1904
Abbot Gasquet, who had many friends in Oxford, was much in residence
there during the summer of 1904, as he was giving the weekly
conferences to our undergraduates. His host, Mgr. Kennard, usually
asked me to dinner on Sundays, "to keep the Abbot going," which
released me from the chilly collation (cold mutton and cold rhubarb
pie), the orthodox Sabbath evening fare in so many households.[1] I
recall the lovely Sundays of this summer term, and the crowds of
peripatetic dons and clerics in the parks and on the river bank: many
of them, I fancy, the serious-minded persons who would have thought it
their duty, a year previously, to attend the afternoon university
sermon, lately abolished. The afternoon discourse had come to be
allotted to the second-rate preachers; and I had heard of a clergyman
who, when charged with walking in the country instead of attending at
St. Mary's, defended himself by saying that he preferred "sermons from
stones" to sermons from "sticks!"[2]
{20}
The biggest clerical gathering I ever saw in Oxford was on a bright May
afternoon in 1904, when hundreds of parsons were whipped up from the
country to oppose the abolition of the statute restricting the
honour-theology examinerships to clergymen. Scores of black-coats were
hanging about the Clarendon Buildings, waiting to go in and vote; and
they "boo'd" and cat-called in the theatre, refusing to let their
opponents be heard. They carried their point by an enormous
majority.[3]
Kennard took me to London, on another day in May, to see the
Academy--some astonishing Sargents, Mrs. Wertheimer all in black, with
diamonds which made you wink, and the Duchess of Sutherland in arsenic
green, painted against a background of dewy magnolia-leaves,
extraordinarily vivid and brilliant. I was at Blenheim a few days
later, and admired there (besides the wonderful tapestries and a
roomful of Reynolds's) two striking portraits--one by Helleu, the other
by Carolus-Duran--of the young American Duchess of Marlborough.
An enjoyable event in June was the quadrennial open-air Greek play at
Bradfield College--_Alcestis_ on this occasion, not so thrilling as
_Agamemnon_ four years ago, but very well done, and the death of the
heroine really very touching. A showery {21} garden party at beautiful
Osterley followed close on this: the Crown Prince of Sweden, who was
the guest of honour, had forgotten to announce the hour of his arrival,
was not met at the station, and walked up in the rain. I sat for a
time with Bishop Patterson and the old Duke of Rutland (looking very
tottery), and we spoke of odd texts for sermons. The Bishop mentioned
a "total abstinence" preacher who could find nothing more suitable than
"The young men who carried the _bier_ stood still"! The Duke's
contribution was the verse "Let him that is on the housetop not come
down," the sermon being against "chignons," and the actual text the
last half of the verse--"Top-knot come down"! They were both pleased
with my reminiscence of a sermon preached against Galileo, in 1615,
from the text, "Viri Galilaei, quid statis aspicientes in coelum?"
As soon as I could after term I went north to Scotland, where I was
engaged to superintend the Oxford Local examinations at the Benedictine
convent school at Dumfries. It was a new experience for me to preside
over school-girls! I found them much less fidgety than boys, but it
struck me that the masses of hair tumbling into their eyes and over
their desks must be a nuisance: however, I suppose they are used to it.
The convent, founded by old Lady Herries, was delightfully placed atop
of a high hill, overlooking the river Nith, the picturesque old Border
town, and a wide expanse of my native Galloway. My work over, I went
on to visit the Edmonstoune-Cranstouns at their charming home close to
the tumbling Clyde. I found them entertaining a party of Canadian
bowlers and their ladies; {22} and in the course of the day we were all
decorated with the Order of the Maple-leaf! I went south after this to
spend a few days with my good old friend Bishop Wilkinson, at Ushaw
College, near Durham, of which he was president. An old Harrovian, and
one of the few survivors of Newman's companions at Littlemore, he was
himself a Durham man (his father had owned a large estate in the
county), and had been a keen farmer, as well as an excellent parish
priest, before his elevation to the bishopric of Hexham. He showed me
all over the finely equipped college (which he had done much to
improve), and pointing out a Dutch landscape, with cattle grazing,
hanging in a corridor, remarked, "That is by a famous 'old master.' I
don't know much about pictures, but I do know something about cows; and
God never made a cow like that one!"[4] The good old man held an
ordination during my visit, and was quite delighted (being himself a
thorough John Bull) that "John Bull" happened to be the name of one of
his candidates for the priesthood. "Come again soon," he said, when I
kissed his ring as I took my leave; "they give us wine at table when
there is a guest, and I do like a glass of sherry with my lunch." The
old bishop lived for nearly four years longer, but I never saw him
again.
I was delighted with a visit I paid a little later to Hawkesyard
Priory, the newly acquired property {23} of the Dominicans in
Staffordshire: a handsome modern house (now their school) in a
finely-timbered park, and close by the new monastery, its spacious
chapel, with carved oak stalls, a great sculptured reredos recalling
All Souls or New College, and an organ which had been in our chapel at
Eton in my school days. I made acquaintance here with the young
Blackfriar who was to matriculate in the autumn at our Benedictine
Hall--the first swallow, it was hoped, of the Dominican summer, the
revival of the venerable Order of Preachers _in gremio
universitatis_.[5]
A kind and musical friend[6] insisted on carrying me off this August to
Munich, to attend the Mozart-Wagner festival there. We stayed at the
famous old "Four Seasons," and I enjoyed renewing acquaintance, after
more than thirty years, with a city which seemed to me very like what
it was in 1871. The Mozart operas (at the small Residenz-theater) were
rather disappointing. The title-role in _Don Giovanni_ was perfectly
done by Feinhals; but Anna and Elvira squalled, not even in tune. The
enchanting music of Zauberfloete hardly compensated for the tedious
story; and no one except the {24} Sarastro (one Hesch, a Viennese) was
first-class. The Wagner plays, in the noble new Prinz Regenten
theatre, pleased me much more: Knote and Van Rooy were quite excellent,
and Feinhals even better as the Flying Dutchman than as Don Giovanni.
I heard more Mozart on the Assumption in our Benedictine basilica of
St. Boniface--the Twelfth Mass, done by a mixed choir in the gallery!
I preferred the Sunday high mass at the beautiful old Frauenkirche,
with its exquisite stained glass, and its towers crowned with the
curious renaissance cupolas which the Muencheners first called "Italian
caps," and later "masskruege," or beer-mugs. I admired the attention
and devotion of the great congregation at the cathedral: a few stood,
nearly all knelt, throughout the long service, but no one seemed to
think of sitting.
We made one day the pleasant steamer trip round Lake Starnberg, with
its pretty wooded shores, and the dim mysterious snow-clad Alps
(Wetterstein and other peaks) looming in the background. A middle-aged
Graf on board (I think an ex-diplomatist) talked interestingly on many
subjects, Bismarck among others. He said that the only serious attempt
at reconciliation between him and the Kaiser, ten years before, had
been frustrated not by the latter but by Bismarck himself, who was
constantly ridiculing the young Emperor both in public and in private.
It was odd, he added, how the number _three_ had pervaded Bismarck's
life and personality. His motto was "In Trinitate robur": he had
served three emperors, fought in three wars, signed three treaties of
peace, established the Triple Alliance, had three children and three
estates; and {25} his arms were a trefoil and three oak-leaves.
Talking of Austria, our friend quoted a dictum of Talleyrand (very
interesting in 1921)--"Austria is the House of Lords of Europe: as long
as it is not dissolved it will restrain the Commons." Dining together
in our hotel at Munich, he told us that the "Four Seasons" possessed,
or had possessed, the finest wine in Europe, having bought up Prince
Metternich's famous cellar (including his priceless Johannisberger and
Steinberger Cabinet hocks) at his death. Of Metternich he said it was
a fact that in 1825 Cardinal Albani was instructed by the Pope to sound
the great statesman as to whether he desired a Cardinal's hat--"in
which case," added his Holiness, "I will propose him in the next Secret
Consistory."
We were much amused at reading in a local newspaper the result of a
"longest word" competition. The prize-winners were
"Transvaaltruppentropentransport
trampelthiertreibentrauungsthraenentragoedie," and
"Mekkamuselmannenmeuchelmoerdermohrenmuttermarmormonumentenmacher"![7] I
had hitherto considered the longest existing word to be the Cherokee
"Winitawigeginaliskawlungtanawneletisesti"; it was given me by a French
missionary to that North American tribe, whom I once met at the Comte
de Franqueville's house in Paris, {26} and who said it meant,
"They-will-now-have-finished-their-compliments-to-you-and-to-me"! I
remember the same good priest telling me that when the first French
missionary bishop went to New Zealand, he found the natives incapable
of pronouncing the word "eveque" or "bishop," their language consisting
of only thirteen letters, mostly vowels and liquids. He therefore
coined the word _picopo_, from "episcopus," which the natives applied
to all Catholics. English Catholics they called _picopo poroyaxono_,
from Port Jackson (Sydney), which most of them had visited in trading
ships; while French Catholics were known as _picopo wee-wee_, from the
constantly-heard words, "Oui, oui."
Our pleasant sojourn at Munich over, we made a bee-line home (as we had
done from England to Bavaria), without stopping anywhere _en route_, as
I was bound to be present at certain religious celebrations at
Woodchester Priory, in the Vale of Stroud. I was always much attracted
by the Gloucestershire home of the Dominican Order: it was built of the
warm cream-coloured stone of the district, and with its gables, low
spire, and high-pitched roofs looked as if it really belonged to the
pretty village, and was not, like most modern monasteries, a mere
accretion of incongruous buildings round an uninteresting
dwelling-house.[8] From Woodchester I went over one day to Weston
Birt, a vast ornate neo-Jacobean mansion set in the loveliest gardens,
and a not unworthy country pendant to the owner's {27} palace in Park
Lane, to which (as I told my hostess) I once adjudged the second place
among the great houses of London.[9]
I spent the rest of the Long Vacation at Fort Augustus, whither the
summer-like autumn had attracted many visitors, and where a golf-course
had been lately opened. Golf, too, and nothing but golf, was in the
air during my annual visit to St. Andrews, which coincided with the
Medal Week there. A lady told me that, looking for a book to give her
golfing daughter on her birthday, she was tempted by a pretty volume
called _Evangeline, Tale of a Caddie_, and was disappointed to find
that Longfellow meant something quite different by "Acadie!" "Medal
Day" was perfect, and the crowd enormous. I was passing the links as
two famous competitors (Laidlaw and Mure Fergusson) came in--a cordon
round the putting-green, and masses of spectators watching with bated
breath. No cheers or enthusiasm as at cricket or football--a curious
(and _I_ thought depressing) spectacle. In the club I came on old Lord
---- (of Session), anathematizing his luck and his partner, as his
manner was. Some one told me that it was only at golf that he really
let himself go. Once in Court he addressed a small boy, whose head
hardly appeared above the witness-box, with dignified solicitude: "Tell
me, my boy, do you understand the nature of an {28} oath?" "Aye, my
lord," came the youngster's prompt response, "ain't I your caddie?"
I think that it was at the climax of the medal-week festivities that
the news came of the sudden death (in his sleep) of Sir William
Harcourt at Nuneham, to which he had only lately succeeded. He had
survived just ten years the crowning disappointment of his life, his
passing-over for the premiership on the final resignation of Gladstone.
He had long outlived (no small achievement) the intense unpopularity of
his early years; and it seemed almost legendary to recall how three
members of parliament had once resolved to invite to dinner the
individual they disliked most in the world. Covers were laid (as the
reporters say) for six; but only one guest turned up--Sir William
Vernon Harcourt, who had been invited by all three!
I reached Oxford in October to find our Benedictine Hall migrated from
the suburbs to a much more commodious site in dull but rather dignified
Beaumont Street.[10] The proximity of a hideous "Gothic" hotel, and of
the ponderous pseudo-Italian Ashmolean Galleries, did not appeal to us;
but the site was conveniently central, and was moreover holy ground,
for we were within the actual enclosure of the old Carmelite Priory,
and close to Benedictine {29} Worcester, beyond which Cistercian Rowley
(on the actual site of whose high altar now stands the bookstall of the
L.N.W.R. station!) and Augustinian Oseney had stretched out into the
country. One of my first guests in Beaumont Street was Alfred Plowden,
the witty and genial Metropolitan magistrate, then just sixty, but as
good-looking as ever, and full of amusing yarns about his Westminster
and Brasenose days. I think he was the best _raconteur_ I ever met,
and one of the most eloquent of speakers when once "off" on a subject
in which he was really interested. On this occasion he got started on
Jamaica, where he had been private secretary to the Governor after
leaving Oxford; and his description of his experiences in that
fascinating island was delightful to listen to.
Lord Ralph Kerr's son Philip, who got his First Class in history in
June, came up this term to try for an All Souls fellowship. There is a
sharp competition nowadays for these university plums; and the
qualification is no longer, as the old jibe ran, "bene natus, bene
vestitus, medocriter doctus." I prefer the older and sounder
standard--"bene legere, bene construere, bene cantare." There seemed,
by the way, a certain whimsicality in some cases in the qualifications
for the Rhodes Scholarships here. I had a call about this time from
the Archbishop of St. John's, Newfoundland, who wished to interest me
in a scholar from that colony (called Sidney Herbert!) who was coming
up after Christmas. His Grace said that the youth had been required to
pass three "tests"--a religious one from his parish priest, an
intellectual one, from the authorities of his college, and a social
one, from {30} his classmates; and I felt some curiosity as to the
nature of the last-named.[11] Amusing stories were current at this
time about the Rhodes Scholars. One young don told me that an American
scholar had replied, when asked what was his religion, "Well, sir, I
can best describe myself as a _quasi_-Christian scientist."--"Do you
think," the don asked me, "he meant the word '_quasi_' to apply to
'Christian' or to 'scientist'?" Another young American drifted into
Keble, but never attended chapel--a circumstance unheard-of in that
exclusively Anglican preserve. Questioned as to whether he was not a
member of the "Protestant Episcopal Church" (if not, what on earth was
he doing at Keble?), he rejoined, "Certainly not; he was a 'Latter-day
Saint'!" He was deported without delay to a rather insignificant
college, where it was unkindly said that the Head was so delighted to
get a saint of any kind that he welcomed him with open arms.[12]
A Rhodes Scholar, who had been also a fellow of his university in
U.S.A., showed himself so lamentably below the expected standard, that
his Oxford tutor expressed his surprise at a scholar {31} and a fellow
knowing so little. "I think you somewhat misapprehend the position,"
was the reply. "In the University of X---- fellowships are awarded for
purely political reasons." To another college tutor, who voiced his
disappointment that after a complete course at his own university a
Rhodes Scholar should be so deplorably deficient in Greek and Latin,
came the ready explanation: "In the university where _I_ was raised,
sir, we only _skim_ the classics!" A Balliol Rhodes Scholar, who had
failed to present the essential weekly essay, replied to his tutor's
expostulation, in the inimitable drawl of the Middle West: "Well, sir,
I have not found myself able to com-pose an essay on the theme
indicated by the college authorities; but I have brought you instead a
few notes of my own on the po-sition of South Dakota in American
politics."
The mention of classics reminds me that the question of the retention
or abolition of compulsory Greek was a burning one at this time.
Congregation had voted for its abolition in the summer of 1904; but on
November 29 we reversed that decision by a majority of 36. I met Dean
Liddell's widow at dinner that week, and said that I supposed that she,
like myself, was old-fashioned enough to want Greek retained. "_Of
course_ I am," said the old lady: "Think of the Lexicon!" which I had
in truth forgotten for the moment, as well as the comfortable addition
which it no doubt made to her jointure. Rushforth of St. Mary Hall, to
whom I repeated this little dialogue after dinner, told me that he
possessed a letter from Scott to Liddell, calling his attention to
Aristoph. Lys., v. 1263, and {32} adding, "Do you think that [Greek:
chunage parsene] in this line means 'a hunting parson'?" Talking of
Greek, I interested my friends by citing two lines from the _Ajax_,
which (I had never seen this noticed) required only a change from
plural to singular to be a perfect invocation to the Blessed Virgin:
[Greek: Kalo darogon ten te parthena,
aei th horonta panta ten brotois pathe.][13]
A distinguished visitor to Oxford this autumn was Lord Rosebery, who
came up to open--no, that is not the word: to unveil--but I do not
think it was ever veiled: let us say to inaugurate, Frampton's fine
bust of Lord Salisbury in the Union debating-hall. To pronounce the
panegyric of a political opponent, with whose principles, practice, and
ideals he had always been profoundly at variance, was just the task for
Lord Rosebery to perform with perfect tact, eloquence and taste. His
speech was a complete success, and so was his graceful and polished
tribute to the young president of the Union, W. G. Gladstone, whose
likeness, with his high collar and sleekly-brushed black hair, to the
youthful portrait of his illustrious grandfather, immediately behind
him, was quite noticeable.
A whimsical incident in connection with this visit of the ex-premier
may be, at this distance of time, recalled without offence. I had
repeated to his Oxford hostess a story told me by the Principal of a
Scottish university, of how Lord Rosebery, engaged to speak at a great
Liberal meeting in a {33} northern city, found himself previously
dining with a fanatically teetotal Provost, who provided for his guests
no other liquid refreshment than orangeade in large glass jugs. As
this depressing beverage circulated, the Liberal leader's spirits fell
almost to zero; and it was by the advice of my friend the principal
that, between the dinner and the meeting, he drove _ventre a terre_ to
an hotel, and quaffed a pint of dry champagne before mounting the
platform and making a speech of fiery eloquence, which the good provost
attributed entirely to the orangeade! The lady, unknown to me, passed
on this delectable story to one of the Union Committee, who took it
very seriously: the result being that when Lord Rosebery reached the
committee-room, just before the inauguration ceremony, a grave young
man whispered to him confidentially: "There are tea and coffee here;
but I have got your pint of cha[oe]pagne behind that screen: _will you
come and have it now?_" "Well, do you know?" said the great man with
his usual tact,[14] "I think for once in a way I will have a cup of
coffee!" I do not suppose he ever knew exactly why this untimely pint
of champagne was proffered to him by his undergraduate hosts; and he
probably thought no more about the matter.
Lunching with my friend Bishop Mitchinson, the {34} little Master of
Pembroke, I was shown his new portrait in the hall--quite a good
painting, but not a bit like him, though not in that respect singular
among our Oxford portraits. The supposed picture of Devorguilla,
foundress of Balliol, is, I have been assured, the likeness of an
Oxford baker's daughter, who was tried for bigamy in the eighteenth
century. An even more barefaced imposture is the "portrait" of
Egglesfield (chaplain to Queen Philippa, wife of Edward III, and
founder of Queen's), which hangs, or hung, in the hall of that college.
It is really, and manifestly, the likeness of a seventeenth-century
French prelate--probably Bossuet--in the episcopal dress of the time of
Louis XIV! Most of our Magdalen portraits are, I think, authentic; but
then they do not profess to represent personages of the early Middle
Ages! The best and most interesting portraits at Oxford belong to the
nineteenth century. I always enjoyed showing my friends those of Tait
and Manning, side by side in Balliol Hall, and recalling how their
college tutor once remarked, when they had left his room after a
lecture: "Those two undergraduates are worthy and talented young men: I
hope I shall live to see them both archbishops!" His prophetic wish
was duly fulfilled, though he had probably never dreamt of Canterbury
and Westminster!
I remember pleasant visits this autumn to the Abingdons at Wytham
Abbey, their fine old place, set in loveliest woods, within an easy
drive of Oxford. "Why Abbey?" I asked my host, who did not seem to
know that the place had never been a monastery, though part of the
house was of the fifteenth century. Lord Abingdon himself was a kind
{35} of patriarch,[15] with a daughter married four and twenty years,
and a small son not yet four. He was trying to dispose of some of his
land for building, but without great success. The Berkshire side of
the Thames (to my mind far the most beautiful and attractive) was not
the popular quarter for extensions from Oxford, which was spreading far
out towards the north in the uninteresting directions of Banbury and
Woodstock.
Term over, I went north to spend Christmas with the Butes at
Mountstuart, where I found my young host, as was only natural, much
interested in a recent decision of the Scottish Courts, which had
diverted into his pocket L40,000 which his father had bequeathed to two
of the Scottish Catholic dioceses.[16] My Christmas here (the first
for many years) was saddened by old memories; for I missed at every
turn the pervading presence of my lost friend, to whose taste and
genius the varied beauty of his island home was so largely due.
However, our large party of young people gave the right note {36} of
hilarity to the time; and if there was little sunshine without (I noted
that we had never a gleam from Christmas to New Year), there was plenty
of warmth and brightness and merriment within. The graceful crypt (all
that was yet available) of the lovely chapel was fragrant and bright
with tuberoses, chrysanthemums and white hyacinths; and the religious
services of the season were carried out with the care and reverence
which had been the rule, under Lord Bute's supervision, for more than
thirty years. The day after New Year, young Bute left home for London
and Central Africa (the attraction of the black man never seemed to
pall on him), and I made my way to our Highland Abbey to spend the
remainder of the Christmas vacation.
[1] "Do you very much mind dining in the middle of the day?" a would-be
hostess at St. Andrews once asked George Angus. "Oh, not a bit," was
his reply, "as long as I get another dinner in the evening!"
[2] It was, I think, a Scottish critic who suggested an emendation of
the line, "Sermons from stones, books in the running brooks."
Obviously, he said, the transposition was a clerical error, the true
reading being, "Sermons from books, stones in the running brooks!"
[3] Another attempt, nine years later, to abolish the same statute was
decisively defeated; but in 1920 the restriction of degrees in divinity
to Anglican clergymen was removed by a unanimous vote, though the
examinerships are still confined to clergymen.
[4] "Well, now, that is not my idea of an owl," said a casual visitor
to a bird-stuffer's shop, looking at one sitting on a perch in a rather
dark corner. "Isn't it?" replied the bird-stuffer dryly, peering up
over his spectacles. "Well, it's God's, anyhow." The owl was a live
one!
[5] The "young Blackfriar" obtained (in History) the first First Class
gained in our Hall, rose to be Provincial of his Order in England, and
had the happiness of seeing, on August 15, 1921, the foundation stone
of a Dominican church and priory laid at Oxford.
[6] Music was his hobby: by profession he was a chemist, and the City
Analyst of Oxford. I introduced him as such to dear Mgr. Kennard, who
promptly asked us both to dinner, and during the meal laboriously
discussed the mediaeval history of Oxford, which he had carefully
"mugged up" beforehand. He had understood me to say that my friend's
position was that of City _Annalist_!
[7] The English of these uncouth concatenations, which are at least
evidence of the facility with which any number of German words can be
strung together into one, appears to be (as far as I can unravel them):
1. "The tearful tragedy of the marriage of a dromedary-driver on the
transport of Transvaal troops to the tropics." 2. "The maker of a
marble monument for the Moorish mother of a wholesale assassin among
the Mussulmans at Mecca." Pro-dee-gious!
[8] Such were nearly all our Benedictine priories in England--a
circumstance which added to their historic interest, if not to their
architectural homogeneity.
[9] I was once invited to write an article on the "six finest houses in
London." The word "finest," of course, wants defining. However, my
selection, in order of merit, was:--Holland House (perhaps rather a
country house in the metropolitan area than a London house),
Dorchester, Stafford, Bridgewater, and Montagu Houses, and Gwydyr
House, Whitehall. How many Londoners know the last-named?
[10] Built about a century previously, to provide proper access to
Worcester College, then and long afterwards dubbed (from its remoteness
and inaccessibility) "Botany Bay." The only approach to it had been by
a narrow lane, across which linen from the wash used to hang, and once
impeded the dignified progress of a Vice-Chancellor. "If there is a
college there," cried the potentate in a passion, "there must be a road
to it." And the result was Beaumont Street!
[11] Oxonians know the tradition that an All Souls candidate is invited
to dinner at high table, and given cherry pie; and that careful note is
taken as to the manner in which he deals with the stones!
[12] A subsequent legend related that the undergraduates of his new
college were greatly interested in discovering (from reference to an
encyclopaedia) that a Latter-day Saint was equivalent to a Mormon.
"Where were the freshman's wives?" was the natural inquiry. Answer
came there none; but the excitement grew intense when it was rumoured
that he had applied to a fellow of Magdalen for six ladies' tickets for
the chapel service.
[13] "And I call to my assistance her who is ever a Virgin
And who ever looks on all the sufferings among men."
--SOPH. AJAX. v. 835.
[14] "My lord! my lord!" a Midlothian farmer (who had just been served
with an iced souffle) whispered to his host at a tenants' dinner at
Dalmeny: "I'm afraid there's something wrang wi' the pudden: it's stane
cauld." Lord Rosebery instantly called a footman, and spoke to him in
an undertone. "No, do you know?" he said, turning to his guest with a
smile, "it is quite right. I find that this kind of pudding is _meant_
to be cold!"
[15] Less so, however, than the then Earl of Leicester (the second),
between whose eldest daughter (already a grandmother) and youngest
child there was an interval of some fifty years. Lord Ronald Gower
once told Queen Victoria (who liked such titbits of family gossip) the
astonishing, if not unique, fact that Lord Leicester married exactly a
century after his father. The Queen flatly refused to believe it; and
as the Court was at the moment at Aix-les-Bains, Lord Ronald was for
the time unable to adduce documentary evidence that he was not "pulling
her Majesty's leg." The respective dates were, as a matter of fact,
1775 and 1875.
[16] Lord Bute could never do anything quite like other people; and his
legacies to Galloway and Argyll had been hampered by conditions to
which no Catholic bishop, even if he accepted them for himself, could
possibly bind his successor.
{37}