_April 30, 1831_.
On Monday last I drove to Apsley House, without the slightest suspicion
that the Duchess had been worse than when I had last seen her. When I
saw the gate only just opened enough to let out the porter's head, and
saw Smith parleying with him, nothing occurred to me but that the man
doubted whether I was a person who ought to be admitted; so I put out my
card, when Smith, returning, said, "Ma'am, the _Duchess of Wellington
died on Saturday morning!_"
The good-natured porter, seeing that I was "really a friend," as he
said, went into the house at my request, to ask if I could see her maid;
and after a few minutes the gates opened softly, and I went into that
melancholy house, into that great, silent hall: window-shutters closed:
not a creature to be seen or heard.
At last a man-servant appeared, and as I moved towards the side of the
house where I had formerly been--"Not that way, ma'am; walk in here, if
you please."
Then came, in black, that maid, of whose attachment the Duchess had, the
last time I saw her, spoken so highly and truly, as I now saw by the
first look and words. "Too true, ma'am--_she_ is gone from us! her Grace
died on Saturday."
"Was the Duke in town?"
"Yes, ma'am, BESIDE HER."
Not a word more, but I was glad to have that certain. Lord Charles had
arrived in time; not Lord Douro. The Duchess had remained much as I last
saw her on the sofa for a fortnight; then confined to her bed some days,
but then seemed much better; had been up again, and out in that room and
on that sofa, as when we heard her conversing so charmingly. They had no
apprehension of her danger, nor had she herself till Friday, when she
was seized with violent pain, and died on Saturday morning, "calm and
resigned."
The poor maid could hardly speak. She went in and brought me a lock of
her mistress's hair, silver gray, all but a few light brown, that just
recalled the beautiful Kitty Pakenham!
So ended that sweet, innocent--shall we say happy, or unhappy life?
Happy, I should think, _through all_; happy in her good feelings and
good conscience, and warm affections, still LOVING on! Happy in her
faith, her hope, and her charity!
_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.
LONDON, _May 6, 1831_.
One of our farewell visits yesterday was to Mrs. Lushington; and when we
had talked our fill about our brother Pakenham, we went to politics, of
which every head in London is fuller than it can hold. Lord Suffield
described the scene in the House of Lords [Footnote: On the opening of
Parliament, when the King was to propose the bringing in of the Reform
Bill.] as more extraordinary than could have been imagined or believed.
One lord held down by force, and one bawling at the top of his voice,
even when the door opened, and the King appeared as his lordship
pronounced the word "RUIN!"
Ruin did not seize the King, however, nor was he in the least affected
by the uproar. He walked calmly on.
"I kept my eye upon him," Lord Suffield said; "I looked at his knees,
they did not tremble in the least. I am sure I could not have walked so
firmly; I do not believe another man present could have been so calm."
The King quietly took out his paper, felt for his spectacles, put them
on composedly, and read with a firm voice. They say nothing was ever
like the confusion and violence since the time of Charles I. and
Cromwell.
The day before yesterday we did a prodigious deal. Mr. Drummond came at
ten o'clock, by appointment, to take us to the Mint, to see the double
printing press; and we saw everything, from the casting the types to the
drying the sheet; and then to the India House. There was some little
stop while Pakenham's card, with a pencil message to Dr. Wilkins, was
sent up. While this was doing, a superb mock-majesty man, in scarlet
cloak and cocked hat, bedizened with gold, motioned us away. "Coachman,
drive on; no carriage can stand before the India House--that's the
rule."
Dr. Wilkins came out of his comfortable den to receive us, laid down his
book and spectacles, and showed us everything. The strangest thing we
saw was a toy of Tippoo Sahib's, worthy of a despot--an English soldier,
as large as life, in his uniform, hat, and everything, painted and
varnished, lying at full length, and a furious tiger over him; a handle,
invisible at a distance, in his ribs, which, when turned by the slave,
produced sounds like the growling of the tiger and the groans of the
man!
We had a very pleasant day at Epping. Mrs. Napier went with us; I inside
with her, Fanny on the barouche-seat with Pakenham, and Lestock behind
with Sneyd. The place is so much improved! I saw Fanny's horse Baronet:
very pretty.
_2 o'clock, Luncheon._
Pakenham is eating his last bit of gooseberry pie: enter Sneyd:
boxes--hammering--dreadful notes of preparation. Pakenham yesterday wore
the trefoil pin with his aunt's hair, and the sleeve-buttons with his
mother's and sister's hair; and I have added a locket to hang to his
watch-chain, with a bit, very scarce, of my own hair. The wind is fair:
we shall hear from him from Deal.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.