Chapter XII: English Pleasures and Roman Trials (6)

"It has been bitterly cold ever since we arrived and the air filled
with snow. The first acquaintance I saw was the Pope! He was at the
Trinità de' Monte, and I waited to see him come down the steps and
receive his blessing on our first Roman morning. He looked
dreadfully weak, and Monsignor Talbot seemed to be holding him
tight up lest he should fall. The Neapolitan royal family I have
already seen, always in their deep mourning.[360]

"The Pincio is still surrounded with earthworks, and the barricades
remain outside the gates: a great open moat yawns in front of the
door of the English Church. The barrack near St. Peter's is a
hideous ruin. The accounts of the battle of Mentana are awful: when
the Pontificals had expended all their ammunition, they rushed upon
the Garibaldians and tore them with their teeth.

"Terrible misery has been left by the cholera, and the streets are
far more full of beggars than ever. The number of deaths has been
frightful--Princess Colonna and her daughters; old Marchese
Serlupi; Müller the painter and his child; Mrs. Foljambe's old maid
of thirty years; Mrs. Ramsay's donna and the man who made tea at
her parties, are amongst those we have known. The first day we were
out, Lea and I saw a woman in deep mourning, who was evidently
begging, look wistfully at us, and had some difficulty in
recognising Angela, our donna of 1863. Her husband, handsome
Antonio the fisherman, turned black of the cholera in the
Pescheria, and died in a few hours, and her three children have
been ill ever since.

"Mrs. Shakspeare Wood has been to see us, and described the summer
which she has spent here--six thousand deaths in Rome between May
and November, sixty in the Forum of Trajan, thirty in the
Purificazione alone. The Government wisely forbade any funeral
processions, and did not allow the bells to be tolled, and the dead
were taken away at night. Then came the war. The gates were closed,
and an edict published bidding all the citizens, when they heard
'cinque colpi di cannóne, d'andare subito a casa.' The Woods laid
in quantities of flour, and spent £5 in cheese, only remembering
afterwards that, having forgotten to lay in any fuel, they could
not have baked their bread."

"_Dec. 13._--Yesterday I went to Mrs. Robert De Selby.[361] She
described the excitement of the battles. In the thick of it all she
got a safe-conduct and drove out to Mentana to be near her husband
in case he was wounded. She also drove several times to the army
with provisions and cordials. If they tried to stop her, she said
she was an officer's wife taking him his dinner, and they let her
pass. One of the officers said afterwards to her mother, 'La sua
figlia vale un altro dragone.'

"She told me Lady Anne S. Giorgio (her mother),[362] was living in
the Mercede, and I went there at once. She was overjoyed to see me,
and embraced me with the utmost affection. She is also enchanted to
be near the Mother, her 'saint in a Protestant niche.' She is come
here because 'all the old sinners in Florence' disapproved of her
revolutionary tendencies. Lady Anne remembered my father's great
intimacy with Mezzofanti. She said my father had once a servant who
came from an obscure part of Hungary where they spoke a very
peculiar dialect. One day, going to Mezzofanti, he took his servant
with him. The Cardinal asked the man where he came from, and, on
his telling him, addressed him in the dialect of his native place.
The man screamed violently, and, making for the door, tried to
escape: he took Mezzofanti for a wizard.

"Lady Anne recollected my father's extreme enjoyment of a scene of
this kind. There was a Dr. Taylor who used to worship the heathen
gods--Mars and Mercury, and the rest. One day at Oxford, in the
presence of my father and of one of the professors, he took his
little silver images of the gods out of his pocket and began to
pray to them and burn incense. The professor, intensely shocked,
tried to interfere, but my father started up--'How _can_ you be so
foolish? _do_ be quiet: don't you see you're interrupting the
comedy?' The same Dr. Taylor was afterwards arrested for
sacrificing a bullock to Neptune in a back-parlour in London!"

"_44 Piazza di Spagna, Dec. 29._--We moved here on the 20th to a
delightfully comfortable apartment, which is a perfect sun-trap.
Most truly luxurious indeed does Rome seem after Cannes--food,
house, carriages, all so good and reasonable. I actually gave a
party before we left my sister's apartment, lighting up those fine
rooms, and issuing the invitations in my own name, in order that
Mother might not feel obliged to appear unless quite equal to it at
the moment. Three days after I had another party for children--tea
and high romps afterwards in the long drawing-room.

"On the 21st I went with the Erskines, Mrs. Ramsay, and Miss
Garden, by rail to Monte Rotondo. The quantity of soldiers at the
station and all along the road quite allayed any fears of brigands
which had been entertained regarding the mile and a half between
the village and the railway. The situation proved quite
beautiful--the old houses crowned by the Piombino castle, rising
from vineyards and gardens, backed by the purple peak of Monte
Gennaro. Beyond, in the hollow, is the convent where Garibaldi was
encamped, and farther still the battlefield of Mentana.

"On the 23rd there was a magnificent reception at the Spanish
Embassy. Every one went to salute the new ambassador, Don
Alessandro del Castro, and the whole immense suite of rooms thrown
open had a glorious effect. There was an abundance of cardinals,
and the Roman princesses all arrived in their diamonds. The
Borgheses came in as a family procession, headed by Princess
Borghese in blue velvet and diamonds. The young English Princess
Teano looked lovely in blue velvet and gold brocade. On Christmas
Day I went to St Peter's for the coming in of the Pope, and stayed
long enough to see Francis II. arrive with his suite. In the
afternoon I took Lea to the Ara Cœli and Sta. Maria Maggiore. At
the Ara Cœli great confusion prevails and much enthusiasm on
account of a new miracle. When people were ill, upon their paying a
scudo for the carriage, the Santo Bambino was brought by two of the
monks, and left upon the sick-bed, to be fetched away some hours
after in the same way. A sacrilegious lady determined to take
advantage of this to steal the Bambino; so she pretended her child
was ill and paid her scudo; but as soon as ever the monks were
gone, she had a false Bambino, which she had caused to be prepared,
dressed up in the clothes of the real one, and when the monks came
back they took away the false Bambino without discovering the
fraud, and carried it to the place of honour in the Church of Ara
Cœli.

"That night the convent awoke to fearful alarm, every bell rang at
the same moment, awful sounds were heard at the doors; the
trembling brotherhood hastened to the church, but loud and fast the
knocks continued on the very door of the sanctuary ('bussava,
bussava, bussava'). At last they summoned courage to approach the
entrance with lights, and behold, a little tiny pink child's foot,
which was poked in under the door; and they opened the door wide,
and there without, on the platform at the head of the steps, stood,
in the wind and the rain, quite naked, the real Bambino of Ara
Cœli. So then the real child was restored to its place, and the
lady, confounded and disgraced, was bidden to take the false child
home again.

"Our donna, Louisa, was in ecstasies when she told us this
story--'Oh com' è graziosa, oh com' è graziosa questa storia,'--and
she never can understand why we do not send for the Bambino to cure
Mother of all her ailments, though, in consequence of the theft, it
is now never left alone in a house, but is taken away by the same
monks who bring it. Lea was imprudent enough to say she did not
believe the Bambino would ever do _her_ any good; but when Louisa,
looking at her with wondering eyes, asked why, said weakly,
'Because I have such a bad heart,' in which Louisa quite acquiesced
as a reason.

"It had been a sad shadow hitherto over all this winter that my
sweetest Mother had been so ill. At Parisani I had many sad days
and nights too. She suffered almost constantly from pain in the
back, and moaned in a way which went to my very heart.... Twice
only in the fortnight was Mother able to get out to the Forum and
walk in the sun from the Coliseum to the Capitol, and she felt the
cold most terribly, and certainly the Palazzo was very cold.

"At first, when we came to this house, Mother was better, and she
was delighted with these rooms, which fulfilled a presentiment she
had told me of before we left home, that this winter she should
have the pleasantest apartment she had ever had yet. But on the
21st she was chilled when driving with Mrs. Hall to Torre Quinto,
and that evening quite lost her power of articulation. It only
lasted about an hour.... She was conscious of it afterwards, and
said, 'It was so odd, I was not able to speak.' Some days after,
though able to articulate, she was unable to find the words she
needed, calling the commonest things by their wrong names, and this
was the more alarming as more likely to be continuous. On Thursday
she was well enough to drive with me to the Aqua Acetosa, and walk
there in the sun on the muddy Tiber bank, but that evening she
became worse, and since then has scarcely been out of bed."

"_Dec. 30._--On Saturday I was constantly restless, with a sense of
fire near me, but could discover nothing burning in the apartment.
I had such a strong presentiment of fire that I refused to go out
all day. When Lea came in with my tea at 8 P.M., I told her what an
extraordinary noise I continually heard--a sort of rushing over the
ceiling, which was of strained canvas--but she thought nothing of
it. Soon after she was gone, a shower of sparks burst into the room
and large pieces of burning wood forced their way through a hole
in the ceiling. Shouting to Lea, I rushed up to the next floor, and
rang violently and continuously at the bell, shouting 'Fuoco,
fuoco;' but the owners of the apartment were gone to bed and would
not get up; so, without losing time, I flew downstairs, roused the
porter, sent him off to fetch Ferdinando Manetti, who was
responsible for our apartment, and then for the _pompieri_.
Meantime the servants of Miss Robertson, who lived below us, had
come to our help, and assisted in keeping the fire under with
sponges of water, while Lea and I rushed about securing money,
valuables, drawings, &c., and then, dragging out our great boxes,
began rapidly to fill them. Mother was greatly astonished at seeing
us moving in and out with great piles of things in our arms, but
did not realise at once what had happened. I had just arranged for
her being wrapped up in blankets and carried through the streets to
Palazzo Parisani, when the _pompieri_ arrived. From that time there
was no real danger. They tore up the bricks of the floor above us,
and poured water through upon the charred and burning beams, and a
cascade of black water and hot bricks tumbled through together into
our drawing-room."

_To_ MISS WRIGHT.

"_Jan. 1._--Alas! I can give but a poor account of her who occupies
all my real thoughts and interests. My sweetest Mother is still
very, very feeble, and quite touchingly helpless. She varies like a
thermometer with the weather, and if it is fine, is well enough to
see Mrs. Hall and one or two friends, but she is seldom able to be
dressed before twelve o'clock, and often has to lie down again
before four. I seldom like to be away from her long, and never by
day or night feel really free from anxiety."

JOURNAL.

"_Jan. 2, 1868._--I have been out twice in the evening--to Mrs.
Ramsay to meet M. de Soveral, the ex-minister of Portugal, and his
wife and daughter, and to Mrs. Hall to meet the Erskines. Mrs. Hall
described a sermon she had lately heard at the Coliseum, the whole
object of which was the glorification of Mary Queen of Scots. It
was most painful, she said, describing how Elizabeth, who turned
only to her Bible, died a prey to indescribable torments of mind,
while Mary, clinging to her crucifix, died religiously and
devoutly.

"The Marchesa Serlupi has given a fearful account of the Albano
tragedy. The old Marchese had come to them greatly worn out with
his labours in attendance on the Pope during the canonisation,[363]
and he was seized with cholera almost at once. When the doctor
came, his hair was standing on end with horror. He said he had not
sat down for eighteen hours, hurrying from one to another. He said
the old Marchese had the cholera, and it was no use doing anything
for him, he would be dead in a few hours. The Marchesa thought he
had gone mad with fright, which in fact he had. When he was gone,
she gave remedies of her own to the old man, which subdued the
cholera at the time, but he sank afterwards from exhaustion.
During that time the dead all around them were being carried out:
the Appian Way was quite choked up by those who were in flight, and
people were dying among the tombs all along the wayside.

"As soon as the old Marchese was dead, the Serlupi family
determined to fly. As the Marchesa had been constantly nursing the
old man, she would not take her child with her, and sent him on
first in another carriage. When they got half way, a man came up to
them saying that the person who was with the child in the other
carriage was in the agonies of death, and they had to take the
child into their own carriage. At the half-way house they stopped
to inquire for a party of friends who had preceded them: five had
fled in the carriage, three were already dead! There was only one
remedy which was never known to fail: it was discovered by a
Capuchin monk, and is given in wine. It is not known what the
medicine is, and its effect entirely depends upon the exact
proportions being given. The Marchesa used to send dozens of wine
to the Capuchin, and then give it away impregnated with the
medicine to the poor people in Rome.

"To-day my darling has been rather better, and was able to drive
for an hour on the Pincio. Yesterday evening she prayed aloud for
herself most touchingly before both me and Lea, that God would look
upon her infirmities, that He would forgive her weakness, and
supply the insufficiency of her prayers. Her sweet pleading voice,
tremulous with weakness, went to our hearts, and her trembling
upturned look was inexpressibly affecting."

"_Feb. 4._--When we first came here, we were much attracted by
Francesca Bengivenga, a pleasant cordial woman who lets the
apartment above us, and who lived in a corner of it with her nice
respectable old mother. Lea went up to see them, and gave quite a
pretty description of the old woman sitting quietly in her room at
needlework, while the daughter bustled about.

"On January 9 we were startled by seeing a procession carrying the
Last Sacraments up our staircase, and on inquiry heard that it was
to a very old woman who was dying at the top of the house. Late in
the evening it occurred to Lea that the sick person at the top of
the house might perhaps be in want, and she went up to Francesca to
inquire if she could be of any use. Then, for the first time, we
heard that it had been Francesca's mother who had been ill, and
that she had died an hour after the priests had been. Francesca
herself was in most terrible anguish of grief, but obliged to
control herself, because only a few days before she had let her
apartment, and did not venture to tell her lodgers what had
occurred in the house. So whenever the bell rang, she had to dry
her tears by an effort, and appear as if nothing had happened. We
urged her to reveal the truth, which at length she did with a great
burst of sobs, and the tenants took it well. The next day at four
o'clock the old woman was carried away, and on the following
morning I pleased Francesca by attending at the _messa cantata_ in
S. Andrea delle Fratte.

"On January 10 Charlotte and Gina Leycester arrived. By way of
showing civilities to acquaintance, I have had several excursions
to the different hills, explaining the churches and vineyards with
the sights they contain. On the Aventine I had a very large--too
large a party. With the Erskines I went to San Salvatore in Lauro,
where the old convent is partially turned into a barrack, and was
filled with Papal Zouaves, who spoke a most unintelligible jargon
which turned out to be High Dutch. A very civil little officer,
however, took us into a grand old chapel opening out of the
cloisters, but now occupied as a soldiers' dormitory, and filled
with rows of beds, while groups of soldiers were sitting on the
altar-steps and on the altar itself, and had even piled their arms
and hung up their knapsacks on the splendid tomb of Pope Eugenius
IV., which was the principal object of our visit.[364] We went on
hence to the Vallicella, where we saw the home and relics of S.
Filippo Neri--his fine statue in the sacristy, his little cell with
its original furniture, his stick, his shoes, the crucifix he held
when he was dying, the coffin in which he lay in state, the
pictures which belonged to him, and the little inner chapel with
the altar at which he prayed, adorned with the original picture,
candlesticks, and ornaments.

"Another excursion has been to the Emporium, reached by an
unpleasant approach, the Via della Serpe behind the Marmorata, an
Immondezzajo half a mile long; but it is a fine mass of ruin, with
an old gothic loggia, in a beautiful vineyard full of rare and
curious marbles. Close by, on the bank of the Tiber, the ancient
port of the Marmorata is now being cleaned out.

"My dearest Mother continues very ailing and terribly weak, but I
am hopeful now (as the cold months are so far advanced), that we
may steer through the remainder of the winter, and that I may once
more have the blessing of taking her back to England restored to
health and power. Every Friday she has been seriously ill, but has
rallied afterwards. On Friday 17th, she was very ill, and I was too
anxious about her to rest at all during the night, but perpetually
flitted ghost-like in and out of her room. Last Friday again she
was, if anything, worse still, such a terrible cloud coming over
all her powers, with the most complete exhaustion. I scarcely left
her all day. When these sad days are over, life becomes quite
different, so heavy is the burden lifted off, and it is difficult
to realise all that they have been, the wearing anxiety as to what
is best to be done, the terribly desolate future seeming so near at
hand, all the after scenes presenting themselves so vividly, like
fever phantoms, to the imagination, and then sometimes the seeming
carried with my dearest one to the very gates of the unseen
world.... She is always patient, always self-forgetful, and her
obedience to her 'doctor,' as she calls me, is too touching, too
entirely confiding and childlike. Oh, if our unity is broken by
death, no one, _no one_ will ever realise what it has been. Come
what will, I can bless God for this winter, in which that union has
been without one tarnished moment, one passing difference, in which
my sweetest one has entirely leant upon me, and I have entirely
lived for her.

"_Feb. 9._--There is no improvement in my dearest Mother. If there
is a temporary rally, it is followed by a worse attack and intense
fits of exhaustion, and the effort of going up and down stairs
fatigues her so much that it is difficult to judge how far it is
wise to gratify her constant craving for air. On Tuesday, Lea and I
took her to the Monte Mario, and she sat in the carriage while we
got out and picked flowers in the Villa Mellini. That day she was
certainly better, and able to enjoy the drive to a certain degree,
and to admire the silver foam of the fountains of St. Peter's as we
passed them. I often think how doubly touching these and many other
beautiful sights may become to me, if I should be left here, when
she, with whom I have so often enjoyed them, has passed away from
us to the vision of other and more glorious scenes.

"It is in these other scenes, not _here_, that I often think my
darling's mind is already wandering. When she sits in her great
weakness, doing nothing, yet so quiet, and with her loving
beautiful smile ever on her revered countenance, it is surely of no
earthly scenes that my darling is thinking.

"In the night I am often seized with an irresistible longing to
know how she is, and then I steal quietly through the softly
opening doors into her room and watch her asleep by the light of
the night-lamp. Even then the face in its entire repose wears the
same sweet expression of childlike confidence and peace.

"I dined with Mrs. Robert Bruce one day, meeting Miss Monk and
Cavendish Taylor, and went with them afterwards to see the 'Grande
Duchesse de Gerolstein' acted. It was in a booth in the Piazza
Navona, such as is generally used for wild beasts at a fair, and
where one would expect an audience of the very lowest of the
people; but instead the place was crowded with the most _élite_ of
the Roman princes and their families. The acting was wonderful, and
the dresses and scenery very beautiful. It is said that the actors
are a single family, fourteen sons, three daughters, and their
cook!

"At the Shakspeare Woods' I met Miss Charlotte Cushman, the great
American tragic actress, who has been living here for some years.
She was the Mrs. Siddons of her time in America, and places were
taken weeks beforehand for the nights when she acted. She does a
great deal of good here and is intensely beloved. In appearance she
is much like Miss Boyle,[365] with white hair rolled back, and is
of most winning and gracious manners. I went to a party at her
house last night, and never saw anything more dignified and
graceful than her reception of her guests, or more charming than
her entertainment of them. She sang, but as she has little voice
left, it was rather dramatic representation than song, though most
beautiful and pathetic.

"The American Consul, Mr. Cushman, told me he had crossed the
Atlantic forty-seven times. The last time he returned was during
the cholera at Albano, and he described its horrors. A hundred and
fifty people died in the village on the first day, and were all
thrown immediately into a large pit by a regiment of Zouaves,
happily quartered there, and were tumbled in just as they happened
to fall. The next day, so many more died, that soldiers were sent
down into the pit to pack the bodies closer, so as to fit more in.
The bodies already in the pit were so entangled, that several arms
and legs were pulled off in the process. The Zouaves employed in
the work all died."

I often saw Miss Cushman afterwards, and greatly valued her friendship. Hers was a noble and almost unique character, a benignant influence upon all she came in contact with. Her youth had been a long struggle, but it gave her a wonderful sympathy with young artists striving as she herself had done, and for them her purse, her hand, and her heart were always open. When she was only a "stock actress," the wife of the manager, who played herself and was jealous of her talents, got her husband to give her a very inferior part: it was that of Nancy Sykes in "Oliver Twist." Miss Cushman saw through the motive, and determined to prepare herself thoroughly. She disappeared. She went down to the worst part of the town, and remained for four days amongst all the lowest women there, till she understood them thoroughly and could imitate their peculiarities to perfection. Her first appearance, when she strolled on to the stage chewing a sprig of a tree, as they all do, took the house by storm, and from that time it was at her feet. The play of "Guy Mannering" was written to suit her in the part of Meg Merrilies. She would take an hour and a half to get herself up for it, painting all the veins on her arms, &c., and her success was wonderful.

She had been originally intended for an opera-singer, but, just when she was to appear, she had a dangerous illness, and, when she recovered, her voice was gone. But she wasted no time in regrets: she immediately turned to being an actress. This power of making the best of whatever _was_, formed one of the grandest traits of her character.

She died of what, to many, is the most terrible of all diseases. She insisted on an operation; but when she went to have it repeated, the great surgeons told her it was no use, and advised her to devote her remaining life to whatever would most take her out of herself and make her forget her pain. Then she, who had left the stage so long, went back to it as Meg Merrilies again and had all her old triumphs. And the last time she appeared, when she, as it were, took leave of the stage for ever, she repeated the words "I shall haunt this old glen," &c., in a way which sent a cold shiver down the backs of all who heard them.

Miss Stebbings' interesting Life of Miss Cushman is inadequate. It dwells too much on the successful part. What were really interesting, and also useful to those beginning life, would have been the true story of the struggles of her youth, and how her noble nature overcame them.

JOURNAL.

"_Feb. 10._--My dearest Mother is better and up again, sweet and
smiling. Last week, after poor Mrs. C. had died, Mrs. Ramsay, not
knowing it, sent to inquire after her. 'E andata in Paradiso,' said
her old servant Francesco, quite simply, when he came back."

"_Feb. 25._--On the 16th old Don Francesco Chigi died, a most
well-known figure to be missed out of Roman life. He was buried
with perfectly mediæval pomp the next day at the Popolo. The
procession down the Corso from the Chigi Palace was most gorgeous,
the long line of princely carriages and the running footmen with
their huge torches and splendid liveries, the effect enhanced by
the darkness of the night, for it was at nine o'clock in the
evening.

"Yesterday I rushed with all the world to St. Peter's to stare at
the bridal of Donna Guendalina Doria, who had just been married at
S. Agnese to the Milanese Conte della Somaglia. The Pope gave her
his benediction and a prayer-book bound in solid gold and diamonds.
Thirteen carriages full of relations escorted her to St. Peter's,
but very few had courage to come with her into the church. She
looked well in a long lace veil and white silk cloak striped with
gold.

"My sweet Mother has gained very little ground the last fortnight.
Yesterday for the first time she went out--carried down and
upstairs by Benedetto and Louisa, and drove with Charlotte to the
Villa Doria. But in the evening her breathing was difficult. To-day
I drove with Lady Bloomfield[366] and Jane Adeane to the Campagna,
and when I came back I found that she had been quite ill the whole
time. The dear face looks sadly worn."

"_Feb. 27._--When I went into my darling's room at 3 A.M., both she
and Lea were sleeping quietly, but when I went again at six, the
Mother had been long awake, and oppressed with great difficulty of
breathing. At half-past nine Dr. Grilli came and begged for another
opinion.... How did I bear it when he said that my darling was in
the greatest danger, that if she would desire any spiritual
consolations, they ought to be sent for! Then I lost all hope.
'No,' I said, 'she has long lived more in heaven than on earth.'
'Quello se vede,' said Dr. Grilli.

"I questioned whether she should be told the danger she was in, but
I decided not; for has not my darling been for years standing on
the threshold of the heavenly kingdom? Death could to _her_ only be
the passing quite over that threshold, and to us the last glimpse
of her most sweet presence here.

"2 P.M.--Charlotte Leycester and Emma Simpkinson have been with me
in the room all morning by turns. I cannot but think her slightly
better. The shutter has just been opened that she may see the sun,
which poured into the room. My darling was sitting up then and
smiled to see it.

"5-1/2 P.M.--Waiting for the consultation of doctors. How I dread
it, yet I cannot but think they will find my darling better. I have
a feeling that there must still be hope. At two I went in a
carriage to the Villa Negroni,[367] as the most solitary place I
knew, and there spent an hour on that terraced walk beneath the
house in which I was born, where my two mothers walked up and down
together before my birth, and where I have often been, oh! so happy
in the sunshine of her presence who is life to me.

"Coming back, I went into the Church of the Angeli. A white
Carthusian was kneeling there alone. I knelt too and prayed--not
that God would give my darling back to me unless it were His will,
but oh! so earnestly that there might be no pain in her departure.

"Mrs. Woodward and Miss Finucane want to come and sit up--always
good and kind. Grilli has been this evening with Dr. Bertoldi, and
says everything depends on how she passes the next night: if she
sleeps and the breathing becomes easier, we may hope, but even then
it will be most difficult to regain the ground lost. In this I buoy
myself up that _they_ know nothing of her wonderful power of
rallying.

"When Charlotte went away for the night, she said, 'I shall think
of you, dear, and pray for you very much to-night.'--'Yes, into
the Lord's hands I commend my spirit,' said my darling solemnly.

"_9 A.M. Feb. 28, Friday._--Last night, when I wished her
good-night, she said in her sweetest manner, 'Don't be too anxious;
it is all in His hands.' Lea went to bed and Emma Simpkinson sat
upon the sofa. I went in and out all through the night. Since 4
A.M. she has been less well!

"6 P.M.--I went rapidly to-day in a little carriage to St. Peter's,
and kneeling at the grating of the chapel of the Sacrament by
Sixtus IV.'s tomb, I _implored_ God to take two years out of my
life and to add them to my Mother's. I could not part with her now.
If there is power in prayer, I _must_ have been heard. I was back
within the hour.

"When Charlotte came, she repeated to the Mother the texts about
the saints in white robes, and then said 'Perhaps, dear, you will
be with them soon--perhaps it is as in our favourite hymn, "Just
passing over the brink."'--'Yes,' said my darling, 'it cannot last
long; this is quite wearing me out.' I heard this through the door,
for I could not bear to be in the room. Then Charlotte said, 'The
Lord be with you,' or similar words, and my darling answered 'Yes,
and may He be with those who are left as well as with those who are
taken.' At this moment I came in and kissed my darling. Charlotte,
not knowing I had heard, then repeated what she had said. 'She is
praying that God may be with you and with me,' she said. I could
not bear it, and went back to the next room. Charlotte came in and
kissed me. 'I cannot say what I feel for you,' she said. I begged
her not to say so now, 'as long as there was anything to be done I
must not give way.'"

"_3 P.M. Saturday._--The night was one of terrible suffering. Mrs.
Woodward sat up, but I could not leave the room. In the morning my
darling said, 'I never thought it would have been like this; I
thought it would have been unconscious. The valley of the Shadow of
Death is a dark valley, but there is light at the end.... No more
pain.... The Rock of Ages, that is my rock.' Then I read the three
prayers in the Visitation Service. 'It will be over soon,' she
said; 'I am going to rest.'

"'Will you give me some little word of blessing, darling?' I said.
'The Lord keep you and comfort you, my dear child,' she said.
'Don't fret too much. _He_ will give you comfort.' I had begged
that Mrs. Woodward would call in Lea, who was now kneeling between
us at the bedside. 'And you bless poor Lea too,' I said. 'Yes, dear
Lea; she has been a most good and faithful and dear servant to me.
I pray that God may be with her and John, and keep them, and I hope
that they will be faithful and loving to you, as they have been to
me, as long as you need them.... Be reconciled to all who have been
unkind to you, darling; love them all, this is my great wish,
love--love--love--oh, I have tried to live for love--oh! love one
another, that is the great thing--love, love, love!'

"'The Lord bless and comfort you, dear,' she said to Charlotte. 'Be
a mother to my child.'--'I will,' said Charlotte, and then my
darling's hand took mine and held it.

"'We look for the salvation of the Lord Jesus Christ,' said
Charlotte. 'Yes, and it was here that it first dawned upon me ...
through much tribulation.... He will be with me, and He will be
with those who are left.'

"'We look for the King in His beauty,' said Charlotte. 'Yes, beauty
such as we have never seen,' my darling said. 'Eye hath not seen
nor ear heard the things which God hath prepared for them that love
Him. Oh, I have been able to serve Him very little.'--'Yes,
darling, but you have loved Him much.'

"'I send my love to all my dear ones in England; none are
forgotten, none.' Then, after a pause, 'Tell your sister that we
shall meet where there is no more controversy, and where we shall
know thoroughly as we are known.'

"In the night the terrible pain came on, which lasted many hours
and gave us all such anguish. 'And He bore all this,' she said, and
at one of her worst moments--'He that trusteth in Thee shall never
be put to confusion.' What these trembling words were to us I
cannot say, with her great suffering and the sadly sunken look of
her revered features. Mrs. Woodward cried bitterly.

"'Mine eyes look to the hills, from whence cometh my help,' said
Charlotte when she came in. 'You have loved the Psalms so much,
haven't you, dear?'--'Yes, the Psalms so much.'--'All Thy waves and
storms pass over me,' said Charlotte, 'but the Rock resisteth the
flood.'--'Yes, the _Rock_,' said my darling. 'The floods lift up
their waves, but the Lord is mightier.'--'He is mightier,' she
repeated. 'The Lord is a refuge and a strong tower,' said
Charlotte. 'He is _indeed_,' she answered with emphasis; 'it is a
dark valley, but there is light beyond, for He is the strength of
my heart and my portion for ever.'

"She bade me in the early morning not to leave her, and I sat by
her without moving from 6 A.M. till 1 P.M. 'Oh, you will all be
_so_ tired,' she said once. When she was very ill, Charlotte leant
over her and said, 'I am oppressed, O Lord, undertake for me: may
the everlasting arms be beneath you.'--'Yes,' she said."

"_March 1, Sunday morning._--How long it is! At 6 P.M. she was very
restless and suffering. At last she gave me her hand and lay down
with me supporting the pillows behind. She spoke quite clearly, and
said, 'My blessing and darling, may you be blessed in time and
eternity!' This quiet sleep seemed to soothe and rest her, and
afterwards Lea was able to take my place for an hour. But the night
was terrible. Mrs. Woodward and Miss Finucane both sat up with me.
Once she said, 'Through the grave and the gate of death ... a
glorious resurrection.' At seven, she was speaking again, and
leaning over her I heard, 'How long, how long? when will the
Bridegroom come?'"

"_4 P.M. Monday, March 2._--A rather less suffering night. Dear
Miss Garden sat up with me, saying she felt as if it was her own
mother who was lying there, and Mother rambled gently to her about
'going home.' At 7 A.M. she fell asleep sweetly with her hand
clasped in both of mine. I did not venture to move, and sank from
my knees into a sitting position on the floor; so we remained for
nearly an hour. When she waked, her moan was more definite. 'Oh,
for rest! oh, for rest!' I said, 'Darling, rest is coming
soon.'--'Yes,' she said, 'my health will all come back to me soon;
no infirmities and no pains any more."

"10 A.M.--When Charlotte went at nine, I thought my darling sinking
more rapidly, and Dr. Grilli when he came told us it was all but
impossible she could rally. She looks to me at moments quite
passing away. I would not call my darling back for worlds now: if
God took her, I could only be lost in thankfulness that her pains
were over. Oh, that she may be soon in that perfect health which we
shall not be permitted to see. I scarcely leave her a moment now,
though it is agony to me if she coughs or suffers. Can I afford to
lose one look from those beloved eyes, one passing expression of
those revered features? So I sit beside her through the long hours,
now moistening her lips, now giving her water from a spoon, now and
then a little soup-jelly, which she finds it easier to swallow than
the soup itself, and now and then my darling gently gives me her
hand to hold in mine. 'Rest in bliss,' she said to Mrs. Woodward,
'rest ever in bliss.' Afterwards Charlotte said, 'When thou passest
through the waters, they shall not overflow thee: underneath thee
are ... the everlasting arms."

"12-1/2 P.M.--Charlotte has repeated sentences from the Litany--'By
Thine agony and bloody sweat.' We thought she scarcely understood
at first, then her lips, almost inaudibly, repeated the sentences.
Soon she said, 'It is _so_ long coming!' Then Charlotte read,
'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they _rest_ from
their labours.' She opened her eyes, looked up at Charlotte, and
said, 'Oh, how well I know you!'

"1 P.M.--After some minutes' quiet she opened her eyes with
surprise and said, 'I thought I was safe home; I thought I was, yet
I can move, so I suppose it will not be yet.'

"2 P.M.--Her face has lost all its troubled look, and though she
still moans, there is a happy appearance of repose stealing over
her features.

"3 P.M.--When C. L. came in she said, 'Oh, Charlotte, I thought it
was all over. I did not hear the noise of the waves any more. Oh,
they were so very tormenting, and then, when I did not hear them, I
thought it was over, and then I heard your voice, and I knew I was
still here.... I have no more pain now.... It was very long, but I
suppose He thought He would knock out all that was bad in me.'

"_Midnight, Monday._--After a terrible afternoon, she had such an
extraordinary rally in the evening that we all began to hope. But
soon after there was another change. Her features altered, her face
sunk, but her expression was of the most transcendent happiness.
Thinking the last moment was come, we knelt around the bed, I alone
on the right; Charlotte, Lea, and Mrs. Woodward on the left; the
nurse, Angela Mayer, at the foot. Charlotte and Mrs. W. prayed
aloud. Then my darling, in broken accents, difficult to understand,
but which I, leaning over her, repeated to the others, began to
speak--'I am going to glory ... I have no pain now ... I see the
light ... Oh, I am _so_ happy ... no more trouble or sorrow or sin
... so extremely happy ... may you all meet me there, not one of
you be wanting.'

"I, leaning over her, said, 'Do you know me still, darling?'--'Yes,
I know and bless you, my dearest son ... peace and love ... glory
everlasting ... all sins and infirmities purged away ... rest ...
love ... glory ... reign for ever ... _see Christ_.

"'Oh, be ready!

"'Mary and Arthur and Kate and Emmie and Mamie, faithful servants
of Christ, to meet me there in His kingdom.

"'Let peace and love remain with you always. This is my great wish,
peace and love ... peace and love.'

"After saying this, my mother solemnly folded her trembling hands
together on her breast, and looking up to heaven, said, 'Oh, Lord
Jesus, come quickly, and may all these meet me again in Thy
kingdom!' As she said this, my darling's eyes seemed fixed upon
another world.

"After this I begged the others to leave me alone with her, and
then my dearest one said to me, 'Yes, darling, our love for one
another on earth is coming to an end now. We have loved one another
very deeply. I don't know how far communion will be still possible,
but I soon _shall_ know; and if it be possible, I shall still be
always near you. I shall so love to see and know all you are doing,
and to watch over you; and when you hear a little breeze go
rustling by, you must think it is the old Mother still near you....
You will do all I wish, darling, I know. I need not write, you
will carry out all my wishes.'--'Yes, dearie,' I said, 'it will be
my only comfort when you are gone to do all you would have wished.
I will always stay at Holmhurst, darling, and I will continue going
to Alton, and I will do everything else I can think of that you
would like.'

"'Yes, and you must try to conquer self ... to serve God here, and
then we may be together again in heaven.... Oh, we _must_ be
together again there.'

"Lea now came in, and my darling stroked her face while she sobbed
convulsively. 'Your long work is done at last,' Mother said; 'I
have been a great trouble to you both, and perhaps it is as well I
should be taken away now, for I am quite worn out. Tell John and
all of them that I am sorry to leave them, but perhaps it was for
the best; for this is not an illness; it is that I am worn out....
You and Augustus will stay together and comfort one another when I
am gone, and you will bear with one another's infirmities and help
one another. The great thing of all is to be able to confess that
one has been in the wrong. Oh, peace and love, peace and love,
these are the great things.'

"'Have I been a good child to you, dearest?' I said. 'Oh, yes,
indeed--dear and good, dear and good; a little wilful perhaps you
used to be, but not lately; you have been all good to me
lately--dear and good.'--('Yes, that he has,' said Lea.)--'Faithful
and good,' my darling repeated, 'both of you faithful and good.'

"Charlotte now came in. 'Here is Charlotte.'--'Dear Charlotte! Oh
yes, I know you. I do not know whether there will be any
communication where I am going, but if there is, I shall be very
near you. I am going to rest ... rest everlasting. Be a mother to
my child. Comfort him when I am gone ... give him good advice....
You know what suggestions I should make.... You will say to him
what I should say ... and if he could have a good wife, that would
be the best thing ... for what would you do, my child, in this
lonely world?... No, a good wife, that is what I wish for you--a
good wife and a family home.

"'And now I should like to speak to kind Mrs. Woodward' (she came
in). 'Thank you so much; you have been very good and kind to me,
dear Mrs. Woodward. I am going fast to my heavenly home. I have
said all I meant to have written all the time I have been ill, and
have never been able ... my mouth has been opened that I might
speak.'"

"7 A.M. _March 3._--'Oh, it is quite beautiful. Good-bye, my own
dearest! I cannot believe that you will look up into the clouds and
think that I am only there ... but you will also see me in the
flowers and in my friends, and in all that I have loved.'

"8 A.M.--With the morning light my dearest Mother has seemed to
become more rapt in holy thoughts and visions, her eyes more
intently fixed on the unseen world. At last, with a look of rapture
she has exclaimed, 'Oh, angels, I see angels!' and since then pain
seems to have left her.

"8-1/2 A.M.--(To Lea.) 'You will take care of him and comfort him,
as you have always taken care of me: you have been a dear servant
to me.'--'Yes,' said Lea, 'I will always stay with him and take
care of him as long as I live. I took care of your dear husband,
and I have taken care of you, and I will take care of him as long
as he wants me.' 'Darling sweet,' I said to her. 'Yes, darling
sweet,' she repeated, with inexpressible tenderness. 'I always hear
the tender words you say to me, dear, even in my dreams.' Then she
said also to Mrs. Woodward, 'You have been very kind to us; you
will comfort Augustus when he is left desolate: you know what
sorrow is, you have gone through the valley.... It seems so much
worse for others than for me.... For then I shall begin really to
live.'

"All this time my darling lay with her eyes upturned and an
expression of rapt beatitude. The nurse says that in her forty
years' nursing she never saw any one like this, so quiet, so happy.
'Nothing ever puts her out or makes her complain: I never saw
anything like it.'[368]

"8-1/2 A.M.--'It is very difficult to _realise_ that when you are
absent from the body you are present with the Lord.'

"10 A.M.--Dr. Grilli says she may live till evening, even possibly
into the night. She has just said, a little wandering, 'You know in
a few days some pretty sweet violets will come up, and that will be
all that will be left to you of the dear Mother.'

"11-1/2 A.M.--She has taken leave of Emma Simpkinson and Miss
Garden. When I came in she took my hand and said, 'And you,
darling, I shall always think of you, and you will think of me. I
shall spring up again like the little violets, and I shall put on
an incorruptible body. I shall be always floating over you and
watching over you somehow: we shall never be separated; and my body
will rest beside that of my dear husband. So strange it should be
here; perhaps, if it had been anywhere else, I might have wished to
get better, but as it was here, the temptation was too great. I am
quite worn out. I thought I could not get better after my last
illness, and I _was_ given back to you for a little while, though I
have always felt very weak, but I shall be quite well now.'

"10 A.M. _March 4._--All night she wandered gently, saying that she
would 'go out and play with the little children; for there can be
nothing bad amongst very little children.' In the morning Charlotte
still thought there was a chance of her rallying, but Emma
Simpkinson and I both think her sinking, and Dr. Grilli says that
'sussulti tendinósi' of the pulses have come on, and that there is
not the slightest hope. It can probably only be two hours, though
it may last till evening. He has formally taken leave, saying that
medicine is useless, and that it is no use for him to return any
more. Since the early morning my darling has been lying with her
hand in mine, leaning her head against mine on the pillow, her eyes
turned upwards, her lips constantly moving in inarticulate prayer.
She has asked, 'What day is it? I think it is my birthday to-day.'
I have not told her it is her father's birthday, as I believe it
will be her own birthday in heaven.

"11 A.M.--She has again appeared to be at the last extremity.
Raising her eyes to heaven and taking my hand, she has prayed
fervently but inaudibly. Then she prayed audibly for blessings for
me and Lea, and, with a grateful look to Emma, added, 'And for dear
Emma too.'

"1 P.M.--She wandered a little, and asked if the battle was over.
'Yes,' said Lea, 'and the victory won.'

"1-1/2 P.M.--'I am all straight now, no more crookedness.... You
must do something, dear, to build yourself up; you must be a good
deal pulled down by all this.... Rest now, but work, work for God
in life.

"'Don't expect too much good upon earth.

"'Don't expect too much perfection in one another.

"'Work for eternity.

"'Only try for love.

"2 P.M.--'Oh, how happy I am! I have everything I want here and
hereafter.'

"2.10.--(With eyes uplifted and hands clasped.) ... 'Living water.
The Lamb, the Lamb is the life.'

"2.15.--C. L. repeated at her request 'Abide with me, fast falls
the eventide.'

"2.30.--The dear Mother herself, with her changed voice, clasped
hands, and uplifted eyes, has repeated the hymn 'Just as I am,
without one plea.'

"3 P.M.--'I am glad I am not going to stay. I could not do you any
more good, and I am _so_ happy.'

"4 P.M.--(With intense fervour.) 'O God, O God! God alone can
save--one and eternal. Amen! Amen!'

"4.15.--'Let us be one in heaven, dear, as we are one on earth.'

"4.30.--'Oh, let me go.... I have said I was ready to go so often,
but you won't give me up.' I said, 'I think you had better try to
sleep a little now, darling.'--'Yes, but let it be the last: I have
had so many, many last sleeps.'--'You are in no pain now, dearie?'
I said. 'Oh no, no pain; there is no pain on the borderland of
heaven.

"'May He who ruleth all, both in heaven and earth, bless you, my
child--bless you and keep you from ill. Love, love, perfect love,
love on earth and then love in heaven.... I can hear words from the
upper world now and none from the nearer. They have taught me
things that were dark to me before.'

"5 P.M.--'Peace be with you, peace and love.

"'Sin below, grace above.

"'We sinners below, Christ above.

"'All love, all truth in Jesus Christ, my Lord and my God.'