1905
There had been an official visitation, by Abbot Gasquet, of our abbey
at Fort Augustus in January, 1905. I had been unable to attend it, but
the news reached me at Oxford that one of its results had been the
resignation of his office by the abbot. This was not so important as
it sounded; for the Holy See did not "see its way" (horrid phrase!) to
accept the proffered resignation, and the abbot remained in office.
I attended this month a Catholic "Demonstration," as it was called (a
word I always hated), in honour of the Bishop of Birmingham--or the
"Catholic Bishop of Oxford," as an enthusiastic convert, who had set up
a bookshop in the city, with a large portrait of Bishop Ilsley in the
window, chose to designate him. The function was in the town hall, and
Father Bernard Vaughan made one of his most florid orations, which got
terribly on the nerves of good old Sir John Day (the Catholic judge),
who sat next me on the platform. "Why on earth doesn't somebody stop
him?" he whispered to me in a loud "aside," as the eloquent Jesuit "let
himself go" on the subject of the Pope and the King. On the other
hand, I heard the Wesleyan Mayor, who was in the chair, murmur to _his_
{38} neighbour, "This is eloquence indeed!" "Vocal relief" (as the
reporters say at classical concerts) was afforded by a capital choir,
which sang with amazing energy, "Faith of our Fathers," and Faber's
sentimental hymn, the opening words of which--"Full in the pant" ...
are apt to call forth irreverent smiles.
I took Bernard Vaughan (who knew little of Oxford) a walk round the
city on Sunday afternoon. We looked into one of the most "advanced"
churches, where a young curate, his biretta well on the back of his
head, was catechising a class of children. "Tell me, children," we
heard him say, "who was the first Protestant?" "The Devil, Father!"
came the shrill response. "Yes, quite right, the Devil!" and we left
the church much edified.
There was good music to be heard in Oxford in those early days of the
year; and I attended some enjoyable concerts with a music-loving member
of my Hall. The boy-prodigies, of whom there were several above the
horizon at this time, generally had good audiences at Oxford; and I
used to find something inexplicably uncanny in the attainments and
performances of these gifted youngsters--Russian, German and English.
Astonishing technique--as far as was possible for half-grown
fingers--one might fairly look for; but whence the _sehnsucht_, the
passionate yearning, that one seemed to find in some, at least, of
their interpretations? That they should feel it appears incredible:
yet it could not have been a mere imitative monkey-trick, a mere echo
of the teaching of their master. And why should there be this
precocious development in music alone, of all the arts? These things
want {39} explaining psychologically. I was amused at one of these
recitals to hear the eminent violinist Marie Hall (who happened to be
sitting next me) say that the boy (it was the Russian Mischa Elman)
could not possibly play Bazzini's _Ronde des Lutins_ (he did play it,
and admirably), and also that he had suddenly "struck," to the dismay
of his _impresario_, against appearing as a "wunderkind" in sailor kit
and short socks, and had insisted on a dress suit!
The Torpids were rowed in icy weather this year; I took Lady
Gainsborough and her daughter on to Queen's barge; and Queen's (in
which they were interested) made, with the help of two Rhodes Scholars,
two bumps, amid shouts of "Go it, _Quaggas_!"--a new _petit nom_ since
my time, when only the Halls had nicknames. Tuckwell, of an older
generation than mine, reports in his reminiscences how St. Edmund Hall,
in his time, was encouraged by cries from the bank of "On, St. Edmund,
on!" and not, as in these degenerate days, "Go it, Teddy!" It was a
novelty on the river to see the coaching done from bicycles instead of
from horseback. But bicycles were ubiquitous at Oxford, and doubtless
of the greatest service; and my young Benedictines and I went far
afield awheel on architectural and other excursions. Passing the
broken and battered park railings of beautiful Nuneham (not yet
repaired by Squire "Lulu"[1]), my companion commented on their
condition; and I told him the legend of the former owner, who was so
{40} disconsolate at the death of his betrothed (a daughter of Dean
Liddell) on their wedding-day, that he never painted or repaired his
park railings again!
I heard at the end of February of the engagement (concluded in a
beauty-spot of the Italian Riviera) of my young friend Bute--he would
not be twenty-four till June--to Augusta Bellingham. A boy-and-girl
attachment which had found its natural and happy conclusion--that was
the whole story, though the papers, of course, were full of impossibly
romantic tales about both the young people. They went off straight to
Rome, in Christian fashion, to ask the Pope's blessing on their
betrothal; and I just missed them there, for I had the happiness this
spring of another brief visit to Italy, at the invitation of a
Neapolitan friend. I spent two or three delightful weeks at the
Bertolini Palace, high above dear dirty Naples, with an entrancing view
over the sunlit bay, and Vesuvius (quite quiescent) in the background.
I found the city not much changed in thirty years, and, as always, much
more attractive than its queer and half-savage population. Watching
the cab-drivers trying to urge their lumbering steeds into a canter, I
thought how oddly different are the sounds employed by different
nations to make their horses go. The Englishman makes the well-known
untransferable click with his tongue: the Norwegian imitates the sound
of a kiss: the Arab rolls an r-r-r: the Neapolitan coachman _barks_
Wow! wow! wow! The subject is worth developing.
I met at Naples, among other people, Sir Charles Wyndham, with his
unmistakable "Criterion" voice, and as cynically amusing off the stage
as he generally {41} was on it. He reminded me of what I had
forgotten--that I had once shown him all over our Abbey at Fort
Augustus. I told him of a lecture Beerbohm Tree had recently given at
Oxford, and showed him my copy of a striking passage[2] which I had
transcribed from a shorthand note of the lecture. "Noble words," the
veteran actor agreed, "I know them well; but they were not written for
his Oxford lecture. I remember them a dozen or more years ago, in an
address he gave (I think in 1891) to the Playgoers' Club; and the last
clause ran--'to point _in the twilight of a waning century_ to the
greater light beyond.' Those words would not of course be applicable
in 1904."
I had looked forward to a day in the museum, with its wonderful
sculptures and unique relics of Pompeii; but I was lost there, for the
whole collection was being rearranged, and no catalogue available. The
Cathedral too was closed, being under restoration--for the sixth time
in six centuries! Some of the Neapolitan churches seemed to me sadly
wanting in internal order and cleanliness, an exception being a
spotless and perfectly-kept convent chapel on the hill, conveniently
near me for daily mass. The German Emperor made, with his customary
suddenness, a descent on Naples during {42} my stay. The quays and
streets were hastily decorated, and there was a ferment of excitement
everywhere; but I fled from the hurly-burly by cable-railway
(_funicoli-funicola!_) to the heights of San Martino, to visit the
desecrated and abandoned Certosa, now a "national monument": tourists
trampling about the lovely church with their hats on. It made me sick,
and I told the astonished guide so. The cloister garth, with its sixty
white marble columns, charmed and impressed me; but all _molto triste_.
Three old Carthusian monks, I heard, were still permitted to huddle in
some corner of their monastery till they dropped and died.[3]
A day I spent at Lucerne on my way home, in fog, snow, and sleet (no
sign of spring), I devoted partly to the "Kriegs-und-Frieden"
Museum--chiefly _kriegs!_ with an astonishingly complete collection of
all things appertaining to war. I went to Downside on my arrival in
England, had some talk with the kind abbot on Fort Augustus affairs,
and admired the noble church, a wonderful landmark with its lofty
tower, choir now quite complete externally, and _chevet_ of flanking
chapels. I got to Arundel in time for the functions of Holy Week, and
thought I had seen nothing more beautiful in Italy than St. Philip's
great church on Maundy Thursday, its "chapel of repose" bright with
lilies, azaleas and tulips, tall silver candlesticks and hangings of
rose-coloured velvet. I had landed in {43} England speechless with a
cold caught at Lucerne, and could neither sing nor preach. Summer Term
at Oxford opened with a snowstorm, and May Day was glacial. I found I
had been elected to the new County Club, a good house with a really
charming garden, and (to paraphrase Angelo Cyrus Bantam) "rendered
bewitching by the absence of ---- undergraduates, who have an
amalgamation of themselves at the Union." The most noteworthy visitor
to the Union this term was Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman (then leader of
the Opposition), who made a somewhat vitriolic speech, lasting an hour,
against the Government. The 550 undergraduates present listened,
cheered frequently--and voted against him by a large majority, a good
deal (I heard afterwards) to the old gentleman's chagrin.
The Archbishop of Westminster (Dr. Bourne) came to Oxford in May as the
guest of Mgr. Kennard, who illuminated in his honour the garden and
quad of his pretty old house in St. Aldate's, and gave a dinner and big
reception, at neither of which I could be present, being laid up from a
bicycle-accident. It was Eights-week, and his Grace saw the races one
evening, and I think was also present at a Newman Society debate, when
a motion advocating the setting up of a Catholic University in Ireland
by the Government was rejected by a considerable majority.[4] I was
able to hobble to Balliol a few days later, when Sir Victor Horsley
delivered {44} the Boyle lecture to a crowded and distinguished
audience. I noted down as interesting one thing he said (I fancy it
was a quotation from somebody else[5]): "Every scientific truth passes
through three stages: in the first it is decried as absurd; in the
second it is said to be opposed to revealed religion; in the third
everybody knew it before!" Sir Victor's lecture left me, rightly or
wrongly, under the impression that he was something of a sceptic; and I
asked my neighbour, a clerical don of note, from Keble, why so many
medical bigwigs seemed inclined to atheism. He answered (oddly enough)
that it was only what David had prophesied long ago when he asked
despairingly (Psalm lxxxvii. 11), _Numquid medici suscitabunt et
confitebuntur tibi?_ ("Shall the physicians rise up and praise
Thee?")--a curious little bit of exegesis from an Anglican.[6]
June 16 was a busy day--a garden party at Blenheim, with special trains
for the Oxford guests; the Duchess, in blue and white and a big black
hat, welcoming her guests in her low, sweet, and curiously un-American
voice, and the little Duke rather affable in khaki (he was encamped
with the Oxfordshire Hussars in the park). We sat about under the big
cedars, and there was organ-music in the cool {45} white library, where
I noticed that Sargent's very odd group of the ducal family had been
hung--with not altogether happy effect--as a pendant to the famous and
beautiful group painted by Reynolds. I got back to Oxford just in time
for the festival dinner of the Canning and Chatham Clubs, at which my
old schoolfellow Alfred Lyttelton, Hugh Cecil, and other Tory
notabilities, were guests. Alfred spoke admirably: Hugh, though loudly
called upon, refused to speak at all. The President of Magdalen, by
whom I sat, told me in pained tones how some Christ Church
undergraduates, _suadente diabolo_, had recently scaled the wall into
Magdalen deer-park, had dragged (Heaven knew how) over the wall two of
our sacrosanct fallow deer, and had turned the poor brutes loose in the
"High"--an outrage without precedent in the college annals. I duly
sympathized.
A feature of Catholic and Benedictine interest in this year's
Commemoration was the conferring of the honorary doctorate of letters
on my old friend and fellow-novice, Dom Germain Morin, the
distinguished patristic scholar.[7] I did _not_ attend the hot and
tiresome Encaenia, but I went to the Magdalen concert, where I found
myself talking between the songs to Lady Winchilsea, whose husband and
brother-in-law had been friends of mine at Eton, and had acted with me,
I think, in more than one school play. The lady was born a Harcourt,
{46} and talked interestingly about beautiful Nuneham in the days of
her girlhood. I met her again next day at Radley College, where the
annual "gaudy" was always a pleasant wind-up to the summer term. It
turned wet, and the usual concert was given, not _al fresco_, but in
the fine old panelled schoolroom with its open roof, once Sir George
Bowyer's barn.[8] Two days later I kept yet another "silver jubilee"
(following naturally on that of my receiving the Benedictine habit),
namely the anniversary of my religious profession. Being in London, I
spent the day with what piety was possible, in the Dominican monastery
at Haverstock Hill, attending high mass in the beautiful church, dining
with the good friars, and sitting awhile in their pretty shady garden.
One of the fathers told me of a notice he had personally seen affixed
to a pillar in Milan Cathedral in 1899. I copied it forthwith, as one
of the funniest things of the kind which I had ever seen. Here it is
_verbatim_:--
APPELE TO CHARITABLES.--The Brothers (so-called of Mercy) ask some
slender Arms for their Hospital They harbour all kinds of diseases, and
have no respect for religion.
I met this evening my nephew Kelburne, R.N., who had just been
appointed first lieutenant on {47} H.M.S. _Renown_ (which was to take
the Prince and Princess of Wales to India); he was looking forward to a
good spell of leave and plenty of sport in the East. He seemed very
keen on polo, and amused me with a yarn about his (naval) team having
been offered L50 if they would kill Winston Churchill in their coming
match against the House of Commons![9] The event of July was Bute's
wedding in Ireland on the 6th. I travelled straight to Castle
Bellingham two days previously, with Bute's Scots pipers in my train,
much admired by the populace. I found, of course, the little Louth
village, and indeed the whole countryside, _en fete_. The bride-elect,
in inviting me, had spoken about "a quiet wedding at home"; but how was
that possible? for the day could not be other than a popular festival
to the warm-hearted folk among whom "Miss Augusta" had spent all her
life. The wedding guests, bidden and unbidden, converged on the little
country church in every imaginable conveyance, from special trains and
motor-cars to the humble donkey-cart. The marriage service was simple
and devout, the officiant being neither cardinal nor bishop, but the
bride's own parish priest, while the music was grave plain-chant,
perfectly rendered, with an exquisite motett by Palestrina. The royal
Stuart tartan worn by the bridegroom, and the vivid St. Patrick's blue
of the bridesmaids' cloaks and hoods, made a picturesque splash of
colour against the masses of pure white lilies and marguerites with
which the church was {48} decorated. Most picturesque of all was the
going-away of the happy pair from the little fishing-harbour, whither
they were preceded, accompanied, and followed by troops of friends.
Embarking in a white barge manned by oarsmen in the Bellingham
liveries, they were rowed out to the steamer which was to take them
across the sea to their honeymoon in Galloway. The pipers, following
in another barge, played "Johnnie Stuart's gone awa'"; the band on the
pier struck up "Come Back to Erin"; and amid cheers and tears and
acclamations and blessings the white boat turned the corner of the
pierhead and glided out over the rippling sunlit waters. We were
regaled afterwards with some delightful part-singing by a famous Dublin
choir on the castle lawn. Next day I departed with the Loudouns for
Belfast, where it rained as it _can_ rain only in Ireland, and I
thought of one of Lady Dufferin's charming letters from the south of
France to her Irish relatives:--
"O that I could transport a bit of that Provence sky which I have been
enjoying, over your dear, dripping heads in Ireland! It is a terrible
drawback on the goods of life at home to lead a web-foot existence. I
sometimes fancy that I could put up with any amount of despotic
monarchy taken warm, with Burgundy, rather than the British
constitution, with all that cold water!"
We crossed to Stranraer in rain and mist, but found the sun shining in
Galloway. The Loudouns went on to Ayrshire, and I to visit my niece at
Dunskey, the new house which already looked old, with much dark oak,
good pictures, and fine old prints everywhere. I liked the long and
lofty terrace in front, commanding a beautiful view of the blue {49}
curve of the Irish Sea, the Mourne Mountains in the background, and,
far to the south-westward, the Isle of Man[10] hanging like an azure
cloud on the horizon. Everywhere round my dear old home,[11] in farms
and village, gardens and woods, were signs of the changes and
improvements wrought by the late owner, who had barely lived to see
them. _Sic vos non vobis_, I sadly said to myself, as I stood on the
point between the two bays at the foot of Dunskey Glen (his chosen
resting-place), and looked at the simple granite cross rising above the
brackens and heather. Portpatrick I found changed out of knowledge,
with its red-roofed houses, electric light, golf-course, and big hotel
on the brow of the hill. _Tout passe_. I had loved the quiet
old-world village of my childhood, but I could not grudge the place its
new prosperity, and all was full of interest to me. From Dunskey I
went on to Kelburne and Loudoun Castle--the latter big, imposing and
bare, and a little suggestive of Castle Carabas! though new pictures
and redecoration did much, later on, to improve the interior. My
examination-week at the Dumfries convent followed, diversified by an
interesting visit to the local madhouse (euphemistically known as the
"Crichton Royal Institution"), {50} said to be the finest lunatic
asylum in Britain; with splendid buildings, in perfect condition, 800
acres of fertile land, and the same number of patients, from country
gentlemen to paupers. The high wall round the establishment was being
replaced by a hedge, and the attendants were kept out of sight as much
as possible, in accordance with the modern theory of not letting
lunatics know that they were under restraint.[12] The luxuriousness of
the whole place, in comparison with the home surroundings of most of
the inmates, was very noticeable; and the spectacle of a "doited"
farm-labourer seated in an arm-chair in a carpeted lounge, reading the
_Graphic_ upside down, was certainly curious, if not instructive.
I paid a visit to Eton this summer, on the occasion of the laying of
the foundation of the South African war memorial by Princess Alexander
of Teck (her husband and brother were both Etonians), who looked
charming all in ivory white, with a long plume of Eton blue in her hat.
The school O.T.C. formed the guard of honour, the only _contretemps_
being that several of the youthful warriors were overcome by the heat,
dropping down in the ranks one after another, like so many ninepins.
The new building was to occupy the site of "m' tutors" ("the tallest
house in college," he had said to me on my first arrival, "as I am the
tallest master!"), and I walked {51} through the hideous building for
the last time--_memor temporis acti_--before going on to the head
master's party in his charming garden sloping down to the river--a
farewell function, as Dr. Warre was resigning the head mastership to
Edward Lyttelton this half, and several masters were leaving with him.
I went to London from Eton to attend Hyde's marriage to Miss Somers
Cocks, and (though the season was over) met many friends afterwards at
Lady Dudley's house in Carlton-gardens, where the wedding guests
foregathered.
A visit to Arundel a little later was signalized by great festivities
in honour of the birth of the Duke's little daughter. The four
thousand guests who, as the fancy took them, danced in the tilting-yard
(converted into a great open-air ballroom), listened to martial music
from military bands, roamed through the beautiful state-rooms, or gazed
admiringly at the myriad fairy lamps which glowed many-coloured on
castle walls, battlements, and towers, were literally of every class.
Peers and peeresses, officers and deans and doctors, and Sussex county
magnates, mingled freely with the farmers, artisans, and workmen who
were their fellow-guests. The fete wound up with a grand display of
fireworks in the park, and the host and hostess (the latter looking
very nice in her white summer frock, with flowing crimson sash and a
string of great pearls round her neck), made every one happy with their
affability and kindness.
On my way north I stayed a few days with the Gainsboroughs at Exton,
near Oakham--my first visit to the little shire of Rutland. A most
attractive place, I thought: a charming modern Jacobean {52} house (the
ruins of the Elizabethan hall, burnt down a century before, stood close
by): beautiful gardens and a nobly-timbered park, in which stands the
fine old parish church with its singularly graceful spire. Tennis, _al
fresco_ teas, and much music, occupied a few days very agreeably; and I
then went on to St. Andrews for my usual autumn sojourn, which I always
enjoyed. But my most memorable Scottish visit this autumn was to
Abbotsford, which, curiously enough, I had never yet seen, though I had
known its owners for thirty years. My grandfather and Sir Walter Scott
had been friends for many years: they were planning and building at the
same time their respective homes in the western and eastern Lowlands,
and often exchanged visits and letters. Here is a little note
(undated) in which Sir Walter acknowledged, with an apt Shakespearian
reference, a gift of game from Blairquhan:--
My Dear Sir David,--
I thank you much for your kind present. The pheasants arrived in
excellent condition, and showing, like Shakespeare's Yeomen, "the
mettle of their pasture."[13]
When are you and Lady Blair going to take another run down Tweed?
Your obliged humble servant,
WALTER SCOTT.
My father had stayed at Abbotsford as a little boy, before he entered
the Navy, and two or three years before Sir Walter's death in 1832. He
had not the customary reminiscence of having sat on {53} the great
man's knee;[14] but he remembered a beautiful collie which lay outside
the study door, and refused to let any one enter in his master's
absence. We were all brought up on Scott--his _Tales of a
Grandfather_, his novels and poems. My father seemed to know the
latter all by heart: he would reel them off (with fine elocution, too)
by the hour, and we children loved the stirring music of the Border
songs, the _Lady of the Lake_ and the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, which
only in our later and more sophisticated days suggested the answer to a
flippant conundrum.[15]
To me, of course, Abbotsford had, and has, a special and peculiar
charm, as having been for more than sixty years one of the "Catholic
Homes of Scotland."[16] The "incongruous pile" sneered at by Ruskin,
the bizarre architecture which, I suppose, made Dean Stanley describe
it as a place to be visited once and never again, are open to criticism
and easily criticized. I prefer the judgment of Andrew Lang, that "it
is hallowed ground, and one may not judge it by common standards." To
{54} Catholics it is doubly hallowed--as a Catholic centre in the sweet
Border-land which Scott knew and loved so well, and as the "darling
seat" of one who by the magic of his writings made the Catholic past of
Scotland live again, and the last words on whose dying lips were lines
from two of the noblest and most sacred hymns in the Catholic
liturgy.[17]
The Dowager Lady Bute was the occupant of Abbotsford during my visit
there, and had hoped to make it her home for some time; but her stay
was cut short by a serious motor accident, in which she and her
daughter sustained rather severe injuries. I was at the time at
Dumfries House, where Bute and his bride were happily settled for the
autumn; and there was of course great concern at the Abbotsford
disaster, which fortunately turned out less grave than was at first
feared. I was interested in the recent additions to Dumfries House,
including a fine Byzantine chapel, a saloon lit from the roof for the
Stair tapestries,[18] and a new library-billiard-room, all so cleverly
tucked in by the architect behind the existing wings, that the
beautiful Adam front remains as it was. Lady Bute, smartly frocked,
and twinkling with diamonds, sapphires, and ropes of pearls, was quite
"Lothair's bride." On Sunday we had the regulation walk to the lovely
old garden, stables, farm, and poultry-yard. A great {55} "wale" of
cocks and hens,[19] among which our hostess dropped one of her
priceless earrings, and we had a long hunt for it. Reading my Glasgow
paper in the train next day, on my way south, I came on a paragraph
announcing the "reception into the Roman Church" of the Professor of
Greek (J. S. Phillimore) at Glasgow University--a Christ Church man,
and a scholar of the highest distinction. What (I thought) will the
"unco guid" of Glasgow say now?[20]
[1] Sir William Harcourt's son, commonly known as "Lulu" (now Viscount
Harcourt), had lately inherited Nuneham on the death of his father.
[2] It ran as follows: "In an age when faith is tinged with philosophic
doubt, when love is regarded but as a spasm of the nervous system, and
life itself as but the refrain of a music-hall song, I believe that it
is still the function of art to give us light rather than darkness.
Its teaching should not be to prove that we are descended from monkeys,
but rather to remind us of our affinity with the angels. Its mission
is not to lead us through the fogs of doubt into the bogs of despair,
but to point us to the greater light beyond."
[3] On what principle, I could not help asking myself, are
Benedictines, Dominicans, Franciscans, and Jesuits (all engaged in
active work, and therefore _ex hypothesi_ dangerous), freely tolerated
in Rome, and Carthusians (whose only occupation is prayer) expelled
from Naples?
[4] On a previous occasion our Catholic Society had voted on the same
motion in precisely the contrary sense. But the opinions of the
"Newman," as of all university debating societies (not excluding the
Union), were quite fluid and indeterminate on almost every subject.
[5] Sir Charles Lyell, I am inclined to believe. But I cannot "place"
the quotation.
[6] Curious; because the Authorized translation (presumably used at
Keble) ignores the _medici_ altogether, its version being "Shall the
dead arise and praise Thee?" There is, I fancy, some authority for my
friend's interpretation; still, the context seems to show clearly that
_suscitabunt_ means "rise from the dead," and that what the words
convey is that dead doctors, like other dead men, are done with
praising God anyhow in this world.
[7] A monk of the abbey of Maredsous, in Belgium, but by birth a
Norman, a native of Caen. He was somewhat of the destructive school of
patristic critics, and I once heard it said that Dom Germain would not
die happy until he had proved to his own satisfaction that all the
supposed writings of St. Augustine were spurious!
[8] Radley House, his birthplace, had been sold to the college some
years before by Sir George Bowyer, the eminent Catholic jurist and
writer, who had preceded Manning into the Church in 1850, and who built
the beautiful church annexed to the Catholic Hospital in Great Ormond
Street (removed later to St. John's Wood). I well remember in my early
Catholic days (I think about 1876) the excitement caused by the
expulsion of Sir George--whose strongly-expressed views on the Roman
question and other matters were highly distasteful to British
Liberals--from the Reform Club.
[9] I think I heard afterwards that the sailors got him off his pony
once or twice; but the reward was not earned, and he lived to become
First Lord of the Admiralty just three years later!
[10] Only visible in the clearest weather. From a point farther south
(the Mull of Galloway) could be descried also, across the Solway Firth,
the Cumberland hills; and my grandfather, standing there, used to say
that he could see five kingdoms--the kingdom of Scotland, the kingdom
of Ireland, the kingdom of England, the kingdom of Man, and the kingdom
of Heaven!
[11] I had inherited Dunskey nearly fifty years before, on my
grandfather's death (1857). The place was bought in 1900 by Charles
Orr Ewing, M.P., who married my niece, the Glasgows' eldest daughter.
[12] A theory which, reduced to practice, had its disadvantages. I
remember Lord Rosebery writing to the papers complaining that the
lunatics of Epsom, finding no difficulty, under the new and improved
system, in escaping from duress, used occasionally to saunter from the
local asylum into his grounds, and, I think, even his house, near by.
[13] The reference, of course, is to _King Henry V._, Act iii., Sc. 2:
"And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture."
[14] My dear old cousin Felicia Skene, whose father had been one of
Scott's closest friends, told me that this had been her privilege. So
also did the late George Boyle, sometime Dean of Salisbury, who,
however, in his autobiography, speaks merely of having once seen Sir
Walter (looking very old and ill) when he came to call on his (the
Dean's) father.
[15] "If you happened to find an egg on a music-stool, what poem would
it remind you of?"
[16] James Hope Scott, the eminent parliamentary lawyer, friend of
Newman, Manning and Gladstone, and husband of Sir Walter's
granddaughter and eventual heiress, made his submission to Rome in
1851. His daughter Mary Monica (afterwards Hon. Mrs. Joseph Maxwell
Scott), inherited Abbotsford at his death; and it is now owned by her
son, General Walter Maxwell Scott.
[17] The _Dies Irae_ and the _Stabat Mater_. See Lockhart, _Life of
Walter Scott_ (2nd Ed.), vol. x., p. 215.
[18] From the looms of Gobelin: presented by Louis XIV. to an Earl of
Stair, British Ambassador in Paris. They had come into the Dumfries
(Bute) family through the marriage of a son of the first Earl of Stair
to Penelope, Countess of Dumfries in her own right. It was a standing
grievance of our old friend the tenth Earl of Stair that these
tapestries were not at Lochinch.
[19] "Wale"=choice, or selection. A Fife laird, driving home across
Magus Moor after dining not wisely but too well, fell out of his gig,
and his wig fell off, but was recovered by his servant. "It's no' ma
wig, Davie, it's no' ma wig," he moaned as he lay in the mire,
thrusting the peruke away. "You'd best take it, sir," said the
serving-man dryly; "_there's nae wale o' wigs on Magus Moor_."
[20] They said much that was nasty, but they could not oust the
professor (though they tried their best) from his professorship. _Au
contraire_, he received promotion soon afterwards, being elected to the
Chair of Humanity; and a protest organized by certain bigots was
allowed to "lie on the table"--i.e., went into the waste-paper basket.
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