THE OFFICE OF WORKS
Lord Henry Lennox was First Commissioner of Works when I was appointed
Secretary. He was not at all in a frame of mind to be in love with the
business of the department. In fact he was a disappointed man, deeply
hurt at not being in the Cabinet and not a little angry at seeing a
rival, Mr. Ward Hunt, made First Lord of the Admiralty, an office to
which he conceived himself to have a just claim. This put an end to the
old affectionate friendship which Mr. Buckle has recorded as existing
between him and the Chief. He never forgave the indignity which he
considered had been put upon him. As he once said of himself, he had
inherited something of the character of his French ancestress, Louise de
Kéroualle.
Mr. Disraeli was a much abused man, but I doubt whether in all England
he was spoken of with such venomous acerbity as he was by Lord Henry;
and although after he had left the Ministry, and when Lord Beaconsfield
returned from Berlin in 1878, he took upon himself more or less to
organize the reception at Charing Cross, that was done for peculiar and
personal reasons; the poison never ceased to rankle. Lord Henry took very
little interest in the business of the office, and it was not an easy
matter to get him even to pay attention to the Estimates which it was his
duty to defend in the House of Commons.
On one occasion, after vain endeavours on my part to coach him up in
the details of the various votes, he gathered up his papers at the last
moment, and saying: “Impudence befriend me!” put on his hat and hurried
away. Impudence did befriend him, for when the vote for the Royal Parks
came on some member who “wanted to know,” asked “What is the Longford
River?” (as a matter of fact the Longford River is an aqueduct made in
Charles the First’s time for the supply of water to Hampton Court Palace;
for some mysterious reason best known to themselves the Treasury included
the estimate for its maintenance in the Parks vote). Lord Henry, who had
not the remotest idea of what the Longford River was, looked sternly
with an air of rebuke at the too inquisitive member, and answered, “The
Longford River, sir, is one of the Royal Parks.” I, sitting under the
Gallery, was in an agony, but the House did not so much as smile. Had the
Longford River been included in the vote for Royal Palaces—which is where
it ought to have been—he probably would have told the House that it was
one of the Royal Palaces.
Those were halcyon days for ministers, who were seldom or never worried
over their Estimates by inquisitorial members; days when the numberless
complicated votes of the Office of Works were run through in a sitting
almost without a question. The heckling of ministers was an instrument of
torture invented a few years later by that brilliant brotherhood known
as the Fourth Party, under the lead of Lord Randolph Churchill, and
afterwards carried on with much self-satisfaction and unction by such
men as Sir George Campbell, an old Indian official, Mr. Peter Rylands,
the “Good old Peter gone wrong,” over whose defection upon the Home Rule
question Mr. Gladstone shed oratorical tears, and others. Under their
united attacks the defence of Estimates became a ministerial nightmare.
One day I met Lord Randolph in the Park; it was the morning after a
series of awkward moments which my chief, the Liberal Government being
then in power, had been undergoing—I suffering vicariously, a dumb dog
under the Gallery. We walked together, and at last I said: “My dear
Randolph, for goodness sake leave my unhappy Estimates alone!” “Very
sorry for you, my dear fellow,” was the answer, “but we must harass the
Government.”
And harass them he did, for that was an art in which, even in those early
days of a Parliamentary career which became so famous, he was already
an adept. He held stoutly to the creed that it was the duty of Her
Majesty’s Opposition (who invented that phrase?) to oppose, and he acted
up to his belief with all the great strength that was in him.
Randolph, as I first knew him, was the most delightful of boys, bubbling
over with fun and the sweetest devilry, devoted to his father, idolizing
his mother, that great Lady whom those whom she admitted to her intimacy
were fain to worship; ready to sacrifice himself and incur for his
brother’s sake what to most men would have been akin to social torture.
When he had reached young-manhood and was already giving to a budding
moustache the hoist made famous by John Tenniel and the caricaturists, he
was always ready to give up any pleasure of his own if he could be of any
use to one of those dear to him. His patience as a chaperon was saintly.
Who could help loving him? Not I, for one—I treasure the memory of his
friendship as one of the most precious recollections of a long life.
By his desire I was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral of his
brother; him too I had known from a boy, a youth of great promise marred
by fate, shining in many branches of human endeavour, clever, capable of
great industry, and within measurable distance of reaching conspicuous
success in science, mathematics and mechanics, when his early death
snapped the thread of what might have been a brilliant career, had not
the gods willed it otherwise.
Lord Randolph Churchill’s memory has been crystallized by his brilliant
son in one of the three best biographies in the English language, and
he has, moreover, been celebrated in a sketch written by his friend and
schoolfellow, Lord Rosebery. What more is there to say?
The sad story of his resignation of the Chancellorship of the Exchequer
has been often told. A few days later he and his old crony and mine,
Sir George Wombwell, now, alas! no more, but then one of the very few
surviving officers of the charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava,
were staying with me at Batsford. With the intimacy of old friends we
talked of the bolt which he had hurled out of the blue. I can see him
now leaning against the chimney-piece in the library when he said, “I
never thought of that damned fellow Goschen.” He believed, and he was
very nearly right, that he held all the trump cards in his hand, and that
he could dictate his own terms as to that reduction of expenditure upon
which he was bent. He did not suspect that Goschen was ready to take his
place. Almost in the same breath, in answer to a question of mine about
Lord Salisbury’s attitude, he exclaimed: “That man is an angel!” and then
went on to express regret, I am bound to say in no measured terms, as to
the female influence by which the great Marquis had allowed himself to
be dominated. Over and over again he insisted upon his affection for his
chief, and dwelt with strong expressions of gratitude upon the kindness
which he had received from him. It was a touching tribute, coming from
the heart; a noble heart, which at that moment must have been feeling
bruised and sore, but was incapable of nurturing an ungenerous animosity.
Not long after my first appearance in the House of Commons, the fatal
illness to which he fell a victim began to assert itself. We who
loved him watched his gradually failing utterances in great sorrow.
He struggled bravely, but it was in vain. The House, a just and even
generous assembly, remembered the lightning flashes by which it had been
electrified but a short time back—the bold and vigorous attacks when the
young Ivanhoe tilted at the shield of the veteran Templar—the scathing
criticism of foes—the magnanimous defence of friends. Members from the
front benches downwards listened with respect; but it was manifestly the
end: the highly-strung, passionate nature had broken down, and there was
no hope. But all this belongs to later years: I am writing here of a time
when Randolph Churchill was still a merry, devil-may-care youth just
entering upon the first phase of his Parliamentary life as the spoilt
child of politics.
The mention of such a name as his calls up memories, and when I begin
remembering my humble chronology is scattered to the winds, and, as
usual, I wander. I ought to have kept the few lines which I feel
compelled to write in loving memory of him for any notes which I could
make of my days in the House of Commons; but I can only tell my story in
my own untidy way.
Lord Henry Lennox was succeeded in 1876 by Mr. Gerard Noel, who had been
the chief Parliamentary Whip of the Tory party. He was a most delightful
personality, whom everybody liked and respected, and it was a real
happiness to work under him. Much of the business of the office was very
congenial to him and he took the greatest interest in everything that
concerned the Royal Parks. What a joy it must be to have the tact and the
power of pleasing that he had!—to feel that every man is glad to see you
and welcome you, every man sorry when the time comes to say farewell! And
Mr. Adam, who succeeded him, for the Office of Works seemed to be the
heritage of First Whips, was just such another.
If some good fairy were to ask me to choose a gift with which to enter
the world, I should ask for tact, and I should wish it to be just such
tact as was possessed by Mr. Noel and Mr. Adam. The reign of the latter
lasted but a short time, for at the end of 1880 he was appointed to go as
Governor to Madras, and then he paid me the handsomest compliment that
one man could offer to another. Though civil servants, of course, put
their politics in their pockets so long as they are in office, he knew
quite well that I belonged to the opposite camp, but in spite of that
he asked me to go with him to India as secretary. I could not accept,
for the appointment was one which would cease with his governorship. In
spite of that, had I been unmarried, I think I should have gone with him,
for he was one of those men whom it is a joy to serve. In less than six
months he died in India, so I should have been stranded.
Mr. Shaw Lefevre followed Mr. Adam as First Commissioner. By one of
those wonderful inconsistencies, which, thanks to the ability and
devotion of the permanent civil servants of the Crown, England, in
some incomprehensible way, manages to survive, Mr. Shaw Lefevre, who
had devoted his whole life and energies to the solution of problems
connected with the land, had been sent to the sea, and made Secretary to
the Admiralty. But being a man of ability and industry, he was obviously
marked for promotion. He had a great power of mastering detail and was a
most valuable exponent in Parliament of the very complicated Estimates
of his department which, in addition to all the services which it now
controls, had at that time to deal with the Ordnance Survey, Kew Gardens
and those parks (Victoria, Kennington and Battersea) which are now
managed by the County Council. Mr. Shaw Lefevre, moreover, though as
First Commissioner he did not have a seat in the Cabinet, had the knack
of bringing great influence to bear upon the Chancellor of the Exchequer,
and was thus able to push through more than one useful scheme, some of
which had been periodically shelved.
The last two months of 1882 were a busy time for the Office of Works.
On the 18th of November the Queen reviewed the troops that had come
back from Egypt on the Horse Guards Parade in St. James’ Park. The
arrangements for the review, erection of stands, issue of tickets and
other details fell upon us. It was a difficult undertaking on account of
the smallness of the space; however, we got through it without a hitch.
Lord Wolseley was delighted; and came up to me in the evening, saying,
“To-day was your triumph.”
Lord Wolseley was always very friendly to me. I used to meet him
very often at Eastwell during the tenancy of the Duke and Duchess of
Edinburgh, with whom he was intimate, and we often had long and very
interesting talks. Like most successful men—and he was very successful—he
had his enemies; but also, like most men who have rendered good services
and done really great work in the world, I always found him as singularly
modest about his own achievements as he was firm in his opinions,
especially as regarded administration. Naturally the _noli me tangere_
school dreaded and disliked him.
A very serious matter, which gave rise to no little anxiety, was the
opening of the Law Courts by Queen Victoria on the 4th of December.
The Government were seriously alarmed lest there should be any attempt
upon Her Majesty’s life by Fenians, who had been giving a great deal
of trouble. In Ireland there had been many murders, the chief and most
tragic of which was that of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke, on
the 7th of May, and it was known that plots had been hatched for the
blowing up of public buildings and monuments in England.
A marked man among the conspirators, who had hitherto eluded all
endeavours to arrest him, was one Tynan, known among the fraternity as
“Number One,” a rebel who, it was believed, would hesitate at no crime.
It was a time of anxiety which, as after events, such as the attempts to
blow up the Tower, London Bridge and the House of Commons, proved was not
without justification, and I was in daily communication with Sir Edmund
Henderson, the Chief Commissioner of Police. He was a delightful man to
do business with, so wise, so cool and imperturbable—a man who inspired
confidence. He had, moreover, a rare sense of fun and humour.
In spite of Fenian activities the opening of the new Law Courts was held
to be a national and historic occasion of such importance that it was
fitting that the opening ceremony should be performed by the Queen. Her
Majesty, who might well have felt a little nervous, was not the sort
of person to shirk a duty on account of danger. She had the gift of
indomitable courage and did not hesitate for a moment.
Naturally every precaution was taken. On the evening before the opening I
was sent, with a strong force of police, the clerk of the works and two
or three trusty workmen to go over the whole building and see that there
was no person and nothing dangerous concealed anywhere. We searched the
place from cellar to roof, leaving a policeman at every door; immediately
under the spot where the Queen was to stand we found a mysterious and
most suspicious box: there was some alarm and there were some blank
faces, but the clerk of the works came up and the guilty-looking box
was able to prove its innocence; it contained nothing but a few broken
ornamental tiles which the workmen had forgotten to take away.
After the examination of the building my orders were to go to the
_Times_ office and draw up a memorandum stating what had been done, the
Government knowing that there was much uneasiness which it would be well
to allay.
It was a splendid ceremonial and the whole affair passed off
prosperously, though I may say in passing that there was one feeling of
deep regret among all who knew him, that Mr. Street, the architect, a man
of perfect distinction, had died the previous year. Had he lived he would
undoubtedly have received the honour of knighthood in the great hall
which his genius had designed.
The Queen’s presence on the occasion bore good fruit. Not only did it
give an immense amount of pleasure to her people, but politically it was
of great avail in calming anxiety.
And now comes the curious part of the story. The guard of honour outside
the Courts was furnished by the Queen’s Westminster Volunteers. The
next day, in Whitehall Place, I met Colonel Bushby, who commanded them.
He was in a state of great agitation. He told me that he had just
discovered, to his horror, that the centre file of the guard of honour
was no other than Tynan, the famous Number One! It seems that the man
had enlisted, bringing unexceptionable letters of recommendation, and
had been an excellent recruit, nobody suspecting anything wrong. When
it was known that the regiment was to furnish the guard of honour, he
went to the orderly room where the Colonel and Adjutant were, and begged
to be allowed to serve on it. They refused on the ground that he was
not tall enough; however, he prayed so earnestly, saying that he was
leaving England for good at once, and it would be such a pride to him in
after days to think of this honour, that they were touched by the man’s
enthusiasm and Colonel Bushby said, “Well, if we make you the centre file
it won’t so much matter, so we will let you serve.”
How the discovery was made I do not remember, but poor Bushby was on
his way to Sir Edmund Henderson to make a clean breast of it. Meanwhile
the man had disappeared, and I believe was not heard of again. It made
me shudder to think what might easily have happened in spite of all
precautions, had the man meant to do the evil thing of which he was
supposed to be capable. Evidently the Devil was not so black as his
portrait. Needless to say, the Queen was never told all this.
On my arrival at the office that morning I found a charming little note
from Mr. Gladstone—always so gracious—telling me that he had recommended
me to the Queen for the honour of C.B.; also a note from Sir Henry
Ponsonby, saying, “I think you deserve to be congratulated on yesterday’s
proceedings. They were most successful and the Queen highly pleased.”
When I went to Windsor to be invested, the Queen sent afterwards to
desire me to write my name in her private book. I mention this because,
by a curious coincidence, the name preceding mine was that of my old
chief, Sir Harry Parkes.
Here is one amusing story in connection with the Fenian scare which,
after all these years, it can do no harm to tell. The police had received
intelligence that a certain rich Irish-American was starting from New
York with the intention of blowing up the Albert Memorial in Kensington
Gardens. Sir Edmund Henderson came to see me and told me all about it,
and the steps which he considered ought to be taken. The man arrived
at Liverpool and, I need hardly say, was met by his shadow. Reaching
London, he drove to Long’s Hotel in Bond Street, and within an hour or
two, drove straight to the Memorial, where he found a number of quiet,
inoffensive-looking people absorbed in the contemplation of the various
sculptures. This happened two or three days in succession, after which
he changed his hotel. He had plenty of money and spent his evenings in
amusing himself at theatres and music halls. But in the day-time the
attraction of the Albert Memorial was irresistible. It was unfortunate
for his schemes that so many other people should all of a sudden be
equally fascinated by its charms.
The whole thing came to an end in an unexpected way. One night, after
the play, the would-be iconoclast was driving to St. John’s Wood with a
lady, when the driver of his hansom cab became aware that another cab was
following them. The driver of the hansom was a good-natured fellow, and,
thinking that his fare was being watched for divorce proceedings, told
him what he had seen. The game was up, and it was a case of stalemate.
The Irishman knew that he was found out, and the police had nothing
tangible upon which they could act. So there was disappointment for
the one player, and a rapid return to America for the other. When the
good-natured cabman, being questioned, told the detective how he had let
the cat out of the bag and spoilt sport, he was perhaps the sorest of the
three.
In the month of November, 1883, I had a very interesting experience.
There was a scheme on foot for uniting the north and south of western
London by an underground railway, which would have been carried under a
part of Hyde Park. It was essential that the Queen’s pleasure should be
taken upon the subject, and I was instructed to go to Balmoral in order
to explain to Her Majesty exactly what had been proposed.
There was an idea abroad that to tunnel under the Park would drain the
soil of all natural moisture, and even that the roots of the trees would
be affected. Whatever reasons there might be against the project, I felt
sure that this danger was exaggerated. Looking at the plane trees and the
catalpas by the Houses of Parliament, it was evident that the underground
railway had done them no harm. I went to Kew in order to consult Sir
Joseph Hooker as to the maximum depth to which the roots of trees reach.
He told me that very little was understood upon the subject, and he knew
of no authoritative writer to whom he could refer me. However, after
some search he unearthed a French pamphlet which was full of interest.
From this it appeared that in proportion to its height wheat is probably
the plant which sends down the deepest roots; this would account for
the prosperity of the plant in dry seasons when other crops fail. Of
trees the vine was said to be the deepest; as a denizen of the limestone
rocks its roots have to travel far, piercing through chinks and crannies
in order to seek water. This was interesting, because it showed that
possibly the old story that the great vine at Hampton Court sends its
roots out all the way to the Thames may be true. Since that time a tree
closely allied to the laburnum was discovered in India, which sent its
roots so deep that they broke off in a deep well long before their ends
were found. In any case it was clear that the roots of the trees in Hyde
Park, all of which are very shallow, would not be affected. But this is a
mere parenthesis.
I arrived at Ballater in the afternoon of the 12th of November, prepared
to take a room at the inn and go on to Balmoral after a bath. However,
at the station I found a carriage and a footman with a note saying that
I was to go on and sleep at Balmoral. It was bitterly cold and snowing
heavily, but when I reached the Castle a second note from Sir Henry
Ponsonby was awaiting me. “Please go to your room, order tea and make
yourself comfortable. We are off to a picnic.”
It was real Queen’s weather, for she loved the cold, as I well knew,
for whenever we had to prepare for any ceremony at which she was to be
present, we had to watch the thermometer jealously. As for me, I sat
huddled up, dozing over the fire, thinking that if I were a polar bear
I might possibly enjoy such weather, when, after a couple of hours, Sir
Henry Ponsonby came in looking frozen. We had a little talk while he
thawed and then he left me. Presently there came a knock at the door and
a page announced, “Mr. Mitford is to dine with the Queen this evening.”
At dinner—quite a small party—I sat next to Princess Beatrice, who was
on the Queen’s right, and Her Majesty talked a great deal to me across
the Princess. She was in great spirits, and her conversation, as always,
was most interesting. She had such a fund of knowledge and her memory
was so rich that it was a delight to listen to her. Without for a moment
sacrificing one jot of that dignity for which she was famous the Queen
had a great sense of humour. Perhaps it was her appreciation of wit that
was one of the secrets of the favour in which Sir Henry Ponsonby was so
long held at Court, for he was a man of a most delicate wit, and without
compare the best note-writer that I ever came across.
The talk at the Queen’s table, when the numbers were so small as to
make it more or less intimate, was gay, lively, and, when Her Majesty
drew upon her own recollections, illuminating. After dinner in the
drawing-room each guest had his little audience. When it came to be
my turn to be sent for I supposed that the Queen would allude to the
business which had brought me, but upon that she was studiously silent,
talking upon every conceivable subject with all the conversational talent
of a consummately informed woman of the world.
The next day the snow had come to an end, the weather was glorious,
the air crisp and sharp, and I had a long walk with my old friend, Sir
Walter Campbell, who was groom-in-waiting. But there was still no word
of business. In the evening I was again summoned to dine with the Queen,
and after dinner had my audience, at which, as before, Her Majesty very
delightfully avoided any mention of business, treating me in all respects
as if I had been an invited guest instead of a mere official on duty.
Immediately after breakfast on the following morning there came a knock
at my door. It was the Duchess of Roxburghe bringing me from the Queen a
copy of the large illustrated edition of her “Journal in the Highlands”
with her autograph. She also told me the hour at which the Queen would
see me to discuss my business. Her Majesty went very carefully into the
whole scheme, examining the plans and criticizing them minutely; she
ended by saying, rather sadly: “But I so seldom go to London now that
I hardly feel as if I had the right to express an opinion.” My answer
was: “I only wish, Madam, that we at the Office of Works oftener had the
opportunity of profiting by Your Majesty’s advice.”
The Queen dismissed me with great kindness and I left the Castle that
afternoon.
The congestion of the traffic at Hyde Park Corner caused by the
increasing railway business at Victoria Station had long been a
difficulty confronting the Office of Works. Decimus Burton’s arch,
standing flush with Piccadilly, was then the entrance to the Green Park.
On it, to the lasting sorrow of the architect, stood the colossal statue
of the Duke of Wellington on horseback, by Matthew Wyatt. A work of art
which provoked from a French general the grateful cry, “Enfin nous sommes
vengés.”
Various schemes were brought forward to solve the difficulty; none was
satisfactory. It was obvious that a wider approach to Grosvenor Place was
essential to success. There were many obstacles in the way, the chief of
which was the difference in levels. Old people will remember that the
approach to the Green Park from Grosvenor Place was by a narrow passage,
a steep slope at the north-west end of Buckingham Palace garden. Had we
been dealing with a bare piece of virgin ground without limitations no
doubt a better scheme might have been possible; but to carry out such
a plan would have involved taking a large slice off the Green Park and
another off the end of the Palace garden—neither was practicable.
An infinitesimal piece of the park was conceded, but there still remained
the difficulty of the arch, which would have remained in an absurd
island, perched up on a hillock above the surrounding roads. I proposed
that it should be removed and placed where it now stands, at the end of
Constitution Hill. I showed the plan, which was prepared accordingly by
Mr.—afterwards Sir—John Taylor, to Mr. Gerard Noel, who was then First
Commissioner of Works. He took it to Lord Beaconsfield. The Government
did not wish to spend any money—a chronic condition of things—and the
Prime Minister crushed the scheme with a _bon mot_. “Do away with the
congestion of traffic at Hyde Park Corner? Why, my dear fellow, you
would be destroying one of the sights of London!” And so for the time
the plan was laughed out of court and pigeon-holed. In 1884 Mr. Shaw
Lefevre persuaded the Government to take in hand a matter which was daily
becoming more urgent. The scheme was carried out.
Naturally, in order to remove the arch, the statue must come down, and
then came the great question, Was it to go back again? This was just the
sort of problem which would provoke violent differences of opinion. I
had a great deal of talk about it with the Prince of Wales, who took the
liveliest interest in it, and finally appointed a committee of advice,
which met at Marlborough House and at which he took the chair.[44] The
two protagonists for replacing the statue and against so doing were the
Dukes of Rutland and Wellington. Filial piety prompted the former to
stand up stoutly for a statue erected by a committee of which his father
had been chairman; filial piety caused the Duke of Wellington to raise
his voice against replacing what he considered to be an insult to his
father’s memory. The duel became very comic. The Duke of Rutland wound up
by saying that it would be a monstrous thing to banish a statue for which
the great Duke had sat to the sculptor in the very clothes which he wore
at Waterloo. This the Duke felt to be unanswerable, and he looked round
at us in triumph. “Nothing of the kind,” said the Duke of Wellington.
“My father only sent his valet to the sculptor’s studio with a bag of
clothes.”
In spite of further objections raised by Sir Stafford Northcote and Lord
John Manners, the last of whom had been one of the speakers in the debate
in the House of Commons in 1846 which resulted in the erection of the
monster, the Duke of Wellington’s bag of clothes, so far as the committee
was concerned, clinched the historic part of the discussion, and the
æsthetic side was not long in doubt. But there was still Parliament to
be faced. In the meantime the Prince went abroad, first to Darmstadt
and then to Royat in Auvergne. In the House of Commons our proposals
were carried by a majority of one hundred and eleven, a result which I
communicated to His Royal Highness, who wrote from Darmstadt on May 4th:
“I rejoice with you at the majority of one hundred and eleven obtained
in the House of Commons on the important matter which we have so much at
heart.... Both you and your chief will, I am sure, agree with me that I
was right, when I saw you this day week, in insisting on being firm and
risking the result of the division. I have at any rate had my reward.”
The Prince wrote to me again from Royat in some anxiety upon the subject,
which was to be brought forward in the Upper House by Lords de Ros and
Stratheden.
However, all went well—for that time then present—but when I survey the
group which now surmounts that unhappy arch, I feel as if we had escaped
from the frying-pan into the fire. A motherly female of vast proportions
stands in a car which might have served her baby’s doll. In one hand she
carries a palm branch, in the other a fragment of some mystic vegetable,
possibly intended for an olive branch. The arms are placed in the
position adopted by the American barman when he performs his great feat
of pouring a cocktail from one goblet into another. Her car is drawn by
four Iceland ponies, guided by a charioteer, apparently modelled from
one of the pygmies of the Aruwhimi forest, so skilfully concealed in the
carefully muddled group that only from one or two points on the further
side of Piccadilly is the onlooker aware of his puny existence. And this
must remain for future ages as the last word of British sculpture at the
beginning of the twentieth century!
As regards the place itself, which has been severely criticized, and no
doubt with some show of reason, the difficulties have been forgotten, but
I still think that the best was done that could have been effected in the
circumstances, and I would remind the cavillers of the lines written in
defence of General Wade’s roads in Scotland.
“If you’d known these roads before they were made
You’d see good cause to bless General Wade.”
A few weeks later the Prince of Wales took me with him to Aldershot to
select a site for the old statue—and there it now stands.
The year 1884 was fraught with many emotions for Mr. Gladstone’s
Government, and there was further trouble ahead. Egypt was the
chief anxiety. On the 6th of November Henry Fawcett, the blind
Postmaster-General, who, with superhuman courage, had defied fate and
raised himself to the front rank among men, died. An opportunity occurred
for adding much needed strength to the Cabinet of which Mr. Fawcett, no
doubt on account of his infirmity, had not been a member. Lord Rosebery,
who had two years earlier resigned the Under-secretaryship of State for
Home Affairs—an office which, I am not singular in thinking, ought never
to have been offered to a man of his worth—rejoined the Government as
First Commissioner of Works, with a seat in the Cabinet. In order to
balance the numbers of Peers and Commoners in that mysterious body which
rules England without being known to the Constitution, Mr. Shaw Lefevre
was appointed Postmaster-General and raised to Cabinet rank.
I shall not easily forget the pleasure with which I received a note
from Lord Rosebery, whom I had known for many years, announcing his
appointment and asking me to meet him at Euston Square and talk over
matters during the drive to Whitehall. Equally difficult is it to record
the many acts of kindness and consideration which I received during the
few months that I served under him.
Lord Rosebery’s reign at the Office of Works was short, but long enough
to make me wish that I might have kept so good a master longer. To say
more of a man so eminent would be presumptuous, to say less ungrateful.
The Government was moribund when he accepted office, and even he could
not galvanize it into new life. The tragedy of Khartoum in January,
1885, had made Ministers very unpopular, and in the summer they fell.
Lord Salisbury’s first flash-in-the-pan administration lasted only a few
months, but when Mr. Gladstone returned to power Lord Rosebery was called
to higher functions.
When Lord Salisbury’s government was formed in 1885 Mr. Plunket
became First Commissioner. Like Lord Rosebery’s, his rule was short
but delightful, for in the following January Mr. Jesse Collings’
three-acres-and-a-cow amendment to the address turned out the Government
and Mr. Gladstone was once more Prime Minister. In the shuffling of the
cards Lord Morley, afterwards Chairman of Committees in the House of
Lords, became our Lord Paramount. But here again the fates interfered
with what promised to be a most valuable administration. The Home Rule
split came. Mr. Gladstone had thrown himself into the arms of the Irish
Nationalists and many of his followers were estranged from him.
In the month of April Lord Morley, who was an old friend of mine, told me
confidentially that he had resigned. He was the first Minister to do so.
Mr. Gladstone knew the value of the force of example and did all in his
power to induce Lord Morley to reconsider his decision. He might as well
have tried to move the rock of Gibraltar. Lord Morley stuck to his guns
and Lord Elgin was named in his place. He was the last chief under whom
I served at the Office of Works, for in the month of May my cousin, Lord
Redesdale, died, and I found myself faced by so much private business
that I resigned.
I received many very flattering letters: I am prompted by vanity to copy
three of them. Sir Henry Ponsonby wrote:
“MY DEAR MITFORD,
“I did not answer your letter till I had seen the Queen on her
return from Scotland.
“She desired me to assure you that she heard of your
resignation with sincere regret, as Her Majesty considers you
have done your duty at your Office not only to her entire
satisfaction, but also in a manner which has proved to be of
great benefit to the public.
“Her Majesty feels very anxious as to who may be your successor
and commands me to ask if you have any suggestion to make.
“Yours very truly,
(_Signed_) “HENRY F. PONSONBY.”
From Mr. Gladstone I received the following holograph letter:
“June 24th, 1886.
“MY DEAR MR. MITFORD,
“I received with very great regret the announcement of your
resignation, which at the same time I admit to be no desertion
on your part, but to be reasonable and just.
“But it will, I fear, be very difficult to fill your place with
a person possessed in the same degree with yourself of the
varied and high qualifications which it requires.
“Believe me,
“Most faithfully yours,
(_Signed_) “W. E. GLADSTONE.”
I had several letters on the subject from the Duke of Cambridge; some
of them are of too confidential a character to be published, but I may
reproduce part, at any rate, of one letter which he wrote me.
“June 23rd, 1886. It is with the _deepest_ regret that I find
from your letter that you have handed in your resignation.
You will be a very great loss to the office and to myself
personally as Ranger of the Royal Parks, for you have, by your
tact and judgment, been enabled to assist me in meeting so many
little difficulties, which in these times arise constantly in
connection with these parks.... Though our official connection
will, unfortunately, cease, I hope our personal one will be
continued as heretofore, and I shall at all times be only too
happy to talk over many little matters with you in which we
both take an interest.
“I remain,
“Yours most sincerely,
(_Signed_) “GEORGE.”
Few men, whether princes, peers or peasants, have been so generally
popular as the late Duke of Cambridge. Indeed, he had everything in his
favour. Tall, burly and athletic in his youth, and when I first knew
him, in the fifties, he was strikingly handsome, the perfect type of
an Englishman. Gifted with a singularly frank and genial manner his
soldier-like bearing could not fail to arrest attention. In later years
he grew stout, but his goodly height enabled him to carry off the more
ample figure, and he remained vigorous and active, a keen sportsman at an
age when most men no longer care to face the buffets of wind and weather.
His varied experience made him a most agreeable companion; he had seen
active service, and had had a horse shot under him in the Crimea; he had
travelled much and had had familiar intercourse with all the sovereigns
and statesmen in Europe.
He was a capital after-dinner speaker; his downright, honest periods,
given out with that sonorous and beautiful voice for which the
descendants of George the Third are famous, went straight home to the
hearts of his audience. Probably nine out of ten of his speeches were
in response to the toast of the Army, and right fitting it was that
they should be so, for he was, above all things, a soldier, devoted to
the Army, watchful over its interests, and, indeed, over those of every
individual member of it who came under his ken. The Duke’s mastery of
the working of the whole complex machinery of the Army was phenomenal.
Still more extraordinary was his knowledge of its officers. This was
due to the fact that during the whole time of his tenure of office no
promotion to any rank above that of captain was made without his personal
investigation and sanction. In this way, being gifted with a singularly
retentive memory, he had an intimate acquaintance with the careers and
capabilities of all the senior officers. He was no admirer of change for
change’s sake, and yet ready to accept it when he thought that opposition
would be against the interests of the Crown and of the service which
he loved. To that service he conscientiously gave up his life, being
as convinced as was the great Duke of Wellington of the importance of
maintaining the closest bond between the Sovereign and the Army. It will
be remembered that on this ground the Duke of Wellington in 1850 went
so far as to urge the acceptance by the Prince Consort of the office of
Commander-in-Chief. The Duke of Cambridge looked upon that principle as a
family, as well as a national, tradition.
There were many alterations introduced into the Army by various
Secretaries of State which were certainly not to his taste, but he
was wise enough to see that the real alteration was in the spirit
of the times, and he was enough of a patriot to yield where a
stubborn opposition would have been useless, and in his judgment
dangerous. Even so, he drew a firm line between the administrative
and executive functions of the War Office. Whilst willing always
to accept the Secretary of State as the administrative power, he
brooked no interference with his own executive duties. He was the
Commander-in-Chief, and there he insisted upon being master. The Duke
was always very outspoken upon these matters, perhaps more so with me
than with most people, from the fact that I had no direct interest in the
Army, no military axe to grind; and so I knew how entirely, upon more
than one occasion, he laid self on one side, content to work solely for
the public good.
The Duke’s life was very full, for until the Prince of Wales reached
manhood it was upon him that many of the functions that the Royal Family
have to perform devolved; the Queen and Prince Albert only appearing on
rare and special occasions. Charity dinners, the laying of foundation
stones, hospital meetings and the hundred and one other duties which
he undertook in addition to the laborious work of Commander-in-Chief,
work which he never scamped and of which no detail escaped him, gave him
little leisure. Half a dozen days’ shooting, to which he often did me the
honour to invite me, a country visit or two, and a rare trip abroad, were
all the holidays that he allowed himself, and even when he travelled his
work followed him.
The abolition in 1895 of the office of Commander-in-Chief, an office
which he had held for thirty-nine years, was a cruel blow to the Duke. It
was no consolation to him that in announcing his so-called resignation
to the House of Commons on the 21st of June Mr. Campbell Bannerman
(afterwards Sir Henry) should have plastered him with eulogy and shed
crocodile tears over his loss, and it must have been bitter to the Queen,
when, in her own interest as well as in his, she felt bound to advise her
cousin to resign. I was in the House of Commons at the time and heard
the War Secretary’s speech. It was fulsome and disingenuous. It did not
ring true. When he spoke about his “emotion” the House felt that it was
fudge. If the changes which were proposed were necessary, and involved
the abolition of the Duke’s office, it would have been honest to say so,
instead of keeping up the farce that “The Duke makes way in order that
certain changes may be introduced.”
The Duke’s activities in other spheres, especially in all charitable
endeavours, did not cease with his retirement from the Army, in which,
from the outside, he continued to take the deepest interest. He was
strong enough in 1901 to ride at Queen Victoria’s funeral, though he
was then eighty-two years old; three years later, on the 17th of March,
he died. He was a warm-hearted man, and a most faithful friend, honest,
upright, and true in every relation of life.
The Duke of Cambridge’s affectionate nature was shown in the deep
attachment which existed between him and his mother. Never were mother
and son in more complete sympathy. The Duchess, indeed, was one of
those exceptional people who have the gift of winning hearts. During
the years when she and Princess Mary—before her marriage to the Duke of
Teck—were the only members of the Royal Family who were seen in general
society, their presence always gave pleasure. They were so gracious and
so unaffectedly gratified by any attempt to entertain them. Those who
saw Princess Mary sail up the aisle of St. George’s Chapel at a royal
wedding, looking as if the regal dignity of a hundred kings had been
concentrated in her, will never forget it. The Garter Standards seemed to
bow and do homage to her.
The Duchess’ receptions at St. James’s Palace in what is now York House,
and at Cambridge Cottage, were delightful. At Kew they often took
the shape of a dinner, followed by a little dance. I remember a very
droll incident at one of her parties at St. James’s Palace at which
the future King of Greece, then a midshipman in the Danish Navy, was
present. Levassor, the greatest of all _amuseurs_, had been engaged
and was singing his very best. “Titi à la représentation de Robert le
Diable,” the drollest sketch of a Parisian street-arab at the opera,
and what he thought of it, was perhaps his masterpiece. When he came to
the third act, after an imitation of the famous trombone introduction
he said “On annonce”—at that very moment, from down below, there came a
loud, cockneyfied voice which was heard all over that small house: “The
Lord Mayor’s carriage stops the way!” It was excruciatingly funny, the
laughter was electric, and Levassor was bound to admit afterwards that he
had been beaten in his own special vocation by a London footman.
I feel inclined to add one word about the Duke’s father, whom I remember
coming down to Eton as an old man when I was a very small boy. He
attended Chapel, so I heard him give his famous, loud-voiced response
when the officiating clergyman said, “Let us pray,” and he piously and
fervently ejaculated, “With all my heart!” After Chapel he went into
the playing-fields to see a cricket match in Upper Club, but broke away
from the big-wigs as soon as he could and made me pilot him. I never saw
him again, for he died in 1850. He was the only one of King George the
Third’s sons whom I ever saw.
* * * * *
I had held the office of Secretary for twelve years. When I was first
appointed Mr. Disraeli gave me to understand that the department was in a
most unsatisfactory state. Mr. Corry, his private secretary, told me that
“the Chief” said “the place was an Augean stable and must be swept out.”
I was to evolve kosmos out of chaos, and chaos it certainly was. I was at
once opposed tooth and nail by Lord Henry Lennox backed by the solicitor
to the department and the director of works, an engineer officer. The
position became untenable, and I wrote to the Prime Minister telling him
that in view of this obstruction it was not possible for me to carry out
his instructions, and so I put my resignation in his hands. The result
was the appointment of a Committee of the Cabinet of which the Chancellor
of the Exchequer was Chairman and which included, among others, Lord
John Manners, a former First Commissioner. The Committee fully justified
me, and when I produced my scheme it was accepted in its entirety by a
Departmental Committee of which Sir William Stephenson was Chairman.
It is no use going into the details of old official squabbles, however
troublesome they may have been at the time. They are only worth
mentioning as a proof of the generous way in which Lord Beaconsfield
always supported his subordinates—if they were in the right—even at
inconvenience to himself from a political point of view; and in this
case it put him in a great difficulty on account of Lord Henry Lennox’s
position and family. However, the Duke of Richmond, meeting my father,
said: “I hope you do not think that I am supporting the attack upon your
son”—so all was well.
When once I got into harness I felt that no man could have more congenial
work. It was all the more interesting from the fact that there was a
good deal of leeway to make up. It had been a tradition of the Office,
as one of the senior clerks told me, that the Secretary should never
go and see anything, because if he did he would not be in such a good
position to say “No.” I felt that such an attitude would certainly not
be one that I could adopt. Saying “No” is one of the chief difficulties
of the Secretary’s position, and it is one which often needs the use of
considerable tact, especially when he is dealing with the mightiest in
the land, for the “accounting officer” can only work within the four
very tight corners of the Parliamentary votes; on the other hand I felt
that it was his duty to ascertain beforehand what was really needful and
what was likely to be asked for and this could only be done by careful
personal inspection. If the request was right and reasonable it could be
provided for in the coming estimates; if not the “No” could be said with
effective knowledge and without giving offence.
Apart from private requisitions, which are always difficult to deal with,
there were a great many old historical buildings which were showing
unmistakable signs of decay. Of Hampton Court, for instance, it is
hardly an exaggeration to say that in many places it was crumbling away.
Most of “the King’s beasts” had toppled over from the roof of the great
hall. Large patches of brickwork were literally rotting away. In the
cloisters, the old brick walls were smothered with plaster, black with
age, and covered with a whole pencil network of ignoble names. There was
no fire brigade; should a fire occur the building was at the mercy of
the flames until some assistance could be procured from outside. During
the interregnum between the resignation of Lord Henry Lennox and the
appointment of Mr. Noel I went to Mr. W. H. Smith, who was then Secretary
to the Treasury, and always most sympathetic and liberal in dealing
with any question which I took to him, and put before him the piteous
condition in which this great and beautiful historic monument then
was. He saw the importance of the thing and the result was that a fire
brigade was formed, manned by the employés in the Palace, and Mr. Smith
acceded to my request for an annual sum of £500 to be included in the
estimate for such work of restoration, and what might almost be called
patch-work, as might be necessary.
I don’t know what the present fire arrangements are; they have probably
been greatly improved since my time, but even with such appliances as we
had, three small outbreaks of fire were at once got under control, and,
as everybody knows, in a case of fire it is the first five minutes that
are of importance. With the £500 a year, an allowance which I believe is
still continued, the grand old buildings were gradually put into decent
condition and so they will be maintained. Mr. Ernest Law, antiquary and
writer on art, whose books on Hampton Court are the authority, was always
ready to put his knowledge at the service of the Office, and I had at my
right hand, in Mr. Lessels, the architect in charge of the Palace, a man
who really delighted in his work. So long as Mr. Law lives the public may
rest assured that a jealous eye will watch over the welfare of Cardinal
Wolsey’s magnificent structure, which has been his dearly-loved home from
boyhood and the romantic beauties of which probably sowed the first seeds
of art in his brain.
Great works of restoration were carried out at Windsor Castle, and at the
Tower of London and amongst the other great historic monuments. Of the
works at the Tower I have given some account in my “Tragedy in Stone.”
There was also much to be done in Scotland. But on all this I need not
dwell here.
One part of my duties was a real delight to me. The care of the Royal
Parks became a passion, and successive First Commissioners very kindly
gave me a free hand in dealing with work in which they knew that I took
the greatest interest. The flower gardening in Hyde Park had been begun
many years before by Mr. Cowper Temple when he was First Commissioner,
and had been continued down to my time. But it was a very elementary
affair. The trees and shrubs moreover had been totally neglected. The
trees, surely a most important consideration in any park, were crowded
and killing one another. No new varieties had been introduced. The
shrubs, old-fashioned lilacs, privets, ancubas and the like, had grown
lanky, leggy, and hardly capable of flowering. St. James’s Park in
especial was in a most degraded condition. Battersea Park, where the
superintendent had made a small sub-tropical garden, was the best tended
of the Parks; but even there I found room for much improvement.
In short I endeavoured more or less to remodel all the Parks, and I
think the public was generally pleased with the work that was done. Two
improvements which have certainly given pleasure are the rhododendron
garden on both sides of Rotten Row and the Dell at the east end of the
Serpentine.
When I took over the care of Hyde Park the place where the Dell now
is was a shrubbery with open hurdles which was the lair of all the
nightbirds and undesirables who haunted the Park after dark. They slept
under the bushes and every morning a gang of men had to clear away a mass
of filth indescribable. I determined to do away with this scandal. I put
up an unclimbable fence, laid the place out as a sub-tropical garden with
palms, tree-ferns, dracænas and other beauties, planted the little stream
with water-lilies, royal fern and so forth, and made it from an eyesore
and a den of horrors into what it now is.
For that some years afterwards, long after I had left the Office of
Works, I earned a piece of praise which gave me intense pleasure.
One Sunday I saw quite a number of people looking at the Dell. I
too was moved to go and see. Up came a couple of young guardsmen,
non-commissioned officers. They stood for a few moments and as they
walked away one of them said, “What’s the use of going abroad when we’ve
got such a thing as that here in London?” I never felt so flattered.
To the Queen and to the Duke of St. Albans as Lord Grand Falconer was
confined the privilege of driving in Rotten Row. The last time that I saw
the Queen drive there was once when she came up from Windsor to see my
newly-planted rhododendron garden. She was very much pleased, and I had
a letter from Sir Henry Ponsonby to say so. At one time the Duke of St.
Albans used to drive along Rotten Row once a year in order to keep up the
privilege, but whether that is continued now I know not.
There was one interesting piece of work outside the normal duties of
my office in which I was concerned. It was a graceful idea of Mr.
Gladstone’s to commemorate his victory in the famous Midlothian Campaign
of 1880 by some sort of monument in Edinburgh. It occurred to him that
it would be an appropriate gift if he were to reproduce the old City
Cross, the “Mercat” Cross as it was called, which used to stand in the
High Street and from which the Royal proclamations used to be heralded.
It was from that Cross that Prince Charles Edward, the young Pretender,
was proclaimed King of England and Scotland in 1745. It was swept away
in 1756 as an obstruction, an act of vandalism which Sir Walter Scott
scourged in “Marmion.” It had been an octagonal tower surmounted by a
shaft carrying a unicorn which had been destroyed by Cromwell. The shaft
had been removed to Drum, near Dalkeith. Mr. Gladstone was very keen upon
rebuilding the little tower outside St. Giles’s Cathedral, and replacing
the shaft, which was to be brought back from Drum.
He asked me to help him in the business part of his undertaking, which
I was only too glad to do. On the recommendation of Lord Rosebery, Mr.
Sydney Mitchell, a Scot, was chosen to be the architect. I had a good
deal of correspondence with Mr. Gladstone upon the subject, for he was a
sedulous letter-writer. People at that time had not yet fallen into the
lazy habit of using typewriters; all his letters were holograph in his
own hand, and some of them very long. The modern fashion would have been
quite out of tune with his exquisite old world courtesy.
The late Lord Bath, who, though a Tory, was one of his great admirers,
said to me once that Mr. Gladstone’s punctilious politeness always made
him feel shy. “He will take off his hat!” How he found time for writing
is a mystery. Upon one detail he was much exercised. He had discovered,
how I know not, that Sir Walter Scott had managed to obtain some of
the stones of the old Mercat Cross, and used them in building the
walls at Abbotsford. He was very keen to gain possession of these and
to incorporate them in the new Cross. To his great disappointment Sir
Walter’s successor refused his request. He wrote to me at great length
and almost indignantly upon the subject, but I felt bound to say that
I thought that it was intelligible that the present possessors should
decline to tamper with Sir Walter’s building, indeed, that they might
almost consider that it would be an act of impiety to do so. However, in
the end the finished work gave Mr. Gladstone as great pleasure as it did
to the citizens of Edinburgh. The Latin inscription was composed by Mr.
Gladstone, rather against his will, in deference to a general wish that
there should be an inscription of some sort. He wrote and consulted me
upon the subject. With Dr. Johnson’s views in my head, I suggested that
it should be in Latin. Mr. Gladstone wrote back:
“Hawarden Castle, Nov. 7th, 1885.
“The idea of a Latin inscription crossing my mind amidst
the perplexities of the stories about disestablishment[45]
disturbed me much. Why should there be an inscription beyond
the date of the re-erection? I quite agree that whatever there
is should be in Latin. It might be put on at a later date as
well as now. There is certainly the gallant malediction of
Scott to commemorate; but I should be glad to know what has
passed through your mind as to the substance before considering
the form.
“I go to Dalmeny on Monday and we will consider about a day for
the opening.”
The new Cross was finished in 1885, and dedicated in November of that
year.
Mr. Gladstone then wrote to me:
“10, Downing Street, Feb. 12th, 1886.
“DEAR MR. MITFORD,
“I send the draft for the balance due on account of the Mercat
Cross, and have in addition only to repeat my thanks to you
personally for your most efficient aid and to express my
satisfaction with the manner in which this high class work has
been executed.
“I will write to Mr. Mitchell.
“Yours most faithfully,
(_Signed_) “W. E. GLADSTONE.”
The last time that I saw Mr. Gladstone to speak to was on a fine summer’s
day in 1886. I had gone over to Downing Street to see his private
secretary, Mr. (now Sir Henry) Primrose on business connected with my
resignation. When we had finished our talk he said that he was sure
that Mr. Gladstone would like to see me. The great Prime Minister was
sitting in the little garden reading, but got up and bade me welcome
with all the gracious courtesy which distinguished him. He was most kind
and sympathetic, talking much of Lord Redesdale, whose page he had been
at the Eton Montem when my cousin was in Sixth form and he a lower boy.
Many a time and oft did I listen to his speeches in aftertimes, sitting
opposite to him in the House of Commons, but never again did I hear his
voice in the privacy of personal conversation. He was one of those great
men whom to have known is a valuable privilege.
If I have dwelt longer on the story of the Mercat Cross than the subject
itself might justly warrant, it must be ascribed to that pride which the
dwarf of our childhood’s tales felt when he marched out to war side by
side with the giant.