Chapter XV: Last Years with the Mother (2)

"_33 Via Gregoriana, Rome, Jan. 19, 1870._--You will have heard
from others of our misfortunes at Pisa, of Mother's terrible
illness, and my wearing pains, and in the midst of all this our
awful floods, the Arno bursting its banks and overwhelming the
unhappy town with its mud-laden waves. I cannot describe to you the
utter horror of those three days and nights--the rushing water
(waves like the sea) lifting the carpets and dashing the large
pieces of furniture into bits like so many chips,--the anxious
night-watchings of the water stealthily advancing up step after
step of the staircase,--the view from the upper corridor windows of
the street with its rushing _tourbillon_ of waters, carrying
drowning animals, beds, cabinets, gates, &c., along in a hideous
confusion;--from our windows of the garden one maze of waters
afloat with chairs, tables, open boxes, china, and drowned
creatures;--the sound of the falling walls heavily gliding into the
water, and the cries of the drowning and their relations. And then,
in the hotel, the life was so strange, the limited rations of food
and of water from the washing jugs, and the necessity for rousing
oneself to constant action, and far more than mere cheerfulness, in
order to prevent the poor people of the hotel from sinking into
absolute despair.

"When the real danger to life once subsided and the poor drowned
people had been carried away to their graves, and the water had
changed into mud, it was a strange existence, and we had still six
weeks in the chilled house with its wet walls, and an impossibility
of going out or having change. However, there is a bright side to
everything, and the utter isolation was not unpleasant to me. I got
through no end of writing work, having plenty also to do in
attending on my poor Mother; and you know how I can never
sufficiently drink in the blessedness of her sweet companionship,
and how entirely the very fact of her existence makes sunshine in
my life, wherever it is.

"All the time of our incarceration I have employed in writing from
the notes of our many Roman winters, which were saved in our
luggage, and which have been our only material of employment. It
seems as if 'Walks in Rome' would some day grow into a book. Mother
thinks it presumptuous, but I assure her that though of course it
will be full of faults, no book would ever be printed if perfection
were waited for. And I really do know much more about the subject
than most people, though of course not half as much as I ought to
know.

"One day I was away at Florence, where I saw Lady Anne S. Giorgio
and many other friends in a very short time. How bright and busy it
looked after Pisa.

"Last week Pisa devoted itself, or rather its priests, to intense
Madonna-worship, because, owing to her image, carved by St. Luke,
the flood was no worse. Her seven petticoats, unremoved for years,
were taken off one by one and exchanged for new, and this delicious
event was celebrated by firing of cannon, processions, and
illuminations all over the town. In the midst, the Arno displayed
its disapproval by rising again violently and suddenly; the utmost
consternation ensued; the population sat up, doors were walled up,
the doll-worshippers were driven out of the cathedral (which lies
very low) at the point of the bayonet by the Bersaglieri under
General Bixio. To _us_, the great result of the fresh fright was,
that the Mother suddenly rose from her bed, and declaring that she
could not stay to endure another inundation, dressed, and we all
set off last Wednesday morning, and arrived at midnight after a
prosperous journey, though the floods were certainly frightful up
to the very walls of Rome.

"Oh, how glad we were to get here--to feel that after all the
troubles of the last few months we were safe in the beloved, the
home-like city. It is now only that I realise what a time of
tension our stay at Pisa has been. We breathe quietly. Even the
calm placid Mother feels the relief of not having to start up at
every sound and wonder whether 'L'Arno é sbordato.'

"I always feel as if a special Providence watched over us in
respect of lodgings. It has certainly been so this time, as we
could never have hoped, arriving so late, to obtain this charming
apartment, with full sun, glorious view, and all else we can wish.
You can fancy us, with all our own pictures and books, the mother
in her chair, the son at his drawing-table, and Lea coming in and
out.

"But on Friday we had a terrible catastrophe. In the evening at the
hotel the poor Mother fell violently upon her head on the hard
stone floor and was dreadfully hurt. You will imagine my terror,
having gone out at 8 P.M., to find every one in confusion on my
return, that Dr. Winslow had been sent for, and that I had been
searched for everywhere. For some hours the Mother was quite
unconscious, and she can still see nothing, and I am afraid it will
be some days before any sight is restored; but all is going on
well, and I am most thankful to have been able to move her to her
own house.

"Do you know, I am going to renounce the pomps and vanities of the
world this winter and not 'go out' at all. I have often found that
it has rather fatigued Mother even to _hear_ of my going out, and
it is far easier to give a thing up altogether than partially. In
the daytime I can see people. My American friend Robert Peabody is
here, and the most delightful companion, and there are endless
young men artists, quite a colony, and of the pleasantest
description.

"The weather is very fine, but very cold. I went to-day to St.
Peter's (Il Giorno della Scatola), and the procession was certainly
magnificent. The Bishop who attracts most attention is Monsignor
Dupanloup of Orleans, who at first displayed great courage in
opposing the Infallibility doctrine, but is allowing his opposition
to be swamped. Many of the Bishops are most extraordinary--such a
variety of forms and colours in costume, blue and violet veils,
green robes and hats, and black caps with gold knobs like the
little Shems and Hams in Noah's Ark. But the central figure of Pius
IX. looks more than ever solemn and impressive, the _man_ so lost
in his intense feeling of the _office_, that it is impossible to
associate him, mentally, with the Council and its blasphemies. Of
the Council itself we hear nothing, and there is little general
interest about it. Lord Houghton asked Manning what had been going
on: he answered, 'Well, we meet, and we look at one another, and
then we talk a little, but when we want to know what we have been
doing, we read the _Times_.'"

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Jan. 31._--We have had another anxious week, though once more all
is going on well. On Monday the Mother was well enough to see
visitors, but that night was in terrible suffering, and the next
day had a slight paralytic seizure ... followed by long
unconsciousness; but it was all accounted for the next morning when
we found the roof white with snow. She continued in great suffering
till Friday, when the weather suddenly changed to _scirocco_, and
she at once rallied. That day I was able to have my lecture on the
Quirinal and Viminal--all new ground. There was a large gathering
in spite of weather, so many people had asked to come. I have
yielded to the general wish of the party in arranging weekly
meetings at 10 A.M., but it makes me feel terribly ignorant,
and--in the intervals of tending Mother--I am at work all the week
instructing myself upon the subject of my lecture."

"_Feb. 19._--The Mother is still sadly weak, and always in an
invalid state, yet she has not the serious symptoms of the winter
you were here. She is seldom able to be dressed before twelve, and
can do very, very little--to read a few verses or do a row of her
crotchet is the outside. I scarcely ever leave her, except for my
lectures. I had one on the Island yesterday. The weather is
splendid and our view an indescribable enjoyment, the town so
picturesque in its blue morning indistinctness, and St. Peter's so
grand against the golden sunsets. As usual, the Roman society is
like the great net which was let down into the deep and brought up
fish of every kind.... The Mother is quite happy and bright in
spite of all her misfortunes, but we have had to feed her like a
bird in her blindness. I wonder if you know the lines of Thomas
Dekker (1601)--

'Patience! why, 'tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about Him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;
The first true gentleman that ever breathed."

_To_ MISS WRIGHT.

"_Rome, Feb. 27._--My life this winter has been one of constant
watching and nursing; the Mother has been so very powerless and
requires such constant care: but she is, oh! so sweet and patient
_always_. You need not pity me for not going out; after the day's
anxiety I find the luxury of the evening's rest so very great.

"My Friday lectures now take place regularly, and I hope they give
pleasure, as they are certainly crowded. I am amused to see many
ultra-Catholics come time after time, in spite of my Protestant
anecdotes. How I wish the kind Aunt Sophy were here to share these
excursions."

On the 12th of March I spent a delightful afternoon with a young artist friend, Henry Florence, in the garden of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, drawing the gloriously rich vegetation and the old cypresses there. My Mother was tolerably well, and the air, the sunshine, and the beauty around were unspeakably enchanting. "I never saw _any one_ enjoy things as you do," said Florence, and I spoke of my thankfulness for having the power of putting away anxieties when they were not pressing, and of making the utmost of any present enjoyment, even though it be to "borrow joy at usury of pain."[409] "Perhaps it may be the last day," I said. It _was_. There is an old proverb which says, "The holidays of joy are the vigils of sorrow." That night my dearest Mother had the terrible paralytic seizure which deprived her of the use of her left arm and side, and from which she never recovered.

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Rome, March. 16, 1870._--My darling Mother is to-day in a happy
peaceful state, no longer one of suffering, which is--oh! such rest
to us. She is now able to articulate, so that I always, and others
often, understand her.... I sleep close by upon the floor and never
leave her. On Monday night we were pleasantly surprised by the
arrival of Amabile, the maid from Pisa, who is quite a tower of
strength to us--so kind, gentle, and strong. Mrs. Woodward comes
and goes all day. Every one is kind and sympathising."

"_March 23._--Mother talks constantly of Albano and her great wish
to be there amongst the flowers, but for many weeks, perhaps
months, this must be impossible."

"_March 28._--It has been the same kind of week, alternately
saddened by the strange phases of illness, or cheered by slight
amendments; but Mother has had many sad nights, always worse than
her days, without rest even for a minute. Her mind is only _too_
clear. She will translate hymns, 'Abide with me,' &c., into
Italian; the great difficulty is to keep it all in check. From 4 to
10 P.M. the nervous spasms in the paralysed arm are uncontrollable,
and she can only endure them by holding tight to my arm or Lea's.
All yesterday, however, I was away from her, tending poor young
Sutherland, who has been dreadfully ill at the Hôtel de Londres of
typhoid fever, and who is quite alone and helpless."

"_April 3._--The Mother goes on very slowly, but I hope has not had
an unpleasant week. She never seems to find the time long, and
always looks equally placid and happy. Physically she is certainly
more comfortable now she is entirely in bed. Her chief trouble is
from the returning vitality of the poor arm; the muscles knot all
round it, and move on slowly by a quarter of an inch at a time, as
the life advances: passing the shoulder was agony, and I dread the
passing the elbow. Meantime, the rest of the arm is an independent
being, acting by its independent muscular action, and is obliged to
be constantly watched, as it will sometimes lay its heavy weight
upon her chest, once clutched her by the throat and nearly
strangled her, at others annoys her by stealing her
pocket-handkerchiefs! She has been able to hear a psalm and some
prayers read aloud every evening, and occupies herself with her own
inexhaustible stores of mental hymns and verses incessantly. Mrs.
Woodward's daily visit is one of her little pleasures, and she has
also seen Mrs. Hall several times.

"My young cousin Edward Liddell[410] returned lately from Naples,
and on Monday became very ill of fever, pronounced typhoid, and
likely to become typhus and very infectious, so, as he had no one
else to look after him, I have been nursing him ever since. It was
so fortunate for me that Mother was really better at this time, or
I do not know what we could have done, as though he had one good
nurse, she was quite worn out, and there was no other to be
procured. So now we take it in turns, four hours at a time, and I
chiefly at night, when she goes home to her children. I am writing
in the darkened room, where Edward lies powerless, with all his
hair cut off and his head soaked in wet towels, almost unable to
move, and unable to feed himself. I am sorry not to be able to go
out while Marcus Hare is here, and he is much disappointed. He
arrived suddenly from Naples and embraced me as if we were still
children."

"_April 10._--My dear Mother is much the same. It has been a
peaceful week with her, though there is no improvement.... The
paralysed arm is quite useless, and has a separate and ungovernable
individuality. This is why she can never be left alone. Its weight
is like a log of lead, and sometimes it will throw itself upon her,
when no efforts of her own can release her. Odd as it sounds, her
only safe moments are when the obstreperous member is tied up by a
long scarf to the post of Lea's bed opposite and cannot injure her.
Mentally, she is always quiet and happy, and I believe that she
never feels her altered life a burden. She repeats constantly her
hymns and verses, for which her memory is wonderful, but she has no
longer any power of attention to reading and no consecutive ideas.
All names of places and people she remembers perfectly. As Dr.
Winslow says, some of the organs of the brain are clearer than
ever, others are quite lost.

"As the fear of infection caused him to be left alone, I have been
constantly nursing Edward Liddell. All last week his fever
constantly increased, and he was so weak that he could only swallow
drops of strong soup or milk, perpetually dropped into his mouth
from a spoon. Had this been ever relinquished, the feeble flame of
life must have become extinct. Last Monday morning I had gone home
to rest, when the doctor hastily summoned me back, and I found new
symptoms which indicated the most immediate danger; so then, on my
own responsibility, I telegraphed for Colonel and Mrs. Augustus
Liddell (his father and mother), and soon had the comfort of
hearing that they were _en route_. That evening the alarming
symptoms returned with such frightful vehemence that both nurse and
doctor thought it impossible that he could survive the night. Then
and for three nights after I never left Edward for a moment,
bathing his head, feeding him, holding him, and expecting him every
instant to die in my arms, and in the day only I returned to pay
Mother visits. Anything like his sweetness, gentleness,
thankfulness, I never saw in any one, and his perfect readiness for
heaven made us feel that it was the less likely that his life would
be given back to us; and you may imagine, though I had scarcely
known him before, how very close a cousinly tie has been drawn in
these hours of anguish. He received the Sacrament on Thursday. On
Friday there was a very slight improvement, but more delirium. For
four days and nights he lay under a vast poultice of snow, which
had to be replenished as often as it melted, and _making_ snow with
a machine has been perhaps the most laborious part of my duties.
Each night I have watched for the faint streak of dawn, wondering
if he _could_ live till morning, and feeling as if I were wrestling
for his life. Yesterday morning, when I knew his parents were
coming, it was quite an agony of suspense; but they arrived safe,
and I was able to give him up _living_ to his mother's care. I have
had every day to write to Mrs. Fraser Tytler, to whose daughter
Christina he had not been engaged a month, and of whom he has
thought touchingly and incessantly.

"I am not much knocked up, but thankful even for myself that Mrs.
Augustus Liddell is come, as my cough is so much increased by
having to be so often out on the balcony at night, up to my elbows
in the snow manufacturing. I do not think I could have held out
much longer, and then I do not know what would have become of
Edward."

]

"_April 17._--Last Sunday I had so much more cough, and was so much
knocked up with my week's nursing, that kind Lady Marian Alford
insisted on taking me early on Monday in her own carriage to Albano
for change. It was like travelling with the Queen, everything so
luxurious, charming rooms, and perfect devotion everywhere to 'la
gran donna da bene,' her personal charm affecting all classes
equally.

"Lady Marian had a very pleasant party at Albano, Lord and Lady
Bagot and their daughter, Mr. Story,[412] Miss Boyle,[413] Miss
Hattie Hosmer,[414] and Mr.[415] and Lady Emily Russell. The first
afternoon we drove along the lake to Lariccia, where we went all
over the wonderful old Chigi palace, and then on to the Cesarini
garden at Genzano, overhanging the lake of Nemi. The next morning
we went to the Parco di Colonna and Marino, and then in a
tremendous thunderstorm to Frascati, where we dined in the old
Campana Palace, returning to Rome in the evening. I like Mr. Odo
Russell and his simple massive goodness extremely. I hear that Pius
IX. says of him, 'Non é un buono cattolico, ma é un cattivissimo
protestante.' Miss Hosmer had said to him, 'You're growing too fat:
you ought to come out riding; it will do you no end of good;' to
which he replied in his slow way, 'No, I cannot come out
riding.'--'And why not?' said Miss Hosmer. 'Don't you know,' he
said, 'that I am very anxious to be made an ambassador as soon as
possible, and, since that is the case, I must stay working at
home.'

"'I like midges, for they love Venice, and they love humanity,'
said Miss Mary Boyle.

"On Wednesday, finding both my patients better, I acceded to
Marcus's entreaties and went with him and some friends of his to
Tivoli for the day. Most gloriously lovely was it looking! My
companions scrambled round the waterfalls, whilst I sat and what
Robert Peabody calls 'water-coloured' opposite the Cascatelle. In
the evening we went to the Villa d'Este and saw the sun set upon
the grand old palace through its dark frame of cypresses.

"This morning I went for the first time to see the bishops of the
Council; rather a disappointing sight, though they are a fine set
of old men. Some of the American costumes are magnificent.

"Monday is the end of Edward's twenty-one days' fever, and I am
still very anxious for the result. As he says, I feel rather, since
the arrival of his parents, like a hen who has nursed a duckling
which has escaped: but I go every day to look at him."

"_April 30._--It is no use worrying oneself about the journey yet.
It must always be painful and anxious. On returning to America, Dr.
Winslow's last words to me were, 'Remember, if she has _any_
fright, _any_ accident, _any_ anxiety, there will be another
seizure,' and in so long a journey this can scarcely be evaded. She
must have more strength before we can think of it. Her own earnest
wish is to go to Albano first, but I dread those twelve miles
extra. We always had this house till May 15, and hitherto there
has been no heat.

]

"On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, Mother was carried down by two
women in her dressing-gown, wrapped round with shawls, to a little
carriage at the door. They were perfectly still sunny days, no
bronchitis to be caught. The first day we only went round the
Pincio, the second to the Parco di San Gregorio, the third to the
Lateran and Santa Croce: she chose her own two favourite drives.

JOURNAL.

"_May 3, 1870._--Walked with Miss J. Pole Carew and her governess
from the Villa Albani to Sant' Agnese to look for the blood-red
lily, seven feet high, which smells so terribly that no one is able
to pick it. The governess (Miss Nicholson) said how the twisted
palms carried in the Roman Catholic ceremonies seemed to her like a
type of their faith. So much would be beautiful and impressive in
the lives of the martyrs and the memories of the early Church, if,
like the palms, so beautiful when they are first brought to Rome,
they were not twisted and overladen, to the hiding and destruction
of their original character."

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_May 8._--Last Sunday we drove to the Villa Borghese, which is now
in its fullest most luxuriant summer green. When we came back, the
Tombola was taking place in the Piazza del Popolo, so that gate was
closed, and we had to go round by Porta Salara. The slight
additional distance was too much for Mother, so that she has been
unable to be up even in her chair for several days. This will show
you how weak she is: how terrible the return journey is to look
forward to.

"She certainly never seems to realise her helplessness, or to find
out that she can no longer knit or do the many things she is
accustomed to.... She likes hearing Job read, because of the
analogy of sufferings, but she does not _at all_ admire Job as a
model of patience! Hymns are her delight, and indeed her chief
occupation. She has great pleasure in the lovely flowers with
which our poorer friends constantly supply us, especially in the
beautiful roses and carnations of the faithful Maria de Bonis (the
old photograph woman), who is as devoted as ever."

"_May 15._--The weather has been perfect. In all our foreign or
home experience I do not recollect such weeks of hot sunshine, yet
never oppressive; such a delicious bracing air always. The flowers
are quite glorious, and our poor people--grateful as only Italians
are--keep the sick-room constantly supplied with them.

"But, alas! it has been a very sad week nevertheless, and if I once
allowed myself to think of it, my heart would sink within me. My
dearest Mother has been so very, _very_ suffering; in fact, there
have been very few hours free from acute pain, and, in spite of her
sweet patience and her natural leaning towards only thanksgiving,
her groans and wails have been most sad and the flesh indeed a
burden.... You will easily imagine what it is to me to see this
state of intense discomfort, and to be able to do nothing to
relieve it; for I am quite convinced that nothing can be done, that
medicine must be avoided as much as possible in her worn-out
system, and that we must trust entirely to the effect of climate
and to a returning power of taking nourishment. Dr. Grigor told her
that it was a case of most suffering paralysis, usually producing
such dreadful impatience that he wondered at her powers of
self-control. But from my sweetest Mother, we never hear one word
which is not of perfect patience and faith and thanksgiving,
though her prayers aloud for patience are sometimes too touching
for us to bear. She has not been out for ten days, as she has
really had no strength to bear the lifting up and down stairs, and
she has seen nobody except our dear Mrs. Woodward and Mary
Stanley."

_To_ MISS WRIGHT.

"_Rome, May 22, 1870._--The Mother can recover no power in her lost
limbs, in which she has, nevertheless, acute pain. Yet, deprived of
every employment and never free from suffering, life is to her one
prolonged thanksgiving, and in the sunshine of her blessed state of
outpouring gratitude for the silver linings of her clouds, it is
not for her nurses to repine. In her case daily more true become
the lines of Waller--

'The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.'

But when even her short excursions to the Pincio or Villa Borghese
produce the most intense exhaustion, no stranger can imagine how we
can dream of attempting the immense homeward journey. Still,
knowing her wonderful power of will and what it _has_ accomplished,
I never think anything impossible, and all minor details of
difficulty become easier when one has a fixed point of what must
be. We shall at any rate try to reach Florence, and then, if she
suffers seriously and further progress is quite impossible, we
shall be on the way to Lucca or Siena. If we ever do reach
Holmhurst, of course it will be for _life_, which makes the leaving
this more than second home very sad to me.

]

"I have had many pleasant friends here this winter, especially the
Pole Carews, who are a most charming family. Latterly also I have
seen much of Mrs. Terry, who is a very interesting and delightful
person. Since the world has drifted northwards, I have seen more of
the few friends who remain, and with the Terrys have even
accomplished a very old desire of going to Bracciano. It is a
beautiful drive across the Campagna, and then comes the ascent into
the steep old town, and under the many gates and fortalices of the
castle, to a courtyard with painted loggias. Armed with an order
from Princess Odescalchi, we went all over the rooms with their
curious ugly old pictures and carving, and sat in the balconies
looking down upon the beautiful transparent Bracciano lake, twenty
miles in circumference, all the mountains reflected as in a mirror.
Mrs. Terry is charming: after we had talked of sad subjects she
said--'But we have spoken enough of these things; now let us talk
of butterflies and flowers.' In spite of all other work, I have
sold £75 worth of sketches this winter, chiefly old ones, so am
nearly able to pay our rent."

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Rome, May 26, 1870._--The Mother is better for the great heat,
thermometer standing at 85°, but Rome always has such a fresh air
that heat is never overpowering, and in our delightful apartments
we never suffer, as we can have so much variety, and if Mother does
not go out, she is moved to the balcony overhanging the little
garden at the back, where she sits and has her tea under a
vine-covered pergola. If we are permitted to reach Holmhurst, I
fear _all_ will not be benefit. I much dread the difficulty there
will be in keeping Lea from being wholly engrossed again by
household affairs, and I cannot see how Mother _could_ do without
her almost constant attendance, which she has now. Also, we shall
greatly miss the large bedroom opening into a sitting-room, where I
can pursue my avocations, able to be with her at the faintest call,
and yet not quite close to the groans.... But all this is long,
long looking forward: there seems such a gulf between us and
England.... Yet we think of attempting the move next week, and on
Friday sent off six large boxes with the accumulations of many
years, retaining also a list of what must be sent back if we never
reach England.

"The Signorina and Samuccia, Clementina and Louisa, Rosina and
Madame da Monaca, have all been to say good-bye, and all kiss
Mother with tears on taking leave, overcome by her helpless state
and sweet look of patience."

"_May_ 29.--Emmie Penrhyn's letter was an especial pleasure to the
Mother, and what she said of the centurion's servant, grievously
'tormented.' Certainly _she_ is grievously tormented. The pain
really never ceases, and the individual motion of the helpless arm
is terrible.... I think with misery of the disappointment the
return to Holmhurst will be to her. She cannot realise that it will
not be, as it has always been, the home of her _well_ months, talks
of how she shall 'frolic out into the garden,' &c. I feel if we
ever reach it, it is going, not to England, but to Holmhurst for
_life_.... We have been to the cemetery under Caius Cestius, and
the sentinel allowed her little carriage to pass across the turf,
so that she was able to look once more upon the well-known grave,
embosomed in its roses and aloes. Yesterday we went to take leave
of the old Miss Haigs at their beautiful villa. The three old
ladies embraced Mother, and presented her, like three good fairies,
one with roses, another with geraniums, and the third with two ripe
strawberries."

"_Florence, June 1._--Monday was a terribly fatiguing day, but
Mother remained in bed, and was very composed, only anxious that
nothing should occur to prevent our departure, and to prove to us
that she was well enough. At five Mrs. Woodward came and sat by her
whilst Lea and I were occupied with last preparations. At 7 P.M.
Mother was carried down and went off in a little low carriage with
Mrs. Woodward and Lea, and I followed in a large carriage with Miss
Finucane and the luggage. There was quite a collection of our
poorer friends to see Mother off and kiss hands. At the railway the
faithful Maria de Bonis was waiting, and she and Mrs. Woodward
stayed with Mother and saw her carried straight through to the
railway _coupé_ which was secured for us. We felt deeply taking
leave of the kindest of friends, who has been such a comfort and
blessing to us, certainly, next to you, the chief support of
Mother's later years. 'Oh, _how_ beautiful it will be when the
gates which are now ajar are quite open!' were her last words to
Mother.

]

"The carriage was most comfortable.... Mother slept a little, and
though she wailed occasionally, was certainly no worse than on
ordinary nights. The dawn was lovely over the rich Tuscan valleys,
so bright with corn and vines, tall cypresses, and high villa
roofs. She was carried straight through to a carriage, and soon
reached the succursale of the Alleanza, where the people know us
and are most kind. In the afternoon she slept, and I drove up to
Fiesole, where I had not been for twelve years, with Mr. and Mrs.
Cummings, American friends."

"_Bologna, June 5._--I fear, after my last, you will be grievously
disappointed to hear of us as no farther on our way. We can,
however, only tell from hour to hour how soon we may be able to get
on, and I find it entirely useless to make plans of any kind, as we
are sure not to be able to keep them. On Tuesday a great
thunderstorm prevented our leaving Florence, and on Wednesday and
Thursday Mother was in such terrible suffering that it was
impossible to think of it. On Friday evening there was a rally, and
we came on at once, Mrs. Dallas helping us through the difficulties
of the Florence Station, and Mr. and Mrs. Cummings following us
here. I think I mentioned that Dr. Grigor said travelling at night,
when there was no sun, was the only chance of her reaching England
alive. Mother begs I will tell Charlotte that 'No words can
describe her sufferings or my anxieties, but that she has been
brought through wonderfully hitherto, and that she still hopes to
reach England--_in time_.'"

JOURNAL.

"_Bologna, June 5._--Mr. Cummings says the great Church of S.
Petronio here reminds him of the great Church universal--so vast
the space, and so many chapels branching off, all so widely divided
that in each a separate sermon and doctrine might be preached
without distressing its neighbour, while yet all meet in the
centre in one common whole, the common Church of Christ.

]

"An old American lady in the train had passed a summer at
Vallombrosa. She said it was a place where to live was _life_ and
where one could be happy when one was _unhappy_."

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Susa, June 8, 1870._--The Mother continued in a most terribly
suffering state all the time we were at Bologna--agonies of pain
which gave no rest. Yesterday afternoon it was so intense that she
implored me to try the railway as a counter-irritant, and we set
off at half-past ten at night. But the train shook fearfully, and
the journey was absolute torture to her. We have never had such a
painful time. Lea and I were obliged to sit on the floor by turns,
holding the poor hand, and trying to animate her courage to bear
up, but her cries were terrible. We reached Turin at 5 A.M., where,
in spite of all promises to the contrary, she had to be carried all
round the station; but fortunately for the next hour the train was
easier and she suffered less. She was carried by two men out of the
station, and down the wet muddy road here, where she has a good
room, and soon fell asleep from exhaustion. We arrived at 6.30
A.M., and shall stay till to-morrow morning. Her state is certainly
one of incomparably more suffering than at Rome, and she feels the
change of climate dreadfully."

"_Aix-les-Bains, June 9._--Last night, to my great relief, Colonel
and Mrs. Cracroft and Miss Wilson arrived at Susa, and were the
greatest possible help to us. We had obtained a _permesso_ for the
Mother to be taken straight through to the Fell railway carriage,
and her little procession started at 7 A.M., and she was carried
from her bed to her seat in the railway. The Cracrofts sat all
round us in the carriage, which was much better than strangers, and
Miss Wilson was most kind in keeping her hands bathed with eau de
Cologne, &c. She suffered much for the first two hours, but the
train was wonderfully smooth and easy, so that really the dreaded
Mont Cenis was the least distressing part of the journey. About the
middle of the pass she revived a little, and noticed the flowers,
which were lovely--such gentianellas, auriculas, large golden
lilies, &c. At S. Michel she bore the being carried about
tolerably, so we were able to come on here, and arrived about four.
Mother desires I will say to Charlotte, 'Hitherto the Lord hath
helped me.'"

"_Macon, June 12._--No farther on our way than this. Mother was
rather less suffering on Friday, and she bore the move from Aix and
the dreaded change at Culoz better than we expected, but in the
latter part of our four hours' journey she was fearfully exhausted,
and arrived here (at the hotel looking out on the Saone and the
wide-stretching poplar plains) in a sad state.... It is impossible
to move on yet.

"Yesterday, while she was sleeping, I drove to Cluny, the queen of
French abbeys. A great deal is left, and it is a most interesting
and beautiful place. I also saw Lamartine's little château of
Monceaux, described in his 'Confidences.' All his things and his
library were being sold under the chestnut-trees in front of the
house. I just came up in time to buy the old apple-green silk
quilt[420] from the bed of his saint-like mother, described in 'Le
Manuscrit de ma Mère.'"

]

"_Montbard, June 13._--Mother was so anxious to attempt coming on,
that we left Macon at half-past eleven to-day, arriving here at
four. To our dismay, when she had been taken out of the carriage
and laid flat upon the platform, and the train had gone off, we
found the station hotel closed. However, she was well carried on a
chair down a lane to the so-called Hôtel de la Poste--an
old-fashioned farm-house in a garden of roses; everything clean,
pretty, and quaint; no sound but cocks and hens crowing and
cackling; delicious farm-house bread, butter, and milk. Montbard is
the place where Buffon lived in a very picturesque old château and
gardens. Mother seems revived by the intense quiet and fresh
country air. The old landlord and his wife are quite pictures--such
clever, kind old faces, reminding one of La Sarte in 'Citoyenne
Jacqueline.'"

]

"_Paris, June 14._--This morning was like a respite! Mother lay so
quiet that I was actually able to draw as in the old days, which
now seem in the far distance; and I took a little carriage to the
lovely cloistered château of Fontenay, which I had long wished to
see, and where I had luncheon with the charming owner, Madame de
Montgolfier, and her two sons, people who own immense factories in
the valley and devote their whole lives to the good of their
workpeople. On my return I found Mother so far better that we could
prepare her for the one o'clock express. She had a bath-chair to
the station, and bore it well; but she was terribly tried by the
five hours' journey, and being very ill carried at Paris, arrived
at the hotel utterly prostrated. We _hope_ to go on to-morrow, but
all is most uncertain."

"_Dover Station, June 16._--We are here, with intense thankfulness.
Mother looked so ill and aged this morning we did not hope to move
her, but she had a sudden rally in the middle of the day, so at 6
P.M. we were able to prepare her, and had her carried through the
station to a carriage before the mob of people came.... We dreaded
arriving at Calais, but she was carried in an arm-chair to the
steamer, which was fortunately at the near quay and no steps. Of
course our little procession was the last to arrive, and every
place was taken; but Miss Charlotte Cushman,[423] who had
comfortably established herself in the cabin, with a calm dignity
which is irresistible at once directed the men to put Mother down
in her place, and went up on deck.

"The sea was like glass--lovely moonlight and sunrise, and we
seemed to be at Dover before we left Calais. A sailor carried
Mother in his arms to the railway carriage, in which we were
allowed to go as far as the station platform, and here we are. A
porter has fetched cups of tea, and we have four hours to wait.

"We shall be glad of a visit from you as early as you like to come
next week. I should not like you to defer coming long, as, though I
have no _special_ cause for apprehension, still in Mother's
critical state every day is precious. You will find her terribly
altered in all respects, though the mind and memory are quite clear
_at the moment_. None of her doctors give any hope whatever of
amendment; but you will understand the position much better when
you see it, only I am anxious that you should help me to face what
is inevitable, instead of striving after what cannot be. Let us
seek to alleviate suffering, not struggle after an impossible cure
which may hasten the end."

_To_ MISS WRIGHT.

"_Holmhurst, June 17._--I know you will truly rejoice with and
_for_ us that we have arrived in safety, and that my poor suffering
Mother has her great wish of seeing her little home once more. You
will imagine what the journey has been, as she is now utterly
helpless, nearly blind, and never free from acute suffering in the
spine and arm, which is often agony. At Rome it was generally
thought quite impossible that she could survive the journey, and
nothing but her faith and patience, and her self-control, have
enabled us to get through it. We never could make a plan, but just
seized the happy moment when she was a shade better, and at once
pushed on a step. She was, of course, carried everywhere, and
people were wonderfully kind; we had always somebody to go with us
and smooth the difficulties of the railway stations--either old
friends or people who were at my lectures at Rome and met us
accidentally.

"When we arrived, all the old servants were terribly overcome to
see their beloved mistress carried in so changed and helpless. She
is still very ill, but unspeakably thankful to be here, and to feel
that the journey is done. My life is, and must continue to be, one
of constant watching."

"_July 21._--Our letters are now our only intercourse with the
world beyond the gates of Holmhurst, which I never leave; but
indeed I can seldom leave the house before 8 P.M., when I walk
round the fields while Mother is prepared for the night. Though it
is now the only thing I ever think of, it is very difficult to
occupy and cheer her days, for she cannot bear any consecutive
reading. Sometimes I read, and tell her what I have read as a kind
of story. She is seldom up before 3 P.M., and then is carried down
to the lawn in her dressing-gown, and up again at four, when she is
sometimes able to look at a book for a few minutes. That which is
oftenest in her hand is the little 'Invalid's Friend' which you
gave her, and she desires me to tell you how often she finds
comfort in it.... For the last fortnight we have been entirely
alone, which has been really best for her, as, though she has
enjoyed seeing those she loved, each _departure_ has made her
worse.

"I write much at my 'Walks in Rome' in her room, and my ancient
history is so imperfect I have plenty to study, which acts as a
sort of mental tonic."

_From my_ JOURNAL (The Green Book).

"_June 26._--My darling often _talks_ to me in her hymns. To-night,
when I left her, she said with her lovely sweetness, 'Good-night,
darling.

"Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven your morn will bless."'

"'I never wish to leave you,' she said the other day. 'I never wish
for death; always remember that. I should like to stay with you as
long as I can.' And another day, 'I must call you "my
daughter-son," as Mrs. Colquhoun did hers: as long as I have you, I
suppose I can bear anything; but if you were taken away, or if I
had never had you, my life would be indeed desolate: I could not
have lived on.... I try so not to groan when you are here, you must
not grudge me a few groans when you are out of the room.'"

"_July 18._--'I had such a sweet dream of your Aunt Lucy last
night. I thought we were together again, and I said, "How I do miss
you!" and she said she was near me. I suppose I had been thinking
of--

"Saints in glory perfect made
Wait thine escort through the shade."

I think perhaps I had been thinking of that. Dear Aunt Lucy, how
she would have grieved to see me now!'"

"_July 19._--'Yes, I know the psalms; many in your Uncle Julius's
version too. Many a time it keeps me quiet for hours to know and
repeat them. I should never have got through my journey if I had
not had so many to repeat and to still the impatience.'"

_To_ MISS WRIGHT.

"_Holmhurst, July 31, 1870._--I continue to work on steadily at my
book in the sick-room. I have just got Murray's Roman Handbook, and
am amazed to see how much better it is than I expected; but I am
glad I have not seen it before, as, though I have already given
even all his newest information, I have told it so _oddly_
differently.

"The sweet Mother continues much the same. She is carried out each
fine afternoon to sit for an hour near the weeping ash-tree on the
lawn, and enjoys the sunshine and flowers.... In this quiet garden,
and never going beyond the gates, everything seems very _far_ off,
and I am beginning to have quite a sympathy with the hermits, and
to wonder the race does not continue: it is certainly more
reasonable than that of the monks. A great peace seems to have
fallen upon us. As I see my helpless Mother's quiet happiness, and
share it, I think of Richard Crashaw's lines--

'How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which Thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In Pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping!
Happy she who has the art
To awake them
And to take them
Home, and lodge them in her heart.'"

_From my_ JOURNAL (The Green Book).

"_August 8._--It is inexpressibly touching to me how Mother now
seems to have an insight into my past feelings which she never had
before, and to understand and sympathise with childish sufferings
which she never perceived at the time, or from which she would have
turned aside if she had perceived them. To-day, after her dinner,
she said most touchingly, watching till every one went away and
calling me close to her pillow--'I want to make my confession to
you, darling. I often feel I have never been half tender enough to
you. I feel it now, and I should like you to know it. You are such
a comfort and blessing to me, dearest, and I thought perhaps I
might die suddenly, and never have told you so. I cannot bear your
being tied here, and yet I do not know how I could do without you,
you are so great a blessing to me.'

"And oh! in the desolate future what a comfort these few words will
contain! But I said--'No, darling, I am not tied: you know it is
just what I like. I know you could not do without me, but then I
could not do without you, so it is just the same for both of us.'"

"_August 26._--To-day is the anniversary of my adoption, what
Mother used to call my Hurstmonceaux birthday. She remembered it
when I went to her, and said touchingly--'God be thanked for having
given me my child, for having preserved him, for having
strengthened him. May he live to His glory, and may I die to His
praise.... Pray that He may forgive the past, watch over the
present, and guide the future.' Later she said--'It is very seldom
that a woman's future is settled at thirty-five, as mine was. I was
not only a widow, but my adopting a child showed to all the world
that I should never marry again.... I can only make a meditation,'
she said; 'I have no strength to make a prayer.... I have long been
obliged to pray in snatches--in moments.... I am so glad that I
know so many psalms, hymns, and collects; they are such a comfort
to me now. I could think of nothing more, but these I dwell
upon.... Sometimes when I can think of nothing else I take the
Lord's Prayer, and lie still to make a meditation upon each
separate clause.' When I left her at night she said
fervently--'Good-night, my own dear love, my blessing: may I be
your blessing, as you are mine.'"

In our quiet life, the news of the war in France, the siege of Paris, &c., reached us like far-off echoes. My mother cared little to hear of it, but shared with me in anxiety as to the fate of the excellent people we had so lately left at Montbard and Fontenay, which were overrun by the Prussians. On September 8 the Empress Eugenie took refuge at Hastings, and two days after walked up the hill past our gate. She was joined at Hastings by the Prince Imperial. I little thought then that I should afterwards know him so well.

JOURNAL.

"_Sept. 10, 1870._--Lea has just been saying, 'You may go and count
the trees to-day, for I've nothing for you for dinner. The
butcher's never been, good-for-nothing fellow! he's gone gawking
after that Empress, I'll be bound.'"

Almost all my Mother's nieces and many old friends came to see her in the summer, generally staying only two or three days, but her dear cousin, Charlotte Leycester, came for the whole of September. While she was here at Holmhurst I was persuaded to go away for two days, and went to see Dean Alford at his cottage of Vine's Gate in the Kentish Hills. He was more charming than ever, and more eccentric, never wearing stockings, and shoes only when he went out. I was miserable, in my short absence, with anxiety, which cost me far more than the refreshment of change could replace; but I was led to go to see the Dean by one of those strange presentiments for which I have never been able to account. It was my last sight of this dear friend, with whom I have been more really intimate than with perhaps any one else, in spite of the great difference of age and position. Dean Alford died in the following winter, but it was at a time when, in my own intense desolation, all minor sorrows fell dumb and dead. But his grave, in St. Martin's Churchyard at Canterbury, is always a very sacred spot to me.

Dean of Canterbury.]

I must record a visit which we received soon after my return home, as it led to a friendship which was one of the great pleasures of many following years. One morning, as I was sitting in my Mother's room as usual, a card with "Mrs. Grove, Oakhurst," was brought up to me, and, as I opened the drawing-room door, I saw an old lady with the very sweetest and dearest face I ever set eyes upon, in a primitive-looking hat and apron, and with a basket on her arm, and I fell in love with her at once. She came often afterwards to see my Mother, who greatly appreciated her; and after my Mother's sweet life passed away, it is difficult to say how much of my home interest was associated with Oakhurst, with the ready sympathy and old-fashioned knowledge of this dear Mrs. Grove, and with her daughter, Mrs. Baillie Hamilton, and her two grand-daughters, now Mrs. Spencer Smith and Mrs. Hamilton Seymour. Alas! as I write this,[424] the dear Mrs. Grove, in her great age, is herself rapidly fading heavenwards--but so gently, so surrounded by the love which her own loving-kindness has called forth, that death is indeed coming as a friend, gently and tenderly leading her into the visible presence of the Saviour, in whose invisible presence she has so long lived and served.

JOURNAL (The Green Book).

"_Holmhurst, Oct. 20, 1870._--Mother said to-day, 'I always think
that walking through the Roman picture-galleries is like walking
through the Old and New Testament with the blessed company of
apostles and martyrs beside one.... I am so fond of that prayer
"for all sorts and conditions of men," not only for my invalid
state, but it is _all_ so appropriate to the present time--the
petition for peace and unity, &c.'"

"_Oct. 23, Sunday._--'Alas! another Sunday in bed,' said Mother
this morning.

"'But, darling, you need not regret it; all the days are Sundays to
you.'

"'Yes; but to-day I woke early, and have said all my little Sunday
hymns and psalms.'

"Truly with her, 'Les prières de la nuit font la sérénité du
jour.'"[425]

"_Oct. 26._--'My dear child is never cross to me, _never_; and
always appears just at the very moment I want anything.'"

_To_ MISS WRIGHT.