THE STRICKLANDS.
Reydon Hall--The clergy--Pakefield--Social life in a village.
As I write I have lying before me a little book called 'Hugh Latimer; or,
The School-boy's Friendship,' by Miss Strickland, author of the 'Little
Prisoner,' 'Charles Grant,' 'Prejudice and Principle,' 'The Little
Quaker.' It bears the imprint--'London: Printed for A. R. Newman and
Co., Leadenhall Street.' On a blank page inside I find the following:
'James Ewing Ritchie, with his friend Susanna's affectionate regards.'
Susanna was a sister of Miss Agnes Strickland, the authoress, and was as
much a writer as herself. The Stricklands were a remarkable family,
living about four or five miles from Wrentham, on the road leading from
Wangford to Southwold, at an old-fashioned residence called Reydon Hall.
They had, I fancy, seen better days, and were none the worse for that.
The Stricklands came over with William the Conqueror. One of them was
the first to land, and hence the name. A good deal of blue blood flowed
in their veins. Kate--to my eyes the fairest of the lot--was named
Katherine Parr, to denote that she was a descendant of one of the wives
of the too-much-married Henry VIII., and in the old-fashioned
drawing-room of Reydon Hall I heard not a little--they all talked at
once--of what to me was strange and rare. Mr. Strickland had deceased
some years, and the widow and the daughters kept up what little state
they could; and I well remember the feeling of surprise with which I
first entered their capacious drawing-room--a room the size of which it
had never entered into my head to conceive of. It is to the credit of
these Misses Strickland that they did not vegetate in that old house, but
held a fair position in the world of letters. Miss Strickland herself
chiefly resided in town. Agnes, the next, whose 'Queens of England' is
still a standard book, was more frequently at home. The only one of the
family who did not write was Sarah, who married one of the Radical
Childses of Bungay, and who not till after the death of her husband
became respectable and atoned for her sins by marrying a clergyman.
Kate, as I have said, the fairest of the whole, married an officer in the
army of the name of Traill, and went out to Canada, and wrote there a
book called 'The Backwoods of Canada,' which was certainly one of the
most popular of the four-and-sixpenny volumes published under the
auspices of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful and Entertaining
Knowledge. Our friend was Susanna, who wrote a volume of poems on
Enthusiasm, and who seemed to me, with her dark eyes and hair, a very
enthusiastic personage indeed. The reason of her friendship with our
family was her deeply religious nature, which impelled her to leave the
cold and careless service of the Church--not a little to the disgust of
her aristocratic sisters, who, as of ancient lineage, not a little
haughty, and rank Tories, had but little sympathy with Dissent.. Susanna
was much at our house, and when away scarcely a day passed on which she
did not write some of us a letter or send us a book. Then there was a
brother Tom, a midshipman--a wonderful being to my inexperienced
eyes--who once or twice came to our house seated in the family
donkey-chaise, which seemed to me, somehow or other, not to be an
ordinary donkey-chaise, but something of a far superior character. I
have pleasant recollections of them all, and of the annuals in which they
all wrote, and a good many of which fell to my share. Like her sister,
Susanna married an officer in the army--a Major Moodie--and emigrated to
Canada, where the Stricklands have now a high position, where she had
sons and daughters born to her, and wrote more than one novel which found
acceptance in the English market. The Stricklands gave me quite a
literary turn. When I was a small boy it was really an everyday
occurrence for me to write a book or edit a newspaper, and with about as
much success as is generally achieved by bookmakers and newspaper
editors, whose merit is overlooked by an unthinking public. Let me say
in the Stricklands I found an indulgent audience. On one occasion I
remember reciting some verses of my own composition, commencing,
'I sing a song of ancient men,
Of warriors great and bold,
Of Hercules, a famous man,
Who lived in times of old.
He was a man of great renown,
A lion large he slew,
And to his memory games were kept,
Which now I tell to you,'
which they got me to repeat in their drawing-room, and which, though I
say it that should not, evinced for a boy a fair acquaintance with
'Mangnall's Questions' and Pinnock's abridgment of Goldsmith's 'History
of Rome.' Happily, at that time, Niebuhr was unknown, and sceptical
criticism had not begun its deadly work. We had not to go far for truth
then. It was quite unnecessary to seek it--at any rate, so it seemed to
us--at the bottom of a well; there it was right underneath one's
nose--before one's very eyes in the printed pages of the printed book.
Agnes Strickland did all she could to confer reputation on her native
county. The tall, dark, self-possessed lady from Reydon Hall was a lion
everywhere. On one occasion she visited the House of Lords, just after
she had written a violent letter against Lord Campbell, charging him with
plagiarism. Campbell tells us he had a conversation with her, which
speedily turned her into a friend. He adds: 'I thought Brougham would
have died with envy when I told him the result of my interview, and
Ellenborough, who was sitting by, lifted his hands in admiration.
Brougham had thrown me a note across the table, saying: "So you know your
friend Miss Strickland has come to hear you."' Miss Strickland often
visited Alison, the historian, at Possil House. He says of her that she
had strong talents of a masculine rather than feminine
character--indefatigable perseverance, and that ardour in whatever
pursuit she engaged in without which no one could undergo similar
fatigue. On one occasion she was descanting on the noble feeling of
Queen Mary, 'That may all be very true, Miss Strickland,' replied the
historian; 'but unfortunately she had an awkward habit of burning
people--she brought 239 men, women, and children to the stake in a reign
which did not extend beyond a few years!' 'Oh yes,' was her reply, 'it
was terrible, dreadful, but it was the fault of the age--the temper of
the times; Mary herself was everything that is noble and heroic.' Such
was her feminine tendency to hero-worship. Another tendency of a
feminine character was her love of talking. 'She did,' instances Sir
Archibald, 'not even require an answer or a sign of mutual intelligence;
it was enough if the one she was addressing simply remained passive. One
day when I was laid up at Possil on my library sofa from a wound in the
knee, she was kind enough to sit with me for two hours, and was really
very entertaining, from the number of anecdotes she remembered of queens
in the olden time. When she left the room she expressed herself kindly
to Mrs. Alison as to the agreeable time she had spent, and the latter
said to me on coming in, "What did you get to say to Miss Strickland all
this time? She says you were so agreeable, and she was two hours here."
"Say!" I replied with truth; "I assure you I did not say six words to her
the whole time."' Agnes was a terrible one to talk--as, indeed, all the
Stricklands were. In Suffolk such accomplished conversationalists were
rare.
It must have been, now I come to think of it, a dismal old house,
suggestive of rats and dampness and mould, that Reydon Hall, with its
scantily furnished rooms and its unused attics and its empty barns and
stables, with a general air of decay all over the place, inside and out.
It had a dark, heavy roof and whitewashed walls, and was externally
anything but a showy place, standing, as it did, a little way from the
road. It must have been a difficulty with the family to keep up the
place, and the style of living was altogether plain; yet there I heard a
good deal of literary life in London, of Thomas Pringle, the poet, and
the Secretary of the Anti-Slavery Society, whose 'Residence in South
Africa' is still one of the most interesting books on that quarter of the
world, and of whom Josiah Conder, one of the great men of my smaller
literary world at that time, wrote an appreciative biographical sketch.
Mr. Pringle, let me remind my readers, was the original editor of
_Blackwood's Magazine_, a magazine which still maintains its reputation
as being the best of its class. Mr. Pringle, I believe, at some time or
other, had visited Wrentham; at any rate, the Stricklands, especially
Susanna, were among his intimate friends, and, from what I heard, I could
well believe, when, at a later period, I visited his grave in Bunhill
Fields, what I found recorded there--that 'In the walks of British
literature he was known as a man of genius; in the domestic circle he was
loved as an affectionate relative and faithful friend; in the wide sphere
of humanity he was revered as the advocate and protector of the
oppressed,' who 'left among the children of the African desert a memorial
of his philanthropy, and bequeathed to his fellow-countrymen an example
of enduring virtue.' At the home of the Pringles the Stricklands made
many literary acquaintances, such as Alaric Watts, and Mrs. S. C. Hall,
and others of whom I heard them talk. At that time, however, literature
was not, as far as women were concerned, the lucrative profession it has
since become, and I have a dim remembrance of their paintings--for in
this respect the Stricklands, like my own mother, were very
accomplished--being sold at the Soho Bazaar, a practice which helped to
maintain them in the respectability and comfort becoming their position
in life. But in London they never forgot the old home, and wrote so much
about it in their stories, that there was not a flower, or shrub, or
tree, or hedge, or mossy bank redolent in early spring of primroses and
violets, to which they had not given, to my boyish eyes, a glory and a
charm. This reference to painting reminds me of a feature of my young
days, not without interest, in connection with the name of Cunningham--a
name at one time well known in the religious world.
The reader must be reminded that the reverend gentleman referred to was a
_rara avis_, and that between him and the neighbouring clergy there was
little sympathy--unless the common rallying cry of 'The Church in
Danger!' was raised as an electioneering dodge. The clergyman at
Wrentham at that time, who declared himself the appointed vessel of grace
for the parish, I have been led to believe, since I have become older,
was by no means a saint, and his brethren were notorious as evil-livers.
Some twenty years ago one of them had his effects sold off, and his
library was viewed with no little amusement by his parishioners, to many
of whom, if popular fame be an authority, he was more than a spiritual
father. The library contained only one book that could be called
theological, and the title of that wonderfully unique volume was, 'Die
and be Damned; or, An End of the Methodists.' All the other books were
exclusively sporting, while the pictures were such as would have been a
disgrace to Holywell Street. It was of him that the clerk said that
'next Sunday there would be no Divine sarvice, as maaster was going to
Newmarket.' Once upon a time after a sermon one of his flock approached
him, as he had been preaching on miracles, to ask him to explain what a
miracle really was. The reverend gentleman gave his rustic inquirer a
kick, adding, 'Did you feel that?'
'Oh yes, sir; but what of that?'
'Why,' said the reverend gentleman, 'if you had not felt it, it would
have been a miracle, that is all.' Yet that man was as popular as any
parson in the district, perhaps more so, and it was with some indignation
in certain quarters that the people learned that a new Bishop had come to
Norwich, and that the parson had been deprived of his living for immoral
conduct. Of another it is said that, calling on a poor villager, dying
and full of gloomy anticipations as to the future, all he could say was,
'Don't be frightened; I dare say you will meet a good many people you
know.' I have often heard old men talk of the time when they used to
take the parson home in a wheelbarrow--but that was before we had a
Sunday-school, at which I was a regular teacher. The church had a
Sunday-school, but not till after the one in the chapel had existed many
years. Of these ornaments of the Church and foes of Dissent, some had
apparently a sense of shame--one of them, at any rate, committed suicide.
At Pakefield, some seven miles from Wrentham, and just on the borders of
Lowestoft, then, as now, the most eastern extremity of England, resided
the Rev. Francis Cunningham. He was a clergyman of piety and
philanthropy, rare at that time in that benighted district, and in this
respect he was aided by his wife, a little dark woman whom I well
remember, a sister of the far-famed John Joseph Gurney, of Earlham. It
is with pleasure I quote the following from the Journal of Caroline Fox:
'A charming story of F. Cunningham coming in to prayers just murmuring
something about the study being on fire, and proceeding to read a long
chapter and make equally long comments thereupon. When the reading was
over, and the fact became public, he observed, "Yes, I saw it was a
little on fire, but I opened the window on leaving the room."' Mr.
Cunningham had much to do with establishing a branch of the British and
Foreign Bible Society in Paris in connection with the Buxtons. In this
way, but on a smaller scale, the Cunninghams were equally distinguished,
and one of the things they had established at Pakefield was an infant
school, to which I, in company with my parents--indeed, I may add, the
whole family--was taken, in order, if possible, that our little village
should possess a similar institution. But my principal pilgrimages to
the Pakefield vicarage were in connection with some mission to aid
Oberlin in his grand work amongst the mountains and valleys of
Switzerland. It appeared Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham had visited the good
man, and watched him in his career, and had come back to England to gain
for him, if possible, sympathy and friends. Mrs. Cunningham had taken
drawings of the principal objects of interest, which had been
lithographed, and these lithographs my mother, who in her way was as
great an enthusiast as Susanna Strickland herself, was very anxious to
obtain; the financial position of the family, however, forbade any
thought of purchase. But she had a wonderful gift of painting, and she
painted while we children were learning the Latin grammar, or preparing
our lessons in the Delectus, much to my terror, as I had a habit of
restlessness which, by shaking the table, not only impaired her work, but
drew down upon me not a little of reproach; and with these paintings I
was despatched on foot to Pakefield, where, in return for them, I was
given the famous lithographs, which were to be preserved for many a year
in the spare room we called the parlour--drawing-rooms at that time in
East Anglia were, I think, unknown. What a joy it was to us children
when that parlour had its fire lit, and we found out that company was
coming--partly, I must add, for sensual reasons. We knew that the best
tea-things were to be used, that unusual delicacies were to be placed
upon the table, and I must do my mother the justice to say that she could
cook as well as she could paint; but for other and higher motives, and
not as an occasion of feasting or for the disuse of the economical
pinafore which was always worn to keep our clothes clean, did we rejoice
when we found there was to be tea in the parlour. If young people were
coming, we were sure to dissect puzzles, or play some game which combined
amusement with instruction; and if the party consisted of seniors, as on
the occasion of the Book Club--almost all Dissenting congregations had
their Book Clubs then--it was a pleasure to listen to my father's talk,
who was a well-read man, and who, being a Scotchman, had inherited his
full share of Scotch wit, which, however, was enlivened with quotations
from 'Hudibras,' the only poet, alas! in whom he seemed to take any
particular interest. There, in the parlour, were the fraternal meetings
attended by all the neighbouring Independent ministers, all clad in sober
black, and whose wildest exploits in rollicking debauchery were confined
to a pipe and a glass of home-made wine. Madeira, port and sherry were
unknown in ministers' houses, though now and then one got a taste of them
at the houses of men better to do, and who, perhaps, had been as far as
London once or twice in their lives. Of these neighbouring ministers,
one of the most celebrated at that time was the Rev. Edward Walford, then
of Yarmouth, who afterwards became tutor of Homerton College, and who,
after the death of a favourite and accomplished daughter--I can still
remember the gracefulness of her person--sank into a state of profound
melancholy, which led him to shut himself from his friends, to give up
all public preaching and tutorial work, and to consider himself as
hopelessly lost. It is a curious fact that he dated his return to reason
and happiness and usefulness after a visit paid him by my father, who
happened to be in town, and who naturally was drawn to see his afflicted
friend, with whom, in the days of auld lang syne, he had smoked many a
pipe and held many an argument respecting Edwards on Freedom of the Will,
and his favourite McKnight. Mrs. Walford, who was aware of my father's
intended visit, had thoughtfully prepared pipes and tobacco, and placed
them on the table of the room where the interview was to take place. My
father went and smoked his pipe and talked as usual, poor Mr. Walford
sitting sad and dejected, and refusing to be comforted all the while.
When my father had left--owing, I suppose, to the force of old
associations--actually the poor man approached the table, took up a pipe,
filled it with tobacco, and smoked it. From that hour, strange to say,
he recovered, wrote a translation of the Psalms, became a trustee of
Coward's College, and took charge of a church at Uxbridge. This is 'a
fac,' as Artemus Ward would say, and 'facs' are stubborn things. Of this
Mr. Walford, the well-known publisher of that name in St. Paul's
Churchyard was a son, and the firm of Hodder and Stoughton may be said to
carry on his business, though on a larger scale.
Dressed in rusty black, with hats considerably the worse for wear, with
shoes not ignorant of the cobbler's art, unconscious of and careless for
the fashions of the world, rarely in London, except on the occasion of
the May Meetings--no one can tell, except those who, like myself, were
admitted behind the scenes, as it were, how these good men lived to keep
alive the traditions of freedom, civil and religious, in districts most
under the sway of the ignorant squire and the equally ignorant parson of
the parish. If there has been a decency and charm about our country life
it is due to them, and them alone. Perhaps, more in the country than in
the crowded city is the pernicious influence felt of sons of Belial,
flushed with insolence and wine. It is difficult to give the reader an
idea of the utter animalism, if I may so term it, of rural life some
fifty years ago. For small wages these Dissenting ministers did a noble
work, in the way of preserving morals, extending education, promoting
religion, and elevating the aim and tone of |the little community in
which they lived, and moved, and had their being. At home the
difficulties of such of them as had large families were immense. The
pocket was light, and too often there was but little in the larder. But
they laboured on through good and bad report, and now they have their
reward. Perhaps one of their failings was that they kept too much the
latter end in view, and were too indifferent to present needs and
requirements. They did not try to make the best of both worlds. I can
never forget a remark addressed to me by all the good men of the class
with whom I was familiar in my childhood as to the need of getting on in
life and earning an honest penny, and becoming independent in a pecuniary
point of view. I was to be a good boy, to love the Lord, to study the
Assembly's Catechism, to read the Bible, as if outside the village there
was no struggle into which sooner or later I should have to plunge--no
hard battle with the world to fight, no temporal victory to win.