My First London Season—My Father’s Accident—Beginning of the Crimean
War—Death of Captain Cresswell—Death of my Father—We leave Altyre.
Eighteen hundred and fifty-four was destined to bring us face to face
with some of life’s sternest realities. Little did we foresee these, as
the opening months of the year sped on all brightly. I have found an old
journal kept day by day—the record of my first London season and first
“Northern Meeting.”
Each day I noted the companions of all those cheerful doings; and of
that whole extensive list not a dozen are now on earth, and that dozen
includes children such as my youngest half-sister, then a little
curly-head, now a grandmother.
Now that all travel is made so very easy, I may as well describe how we
all moved from Altyre to London for the season. On April 18th, on a
lovely Spring morning, we breakfasted at six, and then my father and
stepmother, with lady’s-maid and footman, started in a carriage called
“the chariot” to post as far as Aberdeen; thence they proceeded to
London by rail.
Two days later my sister Nelly and I, with our lady’s-maid, the nursery
party of three children and two nurses, the cook, the butler, and other
members of the household, making up a dozen in all, drove in the early
morning to Burghead, where, after considerable delay, we got on board
the _Queen_, an exceedingly dirty vessel, and a very slow sailer. Her
cargo consisted of six hundred sheep, fifty head of cattle, and numerous
pigs, so closely packed that two wretched sheep died in the scrimmage.
The pigs, as is their wont, poor beasts, proved most unfragrant
companions, especially when the wind set in from their quarter.
The vessel was crowded with passengers, apparently bound for “the gold
diggings.” Our party had to pack into two filthy little state-cabins,
where we could only get a breath of air by leaving open a door leading
to the saloon, where the men were drinking and “havering.”
Thanks to overloading and stoppages, instead of reaching Edinburgh the
following morning, we did not do so till night, just in time to see the
_Leith_, by which we were to have proceeded to London, steam away.
Happily, however, the _Royal Victoria_, a rival steamer, had been
detained by the tide, so we at once went on board, and finding her very
nice and clean, secured the whole ladies’ cabin, which was large and
airy. So we started comfortably, but just as we were passing the Bass
Rock it was found that we had burst a pipe, which necessitated our
immediate return to Edinburgh, where we lay at anchor till the following
morning.
One little joke was afforded us by an English passenger, who, after
gazing at the grand old Bass Rock, with its clouds of white-winged
sea-birds, exclaimed: “I have been vainly looking for any building, and
I cannot make out where the great brewery can be!” You see his ideas ran
largely on Bass’s Pale Ale!
The two following days were so very stormy that none of us could venture
on deck, and the water poured into our cabin. However, on the fifth day
we reached London, and forgot all troubles in the warmth of our welcome
at 23 Chesham Street.
Next day, April 26th, had been appointed as a National Fast Day, on
account of the Crimean War, which, nevertheless, was very lightly
thought of either by those who were being ordered to sail or by the
friends and relations, who expected so soon to see them all return. We
had all enjoyed the blessings of peace for so long, that we could not at
all realise the horrors of the near future.
So all the gaieties of the London season went on unchecked. For some
reason, neither my sister Nelly nor my stepmother had previously been
presented, so they (presented by the queenly Duchess of Sutherland)
monopolised all the court festivities, my turn being deferred till the
next opportunity. However, nothing could have been pleasanter than my
first ball, given by Sir Adam Hay of King’s Meadows, who, with his four
handsome daughters, surrounded by flowers and light, remain as a vivid
memory-picture of that happy evening: a group worthy of the proverbially
“Handsome Hays.”
All went cheerily till May 11th. Well do I remember our afternoon with
my beautiful aunt Emma Russell, whom we found literally covered with
young birds: her husband having found a whole family of long-tailed
titmice offered for sale, had bought them and brought them to her to
feed and try to rear—a trial of patience indeed, the hungry creatures
beginning to chirp for breakfast by about 4 A.M.
We had scarcely left the door when the carriage stopped, and the footman
told us that Sir William had just been driven past in a cab, and had
called to us to follow him. There had been an accident. We arrived just
in time to see him supported into the house by two men, and covered with
blood, accompanied by a kind doctor who told us that he had seen Sir
William knocked down and run over by a hansom cab, which had come
suddenly round a corner.
My father always carried in his waistcoat pocket the address of his old
friend Dr. Allan, for whom a messenger had been at once despatched, but
in case he might be out, my sister drove to St. George’s Hospital, and
thence brought back Dr. Prescott Hewitt. The two doctors arrived
simultaneously, and found the chief injury to be a simple dislocation,
which they were able at once to set right. The other injuries were cuts
and severe bruises on the face and down one side—very painful, but not
dangerous. Strangely enough, the damage had been done by the fall, the
side down which the wheel had passed having sustained very little harm.
So for the next three weeks my father was confined to the house, but
neither he nor any one else, except Dr. Allan, at all realised how
serious a shock he had really received. My three married sisters came to
town to see him and cheer his captivity, for he longed to be out in the
midst of his many friends.
One of the three sisters was Ida, Mrs. William Baker-Cresswell, whose
husband’s regiment, the 11th Hussars, then stationed at Dublin, was
under orders to sail at once for the Crimea, and she had resolved to
accompany him, and make herself useful should need arise—not that danger
was really expected! Still she was always ready for everything, and
there have been few women so brave and so capable.
Our cousin, George Grant of Grant (Lord Seafield’s youngest son), who
was engaged to my sister Nelly, was also much with us. His regiment, the
42nd Highlanders, was also under orders, but all treated the prospect as
if they were going to a picnic.
On May 20th, George sailed with his regiment on board the _Hydaspes_,
and Ida and Bill Cresswell with the 11th on board the _Panola_. From a
Dublin paper I quote the following extract: “The perfect regularity with
which the embarkation of both men and horses was conducted were
unexceptional. But enthusiasm was more than usually excited by the
gallant Captain being accompanied by Mrs. Cresswell, who, although the
only lady, with the spirit of her race accompanies the regiment to the
East. Long and loud were the cheers of her gallant ‘comrades’ re-echoed
from the shore, which greeted her on reaching the vessel—a fine ship of
nine hundred and sixty-five tons.”
Notwithstanding this praise, the vessel proved a wretched old tub, and
her passengers had to watch one ship after another, which had sailed
long after them, sail past them; food and accommodation were alike
filthy, as were also the habits of some of the crew, especially the
mate, who by common consent was named Spitz-Bergen! But my sister’s
brave, bright spirit never failed her, and she made the very best of
everything, whether at sea or on land, during the prolonged detention in
camp at Varna.
My father insisted that we should all go about as if nothing was amiss
with him, and come to amuse him by accounts of what we had seen, so on
May 13th our cousin, Ian Campbell of Islay, drove Nelly and me to
Woolwich to see the launch of the _Royal Albert_. It was a grand sight.
There were twelve thousand ticket-holders round the huge ship, and a
vast number of others. As far as we could see, the roofs of the houses
were swarming, every boat, every steamer, crowded—in every direction a
dense, dark mass of human beings. We were fortunate in having seats very
near the Queen and Prince Consort, and watched her christening the
vessel by breaking a bottle of wine against her side, which, however,
she failed to do until the third attempt, after which, amid deafening
cheers from the multitudes, she went on board her own yacht, whence she
could better see the launch. The great ship glided away most
majestically, and, plunging into the river, commenced her career;
whereupon we proceeded to Greenwich Hospital to lunch with the governor.
Another interest out of the run of the regular “society” treadmill, with
two or three events for every evening, was the arrival in London for the
first time of the Cologne Singers, who came to raise funds for something
connected with the cathedral. They numbered eighty, all Germans. Some
sang solos, others joined in chorus, but instead of any instrumental
accompaniment, some were set apart to hum the accompaniment, producing a
singularly beautiful effect, like the murmur of the sea, swelling and
then dying away.
Another musical interest was the appearance at private concerts of
little “Arthur Napoleon,” a child eight years old, who played some of
Thalberg’s most difficult pieces by heart quite beautifully, with
wonderful execution and perfect feeling. It seemed scarcely possible
that his thin, tiny hands could really produce those crashing chords.
By the 10th June my father had made such good progress that the doctors
consented to his accompanying us to Sydenham to see the Queen open the
grand Crystal Palace in its enhanced beauty, and on its permanent site.
It was a very fatiguing day for him, as we had to start at eleven, and
even then found ourselves in a string of carriages two miles long, and
when we did reach the Palace, we had literally to force our way through
the dense crowds ere we could reach our seats, which were already full.
However, Lord Ranelagh got seats on the Peers’ gallery for Lady Cumming
and my sister, and Sir William and I secured good standing room in the
Commons’ gallery, whence we had an excellent view of the whole building,
which was most beautiful.
Every available corner being crammed with spectators, flowers had to
find place in baskets suspended between the pillars, which were all
wreathed with fragrant roses and lilies. In the centre, on a raised
dais, stood Her Majesty’s chair of state, beneath a canopy of crimson
velvet. There in due course of time she and Prince Albert and the royal
family took their places, accompanied by the King of Portugal, the Duke
of Oporto, and many other grandees.
Behind the dais rose the orchestra, consisting of four hundred
instrumental, and twelve hundred vocal performers. As soon as the Queen
entered, Clara Novello rose and sang the National Anthem, her single
clear, rich voice filling the whole gigantic building, to the amazement
of all who heard her, and then the sixteen hundred sang it in chorus,
which was beautiful but overwhelming.
After the Queen had made her opening speech, all the principal officials
were presented to her, and of course ought to have backed from the royal
presence, but, being embarrassed by the steps of the dais, each turned
round and walked down in calm oblivion of court manners, whereat the
two-guinea mob laughed so rudely that the Queen looked unmistakably
angry at their lack of courtesy.
Her Majesty and all the royal party then walked round the palace in a
grand procession, and on their return the hundredth psalm was sung, the
Archbishop of Canterbury offered prayer, and the Hallelujah Chorus was
sung magnificently. The palace was then declared open, and the Queen
departed, while Clara Novello again sang the National Anthem, and the
choir repeated it in full chorus.
After considerable delay we succeeded in finding our carriage, and
rejoiced when we reached London in safety, and found that my father was
none the worse for an exertion which had afforded him so much interest.
Thenceforward he refused to be considered an invalid, and took his full
share in all social amusements, one of the first being a large party to
meet many Indian princes: Tippoo Sahib’s grandson, the Prince of Surat,
the Rajah of Koorg and suite. The Rajah was arrayed in cloth of gold,
and blazed with precious stones, but some of his suite were very simply
attired, one old nobleman being rolled up in a little shawl, pinned
across his shoulders, just like an old nurse! The Rajah’s interpreter
told us that when he first came to England and saw the mixed parties of
ladies and gentleman, he was so shocked and ashamed that he did not know
which way to look, and longed to hide himself.
Orientals were rarer in London in those days than they are now. We had
previously met them at several balls, including the Caledonian, which,
of course, was attended by all good Scots. On that occasion my sister
and I were in Lady Kinnoull’s Spanish Quadrille, eight of the ladies
being in black Spanish lace over yellow silk, the other eight over
rose-colour, and all wearing high combs and Spanish mantillas over our
heads. Our cavaliers were all officers of the Life and Foot Guards in
full uniform. Of course most of the men present were in Highland dress.
On 5th July we all left town, my father and Lady Gordon-Cumming
returning north, while Nelly and I went to visit our beautiful sister
Alice Jenkinson—the only one of our mother’s daughters who had inherited
something of her great gift of beauty. She and her husband were renting
a pleasant cottage at Lyndhurst, in the New Forest, then a delightful
rural village, very different to the present town. (I am reminded of the
lapse of years by the thought of her jovial baby, little Francis, who
called himself Mig, and is still so called by all his intimates, though
he has long since developed into the learned University Librarian at
Cambridge.)
What dreams of delight were our daily expeditions through that noble
forest—its endless green glades lighted by gleams of vivid sunlight, and
the whole air fragrant with honeysuckle growing in rank profusion. Our
favourite expedition was to the Mark Ash wood, where magnificent old
trees formed a great square, their boughs meeting overhead, like the
green arches of a natural cathedral. We measured the circumference of
four grand beech and oak-trees, and found each to be about twenty-three
feet. One day while we were there at luncheon a troop of forest-ponies
came up and grazed all around, adding much to the picturesque scene.
Another day the hounds and hunt passed by, followed by the wretched tame
stag, which, having been chased for three hours, had dropped from sheer
exhaustion and been captured, to be carried home in a cart. And that was
sport!
A week later found us once again tossing on the sea on our return voyage
to lovely Altyre, where the roses were in full glory, and everything
seemed extra luxuriant.
We spent the whole month of August at our beloved Gordonstoun, many
friends coming and going to picnic in the caves and otherwise amuse
themselves. My father, though still troubled by his bruised cheek, and
not up to his usual mark, was greatly invigorated by the sea breezes,
and thoroughly enjoyed the walks he so much loved along the beautiful
cliffs and on the shore, and Dr. Allan’s strong counsel that he should
go to a warmer climate was deemed quite foolish.
On the 1st of September we returned to Altyre, where, as usual, almost
every day brought large impromptu parties from neighbouring houses,
arriving just in time for luncheon, and then expecting to be escorted
through the gardens and to some of the loveliest points of the river. In
these more conventional days, when no one dreams of dropping in to meals
uninvited, I sometimes wonder how our cooks contrived to be always ready
for such sudden invasions, and to provide a sumptuous luncheon for
perhaps a dozen unexpected guests from two or three different houses;
however, they were never known to fail.
Amongst the guests whose visits gave us special pleasure were the dear
old Duchess of Gordon (who, being godmother to George Grant, was
particularly interested in my sister Nelly), and also Lord and Lady
March (the late Duke of Richmond and Gordon). Little did any one then
foresee that after the lapse of many years their son, Lord Walter Gordon
Lennox, would woo and win Alice Grant, my sister Nelly’s eldest
daughter.
This autumn, to our great delight, Relugas (at the junction of the
Findhorn and the Devie) was rented by our special friends the George
Forbes’s of Medwyn. The elder brother had married my father’s sister,
and handsome George had married Sir Adam Hay’s sister, and although we
were not really cousins, we always considered ourselves to be so.
On 19th September Mary Forbes married Canon Harford Battersby, Vicar of
Keswick, whose name is now so widely known and revered as the founder of
“the Keswick Convention,” that wonderful annual gathering of Christian
folk, who, to the number of over six thousand, assemble from all corners
of the world for a week in July in that little village in the wilds of
Cumberland, previously known only for its beauty and its manufacture of
cedar-wood pencils.
The wedding was in the episcopal church at Forres, and the wedding
breakfast in my father’s house close to the church (Forres House). He
proposed the health of the young couple, but his speech lacked its
wonted zest. Little did we dream that it would prove his last appearance
at any such festivity, and that we should only once again meet the bride
and bridegroom. Many years afterwards I visited their grave in the
beautiful “God’s-acre” at Keswick, and, within the church, saw the white
marble bas-relief of the Canon’s strikingly handsome profile.
Still less did any one dream that the war with Russia had become a
matter of deadly earnest, and that on that very day our troops had
landed in the Crimea, and on the morrow would charge the heights of
Alma, and that two thousand of our gallant men would be left dead or
sorely wounded on that fatal plain.
Looking back, it does seem passing strange that no thought of any real
danger should have come home to any of us, but in those days there were
no swift telegraphs to flash their daily and hourly reports, and news
only reached us by letters at very uncertain intervals.
So our social life went on uninterrupted, and, as a matter of course,
the great Highland gathering was held as usual at Inverness; and our
cousins, the Mackintoshes of Raigmore, assembled (as was their wont) as
many friends and kinsfolk as could be crammed into that elastic house.
My sister and I were of course of the number, so the day after the
wedding we drove to Raigmore, and that night had a merry household
dance, as preliminary to the first-rate balls on the two following
nights, with pipe music, dancing, and games all the day. In those years
no Highland family who could possibly be present, failed to be at
Inverness at that time, and comparatively few strangers came—a very
different gathering to the present huge assemblage from innumerable
shooting-lodges.
We returned to Altyre on the 23rd September, and found Sir William
apparently very well, and always much taken up with his three youngest
children.
It was not till 4th October that news reached us of the battle of Alma,
and not till the 10th was the awful official list of killed and wounded
published, including many of our personal friends and connections.
On the following day came a letter from George Grant telling us of the
death from cholera, after five hours’ illness, of our dear
brother-in-law, Bill Cresswell, 11th Hussars, and how he had been buried
on the plain below the heights of Alma on the very morning of the
battle, the first victim of the war. While we were at the Highland
games, George and his Highlanders had been burying the slain on that
awful field.
Of our sister he could give no tidings. He only knew that on arriving
from Varna the troops had been landed without tents, and had to sleep on
the damp ground. In the night Bill, always very delicate, was attacked
by cholera. An alarm was raised that the Cossacks were upon them, and
they were to advance at once. A covered native cart was procured, and in
it Captain Cresswell was placed, alone in his terrible agony. When they
reached their halting-ground in the dark early morning of the 20th, he
was dead, and his men, who adored him, wrapped him in his blanket, and
buried him.
A few days later we received a letter from my sister herself, dated
Varna Bay, September 22, totally unconscious of her awful loss. It seems
that while they were in camp at Varna, she had nursed some of the sick
men, till she herself was stricken with fever, and for three weeks lay
very ill. She also suffered torture from a boil on the knee and a
whitlow on the finger, consequent on being thoroughly rundown by reason
of execrable feeding on the voyage from England. So, although she
accompanied her husband on board the _War Cloud_ to the Crimea, she was
unable to leave the vessel. The captain (Captain Fox) treated her with
the most courteous kindness, procured a female attendant for her, and
gave her a large, airy saloon. But the vessel had to return at once to
Varna to fetch more troops.
This letter was followed by another, dated 3rd October, still from
Varna. On arriving there the _War Cloud_ had taken on board a troop and
a half of the ill-fated Inniskillings, who had lost their colonel
(Colonel Moore) and many men, and fifty-six horses, in the burning of
the _Europa_. Now the authorities obliged them to cram one hundred and
ten horses into the hold, which was only constructed to accommodate
sixty. The very first night a tremendous storm arose, and continued
unabated for two whole days, during which men and officers were alike
incapacitated, and there was no one to soothe, feed, or water the poor
horses. When the weather cleared they were lying in heaps, and
seventy-five were dead. Ida saw all these lowered overboard—a pitiful
sight.
Meanwhile, the two strong hawsers by which the _War Cloud_ was attached
to the steamer which was towing her snapped like threads, and they were
left far behind, drifting at the mercy of the winds, which showed no
inclination to help them to Sebastopol. Presently they found themselves
off the coast of Circassia, whence they made their way back to Varna,
disembarked the horses that were still alive, and shipped a new lot. On
arriving they heard of the battle of the Alma, and vague reports
concerning Captain Cresswell, but so utterly contradictory that they
were not worth credence, so Ida was on the eve of starting to rejoin
him, together with his faithful soldier-servant and his two chargers—the
chargers of the dead.
Then at intervals followed letters confirming the awful truth, and
telling how on reaching Sebastopol, and finding that the officers who
had last been with her husband were unable to come to her, she decided
to go to them, right into one of the batteries, which was in full play.
She had just time to duck her head when a ball whizzed over her, and a
shell burst at her feet. But she had the sad satisfaction of hearing all
there was to learn, and recovering a few precious mementoes from
friends—Walter Charteris, Mr. Thomson, and several others, who were
killed on the following day in the awful battle of Inkerman, in which
three of our generals were killed and five were wounded.
As soon as possible she returned to her husband’s home and loving family
at Cresswell, but ere then the dear home of her girlhood, from which,
two brief years previously, she had gone forth such a happy bride, was a
forsaken nest, whence all the nestlings had flown. On that wedding day
her father had been in his happiest mood, well pleased to welcome as a
son-in-law one whom he already loved. The hilarity of the wedding
breakfast was nowise lessened because of the curious accident that
drunken men had carefully packed the wedding-cake upside down, so that
all the sugar-work was reduced to chaos. However, with an abundant
supply of flowers the ruin was effectually veiled, and only a few
ultra-superstitious guests ventured to whisper that it was an unlucky
omen.
For about nine months longer, constant letters to my sister Nelly from
George Grant kept us continually in touch with the appalling hardships
which our troops had to endure during that terribly prolonged war,
extending over two never-to-be-forgotten Crimean winters, most of his
work lying in the horrible trenches.
Even in England exceptional horrors seemed endless. Cholera was raging
in London to such an extent that whole streets were almost closed. The
newspapers reported nine thousand deaths. Several of these cases were
said to be real plague, and black flags were hung out from the infected
houses.
At the same time there was a frightful fire in Newcastleon-Tyne and
Gateshead, in which five hundred persons were reported as killed or
injured.
To return to our home-life at Altyre. The 24th October was one of the
loveliest days of the autumn. I had a long walk beside the Findhorn,
where the colouring was indescribably lovely, the foliage overhanging
the brown river still very rich, and of every brilliant tint that could
be conceived—sea and sky vividly blue, the distance wonderfully clear,
and Ben Wyvis and the hills beyond covered with dazzling snow. Tempted
by the sunshine, Sir William stood a long time without his hat and in
thin shoes at the front door talking to a friend, and so brought on a
cough. Afterwards we remembered Dr. Allan’s grave warning, that unless
he would go to a warm climate, the first snow would carry him off.
The following day being even more lovely, he and some more of the family
drove to Dunphail to luncheon with his brother, Charles Cumming-Bruce.
Towards sunset there was a shower of hail and a most beautiful rainbow
over Forres, together with an intense golden glow in the west, the light
on the falling hail looking like a shower of fire. That was my father’s
last drive. Two days later he began coughing up blood, and had to be
kept in bed in absolute quiet, and fed on iced food.
All his sons and daughters who were within reach now assembled at
Altyre—Penrose, Roualeyn, and Henry, Seymour and Oswin Cresswell—and
there were days when he was better and able to enjoy a little talk. At
all times he enjoyed hearing the family sing in parts in the adjoining
drawing-room. On the night of 22nd November he asked especially for some
of Moore’s Irish melodies; such as “Peace be around thee” and “Those
Evening Bells.” It was sorely trying for the singers to utter the words—
“And so ’twill be when I am gone:
That tuneful peal will still ring on.”
He had previously made me read the 12th chapter of Ecclesiastes,
probably more for my sake than his own, as he knew it so well. Towards 4
A.M. the great change was apparent. He bade my sister Nelly kneel beside
him and pray. After a little while of restless discomfort, his breathing
became more and more gentle, and closing his eyes he passed gently away,
like a tired child falling into a peaceful sleep.
When we left the dark, miserable room, and came out into the broad
daylight, the ground was white with the first pure white snow lying
lightly on every twig—as if all nature was wrapped in a fair shroud,
mourning with us for the going away of one who so devotedly loved all
things beautiful. Strange to say, about two hours after his death the
old pear-tree on the laundry-green, for which he had such a special
liking, and which he had belted with iron to preserve it, fell with a
loud crash, without any apparent cause.
When we next entered his room, he lay like a beautiful marble statue, so
smooth and fresh, not one wrinkle on the noble brow, round which the
bonnie waving curls clustered so thickly, and almost a smile on the
face. He had always such a cheery smile and kind word for every one.
We covered his bed with the lovely white camelias he had so longed to
see in blossom. Nell took him one of the first blooms—it was the last
flower he had in his hand, and when he had admired it he gave it to
Seymour to keep. He looked so calm and beautiful among the pure white
flowers. When my mother died he had covered her with sprays of
orange-blossom from her own favourite trees. Happily in those days the
conventional sending of wreaths from florists (often in overpowering
numbers, to the destruction of all true sentiment) had not been
invented, or at any rate had not reached the north.
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker. ph. sc._
_Sir William Gordon Gordon-Cumming._
_Painted by Saunders about 1830._
]
He was still beautiful and almost life-like when, seven days later, he
was laid in his coffin, on which were arranged his favourite plaid and
the ornaments of his Highland dress. The day of the funeral was one of
brilliant sunshine—all the snow had vanished. There was an immense
gathering of people at the preliminary service by Mr. M‘Intosh, the
parish minister of Rafford, and upwards of fifty carriages and farmers’
gigs formed the procession at starting; but the number was nearly
doubled ere it reached Gordonstoun and the dear old Michael Kirk, where
the episcopal clergy of Forres and Elgin awaited the coming of one more
silent sleeper.
I am tempted to quote a few words from one of the county papers:—
“Sir William was the life and spirit of the place, one whose
ever-cheerful countenance gladdened all hearts. To the poor he was
always kind and affable, to all classes courteous and accessible. As a
landlord he was constantly occupied in the improvement of his
extensive estates, and in promoting the comfort of his tenantry. His
hospitality made Altyre for nearly half a century the great
rallying-point of the North, and besides the multitudes who depended
on him for their daily bread, never did the tongue or look of
necessity appeal to him in vain. He had always a warm greeting for
high and low, young and old, and his very voice rang with the joyous
kindness that glowed within towards every human being.”
Those who have passed through such a trial as that of leaving a loved
home under such circumstances, know how much the pain is accentuated by
the sudden invasion of officials, who heretofore would have deemed it a
privilege to be allowed to see the inside of the house, now bustling
about, sealing up cupboards and places where valuable papers or goods
could possibly be stored, and making inventories with surprising
valuations of objects of whose real value they know absolutely nothing.
For my sister and myself, personal anxiety as to the immediate future
was set at rest by our kind brother-in-law, Oswin Cresswell, who offered
us both a permanent home at his own lovely Harehope.
This happy solution, however, received a temporary check; for my own
general upset, which seemed so natural under the circumstances, resulted
in my wakening one morning the colour of a well-boiled lobster,
whereupon the doctor pronounced it to be a decided case of scarlet
fever, but how caught no one could imagine. The result was the immediate
flight of every one who could possibly leave the house, only my sister
and our old nurse, and our ever-faithful lady’s-maid, Catherine Bruce,
remaining with me, and of course the necessary household staff, whose
premises were all far removed from my room.
Happily the attack proved to be a very mild one, and, on the whole, we
were really thankful for the three weeks of absolute quiet and
breathing-time ere the final wrench. As an interval of quarantine was
essential ere joining the family party at Harehope, it was decided that
we should first go to lodgings at the Bridge of Allan, and thence to our
dear old uncle and aunt, the Cumming-Bruces, at her own place, Kinnaird,
near Larbert.
So on 22nd December, in a downpour of rain, and with very heavy hearts,
we left dear Altyre and poor old Nan, looking the picture of desolation.
We proceeded by coach from Forres to Aberdeen, where we slept, and next
day by rail to the Bridge of Allan, where very pleasant rooms had been
secured for us at Mrs. Haldane’s lodgings, Viewforth House. It was well
named, for, standing high above the little town (as it then was), our
windows commanded a fine view of the Ochils, and also of Stirling Castle
and town, with the distant range of the Grampians, all dazzlingly white.
And through the valley outspread before us the river Forth meandered
like a perpetual reiteration of the letter S, while the “Banks of Allan
Water” recalled the pathetic song concerning the miller’s lovely
daughter.
Kind friends had met us at every halting-point, and also awaited us in
Stirling, so that our first experience of starting in life on our own
account was mitigated so far as possible. Nevertheless, as in the quiet,
misty night we looked down from our windows past a tall church spire
rising from below the hill, we felt as though Tennyson had spoken for us
when he wrote of “how strangely falls our Christmas eve.”
BRIDGE OF ALLAN,
_Christmas, 1854_.
IN MEMORIAM.
CANTO CIII.; CANTO CIV.
“The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid, the night is still;
A single church below the hill
Is pealing, folded in the mist.
“This holly by the cottage-eave
To-night, ungathered shall it stand;
We live within the stranger’s land,
And strangely falls our Christmas eve.
“Our father’s dust is left alone
And silent under other snows:
There in due time the woodbine blows,
The violet comes, but we are gone.”
TENNYSON.