_April 1831_.
Such a day as yesterday! sun shining--neither too hot nor too cold. This
was just the time of year, I think, that you saw Knowle, and I never did
see a place and house which pleased me more; exceedingly entertained
with the portraits, endless to particularise. Several of Grammont's
beauties, not so good in colours as in black and white. Sir Walter's
black and white portrait of James I. made the full length of his
unkingly Majesty a hundred times more interesting to me than it could
otherwise have been,--mean, odd, strange-looking mortal. And then the
silver room, as it is called, how it was gilt to me by the genius of
romance, all Heriot's masterpieces there, would have been but cups and
boxes ranged on toilette table and India cabinet but for the master
magician touch. But we had to leave Knowle as we had engaged the day
before at Brandfold to go to Mr. Jones (on the Distribution of Wealth)
at Brasted. Such crowds of ideas as he poured forth, uttering so rapidly
as to keep one quite on the stretch not to miss any of the good things.
Half of them, I am sure, I have forgotten, but note for futurity;
specially a fair-haired heiress now living, shut up in an old place
called the Moate, old as King John's time. Mr. Jones had invited Dr. and
Mrs. Felton, and had a luncheon _comme il y en a peu_ and wines of every
degree: hock from Bremen, brought over by our mutual friend Mr. Jacob,
and far too valuable for an ignoramus like me to swallow.
Chevening? You are afraid we shall not have time to see Chantrey's
monument. "O! but you must see it," said Mr. Jones, and so he and Dr.
Felton ordered gig and pony carriage to let our horses rest, and follow
and meet us, and away we went. Mr. Jones driving me in his gig to a
beautiful parky place where Dr. Felton flourishes for the summer, and
saw his children, who had wished to see the mother of Frank and
Rosamond. Then through Mr. Manning's beautiful place--never travelling a
high road or a by-road all the way to Chevening churchyard. The white
marble monument of Lady Frederica Stanhope is in the church; plain
though she was in life, she is beautiful in death, something of
exquisite tenderness in the expression of her countenance, maternal
tenderness, and repose, matronly repose, and yet the freshness of youth
in the rounded arm and delicate hand that lightly, affectionately
presses the infant--she dies, if dying it can be called, so placid, so
happy; the head half-turned sinks into the pillow, which, without
touching, one can hardly believe to be marble. I am sure Harriet
recollects Lady Frederica at Paris, just before she was married.
We left Chevening, and can never forget it, and drove through the wealds
and the charts, called, as Mr. Jones tells me, from the charters, and
see a chapel built by Porteus to civilise some of the wicked ones of the
wealds or wilds, and Ireton's house, [Footnote: Groombridge Place.]
where some say Cromwell lived, now belonging to Perkins the brewer. Then
"see to the right that rich green field, where King Henry VIII. used to
stop and wind his horn, that people might gather and drag himself and
suite through the slough," and it was near eight before we got to town,
and Lestock waiting dinner with the patience of Job. He, Lestock, not
Job, is a delightful person to live with, never annoyed about hours or
trifles of that kind.