases were sold for £40: they were worth many hundreds.

"'Near Howtell is Thorpington, a farm of the Hunts. Sir J. Hunt was
attainted for fighting in the Jacobite cause, and his property was
all confiscated. His son was so reduced that he was obliged to
become a groom, but he so gained the regard of his master, that,
when he died, he left him all his horses. From that time the Hunts
have taken to selling horses and their breed has become famous.
They never sell a horse, however, under £200: if they do not get
that sum, they either shoot them or give them away.'"

"_Chillingham Castle, August 27, 1865._--On Thursday afternoon I
drove with Lady Waterford and Lady Stuart to Yetholm, twelve miles
from Ford. The way wound through wild desolate valleys of the
Cheviots, and the village itself is a miserable place. I drew the
palace of the gipsy queen--a wretched thatched hovel with a mud
floor, but royalty was absent on a tinkering expedition.

"On Friday I went in the pony-carriage to Etal. There I was shown
into a room hung with relics of Lord Frederick FitzClarence and
miniatures of George IV. and the royal family. Very soon Lady
Frederick[285] came in--a figure like a nun, one straight fall of
crape, without crinoline, enveloping her thin figure, and her hair
all pushed back into a tight round white muslin cap, and
coal-scuttle bonnet. She scarcely ever sees any one, so it was an
effort to her to receive me, but she was not so odd as I expected.
She talked about the place and then about wasps, and said that if
Captain Williams was stung by a wasp, it had such an effect upon
him that he swelled up all over and fell down perfectly senseless
upon the ground that instant. In the hall was the dinner service of
Nelson (painted with figures of Lady Hamilton as Amphytrite), which
was given to Lord Frederick by William IV. Captain Williams went
with me to the ruined castle of Etal and then along a walk above
the Till, which was very beautiful, with weird old willows, high
rocks, and lovely reaches of wood and water.

"Yesterday morning I made a sketch of the door of the cottage, with
all its flowers, &c., which I gave to Lady Stuart, much to her
pleasure. She told me about Lord Waterford's death. On that
morning, as always, Lady Waterford read to him a chapter in the
Bible whilst he was dressing, and for that day it was the lament
for Absalom. It contained the verse in which a pillar is raised up
to him for 'he had no son to keep his name in remembrance;' so his
widow determined to raise a pillar to his memory, and has done so
in the beautiful angel-fountain at Ford.

From a miniature by Miss Dixon_.]

"In the middle of luncheon Lady Tankerville drove up, came to fetch
me, and bringing Lady Bagot[286] and Lady Blanche Egerton[287] to
see the castle. So at five I came away with them, and took leave of
the cottage and its delightful inmates.... It was a cold
dreary day, and gusts of wind and rain blew from the Cheviots
during our fourteen miles. Lady Tankerville drove."

"_Chillingham, August 29._--Yesterday we all drove through pouring
rain to Hulne Abbey in Alnwick Park, where we were glad of the
shelter of the one unruined tower for our luncheon. Afterwards we
drove through the park to the castle, which I had not seen since
the reign of Algernon the Great and Eleanor the Good. Now we were
the guests of Lady Percy, a kind pleasant person, and Lady Louisa.
The rooms are grandly uncomfortable (except the library, which is
an attractive room), but the decorations cost £350,000!"

"_August 30._--Yesterday, as the family here are impervious to
damp, we picknicked in the forest. Lady Tankerville made the fire
and boiled the kettle; Lady Blanche laid the cloth and cut bread
and butter; a young Grey and I made the toast, and the little boys
and girls caught fresh trout out of the burn close by. In the
evening Lord Tankerville told us this story:--

"'My father had a beautiful villa at Walton, which we have given up
now. It was in the old days when we had to ride across Putney Heath
to reach it. My father used to think it very odd that when he went
into the stables to see his horses in the morning, they were all in
a foam and perfectly exhausted, as if they were worn out with hard
riding. One day he was coming home across Putney Heath, and he was
bringing Lord Derby back with him. When they came near the heath,
he had said, "Well, now, we had better have our pistols ready,
because highwaymen are often to be met with here." So they loaded
their pistols, and it was not a bit too soon, for directly after a
highwayman rode up to the carriage-window and demanded their money
or their lives. As he spoke he recognised them, and saw also that
my father recognised his own groom upon one of his own horses. In
the moment's hesitation he drew back, and in that moment my father
and Lord Derby fired. Several shots were exchanged on both sides,
but at last came a moment's pause, during which Lord Derby cried
out of the window to the postillion to ride forward, and he dashed
on at full gallop. The highwayman fired into the back of the
carriage, and Lord Derby and my father returned his fire by leaning
out of the windows. At last the back of the carriage was quite
riddled with shot, and the ammunition of those inside was quite
exhausted, and then Lord Derby held out a white handkerchief as a
flag of truce out of the window, and the highwayman rode up and
they delivered up all their valuables to him. Of course my father
never saw his groom again, and his horses were in much better
condition ever afterwards--at least those which were left, for the
highwayman rode away upon the best horse in the stables.'"

"_Howick, Sept. 1, 1865._--Yesterday I was able to stop the express
at the private station (for Howick), whither Lord Grey sent for me.
It was a drive of about a mile and a half, chiefly through
shrubberies of hollies and rhododendrons, to this large square
house with wings. It is most comfortable inside, with a beautiful
library opening into a great conservatory. Lady Grey[288] is one of
the severest-looking and one of the kindest-meaning persons I have
ever seen. Lord Grey is little and lame, but gets about with a
stick very actively. He is quite grey, but the very image of Lady
Mary Wood. The rest of the party had put off coming for a day from
different reasons, but I was not sorry to make acquaintance alone
first with my host and hostess, and they were most pleasant, so
that it was a very agreeable evening."

"_Sept. 2._--Yesterday morning a great bell on the top of the house
summoned all in it to prayers, which were read by Lord Grey in the
breakfast-room opening on to very pretty terraces of flowers, with
perfect shrubberies of sweet verbena, for the climate here is very
mild. After breakfast I went down through the wood to the sea, not
a mile distant, and a very fine bit of coast, with rich colour in
the rocks and water, and Dunstanborough Castle on its crag as the
great feature. The place reminds me a little of Penrhôs. When I
returned from driving with Lady Grey to Alnwick, the Belhavens
arrived, and before dinner the Bishop of London and Mrs. Tait, and
the Durhams."

"_Sept. 4._--My dearest mother will like to know how intensely I
have enjoyed being at Howick. The Greys make their house so
pleasant and the life here is so easy. Then Lady Belhaven[289] is
always celebrated as a talker, and it has been delightful to sit
on the outskirts of interesting conversations between my host and
Sir George Grey or the Bishop.

"On Saturday afternoon I drove with the Durhams and Lady Belhaven
to Dunstanborough. The sea was of a deep Mediterranean blue under
the great cliffs and overhanging towers of the ruined castle. Lord
Durham[290] and I walked back three miles along the cliffs--a high
field-walk like the old one at Eastbourne.

"On Sunday the Bishop preached at the little church in the grounds.
It has been rebuilt and decorated with carvings by Lady Grey and
her sisters-in-law. In the chancel is the fine tomb of the Prime
Minister Lord Grey. I went with Durham afterwards all over the
gardens, which are charming, with resplendent borders of
old-fashioned flowers; and after afternoon church, we all went down
through the dene to the sea, where there is a bathing-house, with a
delightful room fitted up with sofas, books, &c., just above the
waves. All the French herring-fleet was out, such a pretty sight.
The Bishop read prayers in the evening to the great household of
forty-eight persons. He is a very pleasant, amiable Bishop.

"I enjoyed seeing so much of Durham; no one could help very much
liking one who is very stiff with people in general, and most
exceedingly nice to oneself. But Lady Durham[291] is always
charming, so perfectly naïve, natural, and beautiful. She is
devoted to her husband and he to her. Some one spoke of people in
general not loving all their children. She said: 'Then that is
because they do not love their husbands. Some women think no more
of marriage than of dancing a quadrille; but when women love their
husbands, they love all their children equally. Every woman must
love her first child: the degree in which they love the others
depends upon the degree in which they love their husbands.'

"Sitting by her at dinner, I asked if she had ever read 'Les
Misérables'? 'No. When I was confirmed, the clergyman who was
teaching me saw a French novel on the table, and said, "My dear
child, you don't read these things, do you?" I said "No," which was
quite true, for it belonged to my French governess, and he then
said, "Well, I wish you never would. Don't make any actual promise,
for fear you should not keep it, but don't do it unless you are
obliged;" and I never have.'

"I spoke to her of the inconsistency involved by the confirmation
ceremony, by which young ladies renounced the pomps and vanities of
the world, being generally the immediate predecessor of their
formal entrance upon them.