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ARRIVING at the Great Northern Station at King's Cross, and desirous of
testing the culture of the clerk at the Booking-office, you ask for a
first-class return for Hetfelle. The clerk mechanically puts out his
hand towards the receptacle for tickets, drops it, stares at you, and
says Hetfelle is not on their line. You insist that it must be, being
clearly set forth in _Domesday Book_. The clerk shows a disposition to
speak alliteratively but disrespectfully of _Domesday_, and, as the
crowd presses at your heels, you yield to modern prejudice, and take
your ticket for Hatfield. Still, you have the satisfaction of knowing
that it was _Hetfelle_ when the Abbey of Ely held it by favour of King
EDGAR.
When Ely was made a bishopric, the Bishops lived at _Hetfelle_, which
presently came to be known as Bishops Hatfield, and a sumptuous palace
was built, that housed in turn a son of EDWARD THE THIRD, and the son
and heir of HENRY THE EIGHTH. The latter Prince coming to the throne,
under the title of EDWARD THE SIXTH, he gave Hatfield to his sister, the
Princess ELIZABETH. When, in due time, you arrive at Hatfield, your host
takes you out, leading you by the stately avenue to show you the oak
under which ELIZABETH was sitting, reading Greek, when news came to her
that MARY was dead, and ELIZABETH reigned in her stead.
"_La reine est morte; Vive la reine!_" you opportunely remark.
"Quite so," says the MARKISS, evidently struck by your readiness of
rejoinder.
You approach Hatfield House by the gateway near the Church, and enter an
oblong court bounded by the west wing of the Bishop's Palace, now a
stately wreck, with horses stabled in the Hall where one time Bishops
and Princes sat at meat. You feel inclined to linger here, and moralise
upon the theme. But you perceive your noble host awaiting you on the
broad steps of the magnificent Jacobean mansion, a picture worthy to be
set in such a framework. It is like a portrait of one of the earlier
CECILS stepped out of the frame in the Long Gallery. The stately figure
is attired in white doublet, trunks, and hose, embroidered with pearls.
On the purple surcoat, lined with red, gold buttons gleam. The white
ruff is fastened at wrist and throat with gold buttons: the black cap is
solely adorned with a knot of pearls; a golden cord hangs from the neck;
the right hand rests upon the head of a large dog, that has, perhaps, a
rather stuffed look; whilst the left negligently lounges on the hip
above the ready sword.
Is it THOMAS, Earl of Exeter? Or is it his half-brother, ROBERT, Earl of
Salisbury, joint ancestor of the two great branches of the CECIL family?
Or is it, perchance, ROBERT, Earl of Salisbury, or JAMES CECIL, first
MARKISS?
A familiar voice breaks the charm, and discloses the secret.
"Welcome to Hatfield, TOBY, dear boy; but don't suppose that every day I
am got up in this style. It is only in honour of your visit, and as soon
as you are gone, I doff my doublet and hose, put on an old coat, and go
down into my workshop, where I have a little tinkering to do with one of
the electric wires which has gone wrong, and threatens to burn up the
premises. So glad to see you. Always think these informal conferences
between individual members of the two Houses are not only personally
agreeable, but may be fraught with the greatest benefit to the State,
which we both serve. Wait till you see my dog move."
The noble MARKISS, stooping down a little stiffly (owing to the
tightness of the hose), turned a clock-key. After a few rotations, the
dog, being set in the right direction, moved out of the way.
"Yes," said the MARKISS, pleased at my enthusiasm, "that is rather a
triumph, I think. It is common enough to see an automatic dog move its
two fore-paws; but, observe, _all_ the paws here work in natural
sequence. Took me six months to bring this to perfection, working at it
at the time when you would read in the newspapers of my conspiring with
HARTINGTON to keep out GLADSTONE, or negociating with BISMARCK to pull
the chestnuts out of the fire for him in Africa."
Your host leads you to King James's Room, a fine apartment, which stands
to-day in exactly the state in which the King left it when he got up to
breakfast. But the place is a little stuffy, and you do not care for the
particular state of fadedness yet reached by the Turkey carpet. Walking
beside your host, with one eye on the sword, which seems determined to
get between somebody's legs, you pace the Marble Hall, cricking your
neck with gazing upon the heads of the Caesars that look down on you from
panels in the coved ceiling. Up you go by the grand staircase with its
massive carved baluster with unclothed Highlanders playing the bagpipes
and lions bearing heraldic shields; into the Long Gallery, with its
coats of mail, its antique japanned cabinets, its cradle in which
ELIZABETH squealed, its massive fireplaces, its rare panelling; into the
Armoury, where you try on several suits of armour and handle relics of
the Great Armada cast ashore in the spacious times of ELIZABETH; on to
the Library with its rare collection of papers, including Lord
BURLEIGH'S _Diary_, in which you are privileged to read in the original
manuscript the well-known poem which tells how:
"Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county
Is so great a lord as he."
On to the Summer Dining-room through the Winter Dining-room, into the
Drawing-room, and thence into the Chapel where you admire the painted
window of Flemish work, representing in compartments various scriptural
subjects.
You have been so interested in the journey, that there has been no time
for ROBERT ARTHUR TALBOT GASCOIGNE-CECIL, P.C., K.G., Third Marquis of
Salisbury, Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford, Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, and Prime Minister of England, to tell you the story of
his life. This you the less regret, as the MARKISS is manifestly growing
increasingly uncomfortable in his doublet and hose. So he conducts you
to the hall, and bids you a friendly farewell. As you walk down the
Avenue--"The Way to London," as CECILS dead and buried used to call
it--you turn to take one last look at the noble pile, Italian
renaissance in character, of two orders, the lower Doric, the upper
Ionic, with a highly-enriched Elizabethan central gate-tower, and
stepped gables.
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