My Eldest Sister’s Marriage—Life at Cresswell—School-days in
London—First Sea Voyages—Roualeyn’s Return from South Africa.
My first recollection of country-house visiting was when I was six years
old, and my father and my sister Ida took me with them to stay at Gordon
Castle (the Duke of Richmond’s home near Fochabers). Curiously enough,
the stately duchess, _née_ Lady Caroline Paget, was sister-in-law to two
of my mother’s sisters, Aunt Eleanor having married her brother, Lord
Uxbridge, and Aunt Adelaide had married the duke’s brother, Lord Arthur
Lennox. I found a congenial playfellow in “Cuckoo” (Lady Cecilia Lennox,
now Lady Lucan), then a pretty child, a few months younger than myself.
That year also brought me my first experience of the honour of being a
bridesmaid. The bride was my eldest sister, Anne Seymour Conway, so
called after Mrs. Damur, the sculptress,[28] who was a cousin and
intimate friend of my grandmother.
Seymour was a very attractive girl—tall and graceful, with a profusion
of long, dark, glossy ringlets; she was a very sweet singer, and a good
artist in oils.
The bridegroom was Oswin Baker-Cresswell, eldest son of Addison
Baker-Cresswell of Cresswell Hall, in Northumberland—a huge pile of
solid stone, with tall Corinthian columns, about nine miles from
Morpeth, and one from the sea, close to which stands the old Tower of
Cresswell, which was old in the days of King John, and still bears
traces of the red-hot lead which the besieged poured on the heads of the
besiegers.
Close to it were the ruins of the old manor house, which was destroyed
when Mr. Cresswell resolved to erect his great modern mansion, the cost
of which proved to be so enormous that no one was ever allowed to
discover it.
The whole place, like the dear old squire himself, was solemn and
somewhat awe-inspiring, and the sweet little mother, who was the very
incarnation of gentle love, was so exceedingly delicate that at the time
of her eldest son’s marriage the family were living abroad, and it was
to this great empty house that the young bride was taken, from the
lovely home and the large happy family—
“Whose laughter made the thickets
And the arching alleys ring.”
In place of lovely woods carpeted with ferns and heather, there were
only very young plantations, with miles of beautifully kept and
frequently raked fine gravel paths; and even the sea-shore, to one
accustomed to the variety of form and wealth of colour of our beautiful
Covesea caves, was dreary and monotonous, added to which, the frequent
cold sea-mists, so very common on the Northumbrian coasts, all conspired
to weigh on the spirits of the young girl.
Ere long she entreated our father to let her have me, as a bit of young
life in the great house; and so it came to pass that Sir William,
accompanied by my second sister Ida, took me and my Swiss _bonne_
Chérie, posting all the way from Altyre to Cresswell.
Vividly do I remember our arrival, and all the solemn, kind old servants
indoors and out, who made a pet of the child who, with the adaptability
of early youth, soon learnt to love everything connected with the big
house, even the grim statuary. In our sitting-room at Altyre sculpture
was represented by a graceful Venus, beautiful heads of Bacchus and
Apollo, and family busts, and one—not beautiful, but unique—of Madame de
Staël, who was a special friend of my father, each delighting in the
ready wit of the other—“_Les beaux esprits se rencontrent_.”
At Cresswell the place of honour in the central hall was assigned to a
life-sized group of the agonised Laocoon in deadly conflict with the
entwining serpents, and all round the grand staircase were casts of the
grim, fractured Elgin marbles—a source of never-ending puzzlement to the
child.
Then there was the delight of the crowds of pheasants, which came
continually to feed out of boxes on the lawn, and of walks to the one
great boulder which we called the Lion’s Head, and of climbing into the
huge head-bones of the whale which had been cast up by the sea—a unique
occurrence, in memory of which Mr. Cresswell built a high stone
platform, on which the bones repose to the present day. Or there were
large pine cones from the flourishing young pinasters to be collected,
or a prowl round the headland where the great fossil tree
(Lepidodendron) was found. Or else a delightful ramble along the wide
yellow sands of Druridge Bay, where we picked up such a variety of
shells; and the kind fishers would reserve for me many a treasure drawn
up in their nets. Even the gravel walks supplied scraps of red cornelian
for the young collector.
And if the great walled gardens lacked the romantic beauty of those at
Altyre, they had endless delight for the child who was allowed a free
hand (and much help) in cultivating her own sheltered nook. There also
was a room entirely given up to canaries, which built their nests and
reared their young in full view of all comers.
When winter came, what excitement there was in decking the house with
holly, and helping the cook to bake “Yuledoughs,” which were wonderful
figures of men and women, decorated with currants, to appear on the
Christmas breakfast tables, a lass for each lad, and a lad for each
lassie. As to the Yule-logs, the marvel was whence in that treeless
region such great logs could have come.
But the chief wonder was the gigantic game-pie, containing a turkey, a
goose, a hare, and at least a couple (boned, of course) of every other
variety of fur and feather yielded by the poultry-yard, or supplied by
the sportsman. Its pie-crust cover, which was lifted off and on bodily,
was adorned with groups of game, which we deemed triumphs of artistic
genius, and the weight of the whole taxed the strength of the strongest
footman.
Then there were the carol-singers, and these were followed at the New
Year by mummers, the latter being men and lads from the collieries
fantastically dressed up. Sometimes the excitement was varied by deep
snow, which necessitated digging out a road all the way to Morpeth.
In due season came the joys of Easter—of gathering golden furze
blossoms, and of begging for bits of the maids’ last year’s print
dresses wherein to boil the gay Pasque eggs which rejoiced all the
village children, and which rolled so delightfully on the grassy slopes
along the sea-board.
And a little later, all the woods were carpeted with luxuriant
primroses, and oh, joy of joys! Chug-dean (the one little glen, through
which flows a sluggish stream whose steep banks are clothed with natural
wood) became all ablaze with colour—blue hyacinths, pink ragged-robin,
primroses, anemones, fox-gloves, and orchids, and here and there a
delightful nest with eggs or young birds.
Then, indeed, the child realised an earthly paradise, only occasionally
marred by old Chérie’s views of what was “_convenable_” for “_les
demoiselles bien élevées_,” and the despairing cry with which she was
wont to check any display of too exuberant spirits, “_Ah! vous êtes un
Tom, et puis un romping boy!_” She meant a tomboy and a romp, but she
was apt to get a little mixed!
Very pleasant also was the kindly welcome of all the cottagers and the
fisher-folk. The latter were never tired of telling of the courage of my
sister Ida and “the Captain” (Bill Cresswell, of the 11th Hussars), and
how they sailed to Coquet Island, Grace Darling’s home, and were caught
in a very alarming storm. (Eventually that young couple followed the
example of her elder sister and his elder brother, and started in double
harness.)
How I loved the smell of baking in all the cottage ovens, and the
peculiar intonation of the Northumbrian burr-r-r, with the elevation of
the voice at the end of every sentence, so unmistakable wherever heard.
After some years’ absence, how pleasant it was to return to be greeted
by the hearty Anglo-Saxon, “Eh! Miss Coomins, but ye are sair-r-r
waxen!” (_i.e._ sore waxed, very much grown—good Biblical English).
In due season there were great rejoicings because of the birth of an
heir, and Baby Oswin was the very ideal of a healthy baby, and the joy
of the family. It is many years since he passed away from earth, a
weary, suffering man, and his grandsons are now the rising generation.
To mark his advent, my sister invited all the county neighbours to a
ball, and prepared for them a wonderful surprise, in the shape of a very
large and exceedingly beautiful Christmas-tree—a thing which had been
heard of in German stories, but which no one had yet seen. Needless to
say that all the very ornamental bonbons from Fortnum and Mason were
appreciated to the full.
Up to this time Cresswell had been the only home, for it was generally
supposed that the squire and the dear fragile little mother were both so
old that it would be folly for the young couple to start a separate home
for themselves. Now, however, my sister urged that a house should be
built at Harehope, at the foot of a sunny hill, where the purple
moorland and juniper-jungle suddenly ends and the rich cultivated land
begins, stretching on the one side to Wooler and the Cheviot hills, and
on the other to the lower range of the Fawdon hills.
Through this fertile valley a sluggish stream meanders—not beautiful,
but yielding excellent trout. Dull as it is, it has a most unenviable
notoriety, on account of the many sad drowning accidents it has
occasioned. Some local lines compare its fatalities with those of the
swift-flowing Tweed:—
“Says Tweed to Till,
‘What gars ye rin sae still?’
Says Till to Tweed,
‘Though ye rin with speed,
And I rin slaw,
For ilka man ye droon
I droon twa.’”
The proposed site was happily situated in regard to neighbours, as on
one side it marches with Lord Tankerville’s beautiful estate of
Chillingham Castle, and the park where the celebrated wild white cattle
still retain their pure blood—the only herd which can now claim to do
so. In the opposite direction lies Alnwick Castle (the Duke of
Northumberland’s stately home), and up the valley lies Esslington, one
of Lord Ravensworth’s homes; and these families were all old friends.
After much consideration, it was decided to build a comfortable
Elizabethan house, at the foot of Harehope hill, and friends and
neighbours assembled to see Baby Oswin lay the foundation-stone of what
very soon became a pretty home. But ere the boy was ten years of age,
his father died of a rapid typhoid fever; his mother quickly followed,
and the five children returned to Cresswell to be brought up by the
grandparents, who lived till all save one were married or on the verge
of so being.
Soon after the laying of that foundation-stone, my father married again.
His bride was Jane Mackintosh of Geddes, an estate near Nairn. Her
sister Kate (who was a charming musician) married Dr. Norman Macleod of
the Barony Church in Glasgow. He was one of the Queen’s most trusted
friends—one of the largest-hearted and clearest-headed men who ever
influenced his fellows for good. He originated _Good Words_, the first
periodical which aimed at producing attractive literature with a
distinctly religious tone, and did more than any man of his generation
to teach and exemplify true Christian liberty. It is a fact that at that
time an elder of the Presbyterian Church would scarcely venture to take
a stroll on Sunday, unless he could slip out by a back-door.
Great was the wrath of all the family, when on her bridal visit to
Cresswell, my stepmother persuaded my father to take me back to Altyre,
as a preliminary to sending me to a first-rate school near London. This
was considered highly _infra dig._; but I now look back to it as a wise
act, very valuable to me.
So to Altyre I returned for some months of 1848, after which my brother
Henry took me by stage-coach “Defiance” as far as Aberdeen, where we
slept, proceeding next day by rail to London. There he drove me to
Hermitage Lodge near Fulham, and left me in the care of three very kind
sisters—Miss Ann, Miss Sophia, and Miss Isabella Stevens, with whom I
lived for the next five years, and kept up a firm friendship till one by
one they passed away from earth.
I was only about ten years old, and the fifteen other girls were all
from fifteen to seventeen, but we all got on together very well; and
though to the end I continued to be the youngest girl, I stayed long
enough to be the oldest, and quite an authority on “old days.” Many of
the girls were of good Scottish families, and some have continued my
friends till death. Comparatively few now survive, and they are
grandmothers! The Scottish connection was due to the fact that the
eldest sister had begun life as governess at Brahan Castle, in
Ross-shire, to Louisa Stewart Mackenzie, afterwards Lady Ashburton.
The fact of having always chattered French with my “bonne,” and having
been otherwise carefully taught by my sister—how she toiled over the
Church Catechism, Rollin’s _Ancient History_, Sir Walter Scott’s
fascinating _Tales of a Grandfather_, Audubon’s gorgeous tropical birds,
shell-lore; minuet and other steps in dancing, etc.—enabled me to take a
good place, notwithstanding the deficiency of years. But one altogether
new experience was being obliged on Sunday afternoon to write out all we
could remember of the morning sermon: most of the girls hated this, but
at that time I was happily endowed with an excellent memory, so that was
no great exertion.
We had seats at two churches, one at Walham Green, where Mr. Garratt
officiated; the other, Park Chapel, was a good deal further off, but Mr.
Cadman, who there ministered, had a wonderful power of securing the
attention and affection of his people, and to this day I can remember
much of his teaching.
The annual confirmations were held by the Bishop of London (Blomfield)
in the fine old Parish Church at Fulham, and were preceded by prolonged
and very careful confirmation classes. The age-limit prescribed that we
must be over sixteen, so my turn did not come till June 4, 1853, just
before I finally left school.
Once a month we had a solemn “party-night,” when we donned our best
muslin dresses and sat in the drawing-room to act audience to one
another’s music. There were generally a few relations present—fathers,
mothers, and sisters, but no young men. Mr. Garratt, however,
occasionally brought his son, an exceedingly well-behaved boy, who
consequently was admitted to our concert, and to share the supper we
thought so smart.
Thirty years later, on arriving in Japan, the chaplain of Yokohama was
invited to meet me, and was introduced as Mr. Garratt. A flash of memory
bridged the long years, and I straightway inquired “whether he had ever
heard of Walham Green?” A cordial affirmative made the next question
almost superfluous, “Did he remember Hermitage Lodge?” So there we met
again, and ere long, when Mrs. Foster and I set our hearts on climbing
to the summit of Fujiyama, “The Holy Mount,” he volunteered to be our
escort, and a more unselfish and helpful guardian no travellers could
desire.
As a remembrance of that expedition he presented me with a beautifully
modelled bronze wild-duck flying—an incense burner—which now hangs above
my window, as though flying in from the river.
We were a very happy set of girls, and for the most part very diligent
students, so any small act of rebellion produced quite a flutter. Such
an occasion was that when an uncongenial girl had been told to stay in
her room with nothing to do till she apologised for disrespect to one of
the sisters. About the third day she came forth, and sought the awful
interview, when she thus expressed her sentiments: “I have been told I
must apologise to you, so I have come to do so. Of course I can’t make
myself feel sorry, and I am not at all sorry, but all the same, I
apologise.” Needless to say, this black sheep was shortly returned to
the care of her relations.
This little detail was recalled to my memory by a much more recent case
of insubordination, when a small boy had been punished for some offence,
and a kind aunt endeavoured to improve the occasion. “Now, dear Tommy, I
am sure you are sorry that you were so naughty—you are sorry, dear, are
you not?” “No,” replied the impenitent youth, “I am not at all sorry. I
am very glad. And if I was a little dog, and I had a little tail, I
would wag it!”
I am thankful to say that I have all my life been endowed with a happy
talent of adaptation to my surroundings, and so our humdrum
school-garden yielded me never-failing interest. The really fine old
willow-trees had been grown from cuttings from the very tree which
overshadows Napoleon’s grave at St. Helena, and the pond afforded me
quite as much pleasure as it did to the fat white ducks who luxuriated
in frogs’ spawn. What delight it was to keep tadpoles in a bowl and
watch them develop into frogs! There were newts innumerable, and
water-mussels, and several varieties of snails in shells, and other
creatures. Above all, there were lovely blue dragon-flies, and sometimes
a scarlet one. Moreover, we had “Cora,” a nice young black retriever,
and a cat.
A little ingenuity contrived shady nooks where we could read in peace,
and the open lawn was the scene of many a joyous romp. Of course the
daily formal walk, two and two, was somewhat trying, but it soon became
a matter of course, and the dulness was somewhat mitigated by our being
allowed to select and vary our companion.
The girls quickly discovered my habit of early rising, and that I could
be relied on to waken them at any hour they wished, according to what
subject they were coaching, so at night they used to hand me a paper
from each room, stating at what hour each wished to be called, from 4
A.M. onwards. As we were all obliged to be in bed by ten, this was an
easy matter, and I think it led some of us to a literal and very helpful
interpretation of the promise, “They that seek ME early, shall find ME.”
In consequence of the distance from home, it was ordained that I was
always to spend the Easter and Christmas holidays with friends or
relations in the south, and only in summer was there the grand joy of a
real homegoing, which had all the interest of real travel by steamer.
First, there was the drive through the city to Wapping Old Stairs, and
as the vessel was generally lying in midstream, we had to charter a
small boat to take me and my baggage on board, and of course there were
always rough men about, trying to secure custom. Once on board, I was in
the centre of friends: captain and crew, stewards and stewardess,
welcomed me back year after year, so that I was thoroughly at home.
At that time the old _North Star_ was running direct from London to
Inverness, calling at various points along the coast, including
Burghead, which is our own seaport, near Gordonstoun. Thence fishers’
boats came out to fetch the cargo and passengers, and many a rough, wet
tossing we had ere reaching our desired haven. Personally, I was a good
sailor, and so wind and waves troubled me little, especially with the
delightful prospect of two months of absolute happiness, with so many
brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends, rich and poor.
If the family was at Gordonstoun, there was the daily delight of bathing
in our favourite sandy bay—the very thought of it brings back the
invigorating, brine-laden breeze, and the hum of the bees gathering
their store of heather-honey, and then the scramble over slippery rocks
in search of the black periwinkles, for which, as for every species of
fish with or without shells, my father had a special weakness.
If we were at Altyre, the bathing in the clear, brown fresh-water stream
was almost as fascinating, and there was the never-failing delight of
wandering along the banks of the Findhorn—to say nothing of returning
thence to the inexhaustible fruit-gardens; nowhere else have I ever seen
such large black Prussian and white-heart cherry-trees, into whose
branches we climbed, to feed with the least possible exertion,
descending with purple lips and hands. But there were always abundant
gooseberries at hand, and crushed “berries” remove all such stains.
(The word “berries” in this sense recalls the comment of one of the
fisher-folk at Cresswell, whose experience of apples had been most
uninviting, whereas the excellence of sweet gooseberries was undeniable.
“I cannot think how Eve could have been tempted by a sour-r-r apple! If
it had been berries I could ha’ understood it.” But you must supply the
burr and the accent for yourself.)
From the gardens, of course, we returned with armsful of fragrant
blossoms to renew some of the many vases. I believe my mother was the
first to devise tall vases and great spray nosegays, and all her
children shared her love for gathering and arranging flowers. No
compliment ever gave me such pleasure as the comment of a young farmer
to the effect that “Miss Eka would go to the fields and bring in a
kirn[29] of weeds, and make the most beautiful nosegays.”
It is strange that comparatively few people seem to realise how much the
beauty of flowers depends on the lovely wealth of green in which the
gem-like blossoms are set. The writer of the _Benedicite_ appreciated it
when he sang, “Oh ye green things of the earth, bless ye the Lord!”
Exquisite green meadows, or beech and larch-woods in the first flush of
their spring foliage, and the larches gemmed with rosy tassels. As
regards household decoration, I love to bring in graceful sprays of all
manner of green things—you never realise till you do this what a variety
of form and tint you thus obtain.[30] You soon learn from experience
which will live and which will wither too quickly, and mercy to your
housemaid will lead you to select ferns and grasses without seed—those
tall graceful grasses which delight in shady woods; very few of the
pretty field-grasses are satisfactory inmates. Such nosegays are in
themselves things of beauty, but if you have a few flowers to add, each
gains full value from such a setting, and a pinch of salt in each glass
will help to keep them alive, not forgetting to fill up your glasses
every morning, for these dear things need their breakfast quite as much
as you do yourself.
Delightful as were the woods and the moors and the river banks, we did
not need to go far in search of enjoyment, for on the balmy summer days
what more fragrant resting-place could be desired than the pleasant
lawn, beneath the cool shade of blossoming lime-trees, where busy, busy
bees murmured their happiness. Sometimes we there feasted on the fruit
of their toil, and surely nowhere else could bread and butter, milk and
honey, have tasted so delicious.
In those days the five o’clock tea, which every one now looks upon as a
necessity of life (and too often magnify into a serious extra meal,
greatly to the grief of the overworked internal mill), was only
stealthily creeping in as an unrecognised luxury. If there was a
schoolroom in the house, favoured guests were invited there—otherwise
ladies’-maids and valets carried a tepid cup ready made from the
housekeeper’s room to their master or mistress. The first step towards
toleration was bringing in a tray of large cups all full, and all
sugared and creamed alike, no fads being recognised. This arrived at
five, and gradually cooled till one by one came in from their walk.
When this innovation had gone on a little while, my father decided that
it was a bad habit, and forbade the untempting tray. But after a brief
interval it was found that he himself, as well as his family and guests,
had tea taken to their own rooms, so the farce of prohibition was
stopped, and little by little a simple and pleasanter tea-table was
inaugurated.
My memories seem to run largely towards feeding! I must recall one more,
which was the noble box of cakes and jam which a loving cook delighted
in preparing to solace my return to school. Though we all shared alike
in such dainties, of course the girl who brought most was deemed a
general benefactress, so the kind cook invariably provided an array of
the very largest “pigs” (_i.e._ stone-jars), which she filled with every
sort of jam and jelly, and the old carpenter made an extra strong box
for Miss Eka’s school stores, and indeed the pride of owning that case
was a very real joy.
In 1851 there was no journey to Scotland, for the year’s attractions
centred in London, and all the family spent the summer there. It was the
year of the Great Crystal Palace in Hyde Park—that fairy-like dream of
Prince Albert which, quite as if by magic, had been realised by Paxton
and a host of assistants.
To the present generation the great Crystal Palace at Sydenham (which
externally is more beautiful than the original Palace) seems quite a
matter of course; but it was very different to those who, more than
fifty years ago, suddenly turned aside from the accustomed dusty street
to find themselves in presence of this dazzling fairy palace, within
which, for the first time under one roof, were exhibited priceless
treasures from every corner of the known world. And not products only,
but representatives of every known land—every shade of colour and
variety of dress, while the ear was bewildered by a general blending of
all the principal tongues of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. We are
accustomed to such world-gatherings now, but in 1851 they were seen for
the first time.
Of course that marvellous palace was the lode-star which attracted every
one again and again, but for us there was another exhibition of
exceeding interest, namely, that of the amazing collection of
hunting-trophies brought from South Africa by my brother Roualeyn,
generally known as, _par excellence_, “The Lion Hunter.”
During his prolonged absence in the interior, letters had become scarcer
and more scarce, and only some occasional quotation from a Cape Town
paper, with rumours of his prodigious “bags,” kept up the hope that he
still lived. Suddenly one day the glass door of my sisters’ pleasant
sitting-room at Altyre opened, and in walked a magnificent and
magnificently-bearded wild man of the woods—a very gentle
savage—followed by a most hideous, elf-like little bushman called
Ruyter, on account of his good horsemanship.
This little man had been the most faithful of all Roualeyn’s
followers—indeed, when he lay on the Great Desert helpless, by reason of
rheumatic fever, and exposed to the full violence of the tropical sun
(which naturally resulted in sun-stroke), Ruyter alone remained with
him, guarding and tending him to the very best of his ability. So, when
Roualeyn concluded that it was time to return to the home-land, he very
naturally invited the little man to accompany him, and the faithful
creature clave to him. Alas! his master neglected the doctor’s wise
counsel to have him vaccinated, and about ten years later, when smallpox
was raging in Inverness, poor Ruyter caught it and died.
For about a year after their dramatic arrival, this strangely assorted
couple remained at Altyre, during which time my sisters vainly
endeavoured to instil into the bushman’s mind any conception of sacred
things or of a spiritual life. He spoke with affection of his dead
mother, but to any suggestion that she still lived, and that he also
would still live when this poor soul-case ceased to breathe, he had but
one answer, “Massa’s sister, my mother is rotten, and I shall be
rotten.” So they had to drop the subject and leave him to find out the
truth in due season, as between “inherent” or “conditional”
Immortality.[31]
During those quiet months my sisters wrote out, from Roualeyn’s
dictation, those extracts from his voluminous diaries which were
published by Murray of Albemarle Street under the title, _Five Years of
a Hunter’s Life in the Far Interior of South Africa_—a book which took
the country by storm, and captivated every boy and lad who could get a
chance of reading it.
Of course armchair reviewers treated it as a delightful and beautifully
written work of fiction, but one which no person of ordinary
intelligence could possibly be expected to believe; and even when the
stupendous collection of his trophies was exhibited, they smiled at the
audacity of any man who could pretend that all had fallen to his own
rifle. (And there was abundant excuse for their incredulity, when you
remember that in those days there were no breech-loaders—only the slow
old muzzle-loaders, with all their cumbersome processes.) The sportsman
had to carry a bag of pasteboard wads, a powder-flask, shot-belt,
ramrod, percussion caps, etc. etc., and use each before he could
fire—all now replaced by one neat cartridge. But such sport-made-easy
was then undreamt of. It was not till 1866 (the year in which Roualeyn
died) that breech-loaders were first used by the Prussians in the
Franco-Prussian War, and after that British muzzle-loaders were
transformed. So none of my elder brothers ever dreamt of such easy
methods.
Doubtless Roualeyn would have been set down as another Baron Munchausen
had not his friend, the great and good Dr. Livingstone, happily
confirmed every word he had written, and expressed his conviction (as
did also several African chiefs) that Roualeyn had suppressed some of
his most startling adventures, simply from a fear that they would not be
believed.[32]
Strange to say, after coming unscathed through such appalling dangers,
he about twelve years after this time very narrowly escaped being killed
by a fierce Highland bull, which caught him unawares and tossed him
about ten feet into the air. Mercifully he fell on his back into a
shallow ditch, and had the presence of mind to draw up his knees against
his chest and to hit the bull’s head with the thick soles of his
Highland brogues[33] every time it approached him, thereby parrying its
thrusts.
The ground on either side was ploughed up by the creature’s horns, and
Roualeyn’s kilt was torn into ribbons: the silver head of his sporran
was all dunted in, and his body seriously cut and bruised. However, a
boy who was with him at length succeeded in driving off the infuriated
brute, and so Roualeyn was saved.
Among those who were most vividly impressed with his wonderful
descriptions of scenery, and of the vast herds of wild creatures of
every variety, was Harrison Weir, the great animal painter. He and
several other artists of mark painted a series of twenty-seven great
pictures for a diorama, giving life-like illustrations of the long train
of waggons, each drawn by a dozen oxen, sometimes toiling by the
roughest cart-road along the face of a precipice, sometimes proceeding
up the bed of a river knee-deep in water.
Some of these pictures gave a vivid idea of the countless herds of
beautiful animals, of all of which many specimens were there for
inspection, as was also the very waggon which had so long been the
hunter’s only home. In 1855 this diorama was added to the attractions of
the exhibition, the hunter himself describing the scenes twice daily.
His old hunting-saddle, resting on the skull of a huge bull elephant,
formed his “pulpit,” where he stood beneath a triumphal arch of the
largest known elephant tusks.
But in 1851 the exhibition of hunting-trophies and a general talk proved
sufficiently attractive to draw crowds, while Ruyter, concealed in the
waggon, occasionally rushed out with a terrific yell, greatly to the
alarm of nervous visitors. I cannot say that this exhibition was
altogether appreciated by the family, for in those days we had very
rigid ideas as to what might or might not be done by people of social
standing, and the limitations were often exceedingly inconvenient.
For instance, for ladies to walk without a gentleman or a footman
anywhere except within Belgravia was deemed quite incorrect. Still worse
would it have been to go in a hansom, and as to setting foot even inside
a ’bus, I am sure my father would have had a fit had any one of us dared
to do such a thing! “_Nous avons changé tout cela!_”
Of course, being only a schoolgirl, I could not share all the gaieties
of the London season, which my elder sisters found so delightful; but
there were pleasures enough notwithstanding—long days on the river with
Roualeyn (ZOE we always called him), and one fascinating day when he
took me to Windsor Castle and to Eton and introduced me to the scenes of
his many delinquencies and their just retribution!
Then there were gorgeous flower-shows at Chiswick, and
picture-galleries, and visits to friendly artists in their studios—to
Frank Grant, Watts, Philips, and Sir William Ross. The two last were
painting portraits of two of my sisters.
And there were blissful evenings at the opera, when the stars were Grisi
and Mario, Gardoni, Bosio, Sophie Cruvelli, Sontag, Castellani,
Lablache, and others. I remember one night in particular, when Grisi was
acting Norma, and her impassioned rendering of the scene with her
children thrilled the whole audience. Afterwards we learned that that
night her favourite child had died, and she had vainly implored the
manager to grant her leave of absence. He deemed it impossible, and so
the agony which we applauded as such perfect acting was in truth the
very outpouring of an aching heart.
Mario’s exquisitely pathetic singing is to this day a haunting memory,
and though less effective on the stage, Gardoni’s melodious voice in a
concert-room was almost as fascinating. I don’t think that any one who
heard him sing “_Le Chemin du Paradis_” could ever have forgotten it. I
never heard any other singer whose “lilt” was so exactly described by
the French phrase “_Les larmes dans la voix_.”
Among the musical stars whose personal acquaintance I had the pleasure
of making was Salaman, whose “I arise from dreams of thee” was a
delight.
And Ristori also, who was then in her prime, was one of the sensations
of the year. Twenty years later I had the privilege of again hearing
that queenly, fascinating woman, and of meeting her socially in the
Antipodes at Sydney, when she and the Marquis del Grillo and their
handsome son and daughter, George and Bianca, were doing a tour of the
world.
How difficult it is sometimes to judge of the effect which what we deem
a great pleasure, may have on other minds. I remember one evening we
thought that, as a rare treat, we would send some of our Scotch servants
to the opera, and next day asked one of the ladies’-maids whether she
had enjoyed it. “No,” was the decided reply, “we did not like it at all.
You don’t see real leddies and gentlemen flinging themselves about and
skirling yon gate!”[34]
Two more years at Hermitage Lodge brought school-life to a close, and
1853 was the year of emancipation and full enjoyment of home, unclouded
by any thought of gathering clouds. Yet these were all too near. For a
little while, however, all was bright, and we revelled in the loveliness
of our homes. I recall one little detail of daily life, which seems odd
now, namely, that every afternoon, quite as a matter of course, we each
brought in flowers or coloured leaves or wild berries, and made our
wreath to wear at dinner—a full circular wreath. And we always wore full
evening dress, with low bodies and short sleeves, even if by any chance
we were quite alone. The comfort of _demi-toilette_ had not then
received social sanction.