Life in Northumberland—My Sister Eleanora’s Wedding—Alnwick Castle in
1855 and 1892—Serious Illness—Death of Oswin and Seymour Cresswell.
A few weeks later we were thoroughly settled at Harehope, and as the
summer advanced we enjoyed long drives to all points of chief interest
in the neighbourhood, such as Holy Stone village in the Harbottle Hills,
where there is a great pool of very pure water, in which St. Paulinus is
said to have baptized three thousand converts in the days when
Northumbria was still a heathen land.
One day we drove and boated to Lindisfarne, to visit the noble ruins of
St. Cuthbert’s Old Priory—not, however, the original building, for that
was destroyed by the Danes in the tenth century, and these grand old
Norman arches of dark red sandstone were built in 1094, when in honour
of its martyrs it was named “The Holy Isle.”
Bamborough and Dunstanborough were favourite picnic-grounds, while
Esslington, delightful Chillingham and Alnwick Castles, and many other
homes of kind and pleasant neighbours, all within easy reach, supplied
ample society, to say nothing of a genuine Northumbrian harvest-home
dance at the farm.
The weary Crimean war still wore on, but many of the officers who from
the beginning had borne the brunt of its hardship now returned to
England, and amongst these was our cousin, George Grant of Grant, who
now came to lay his laurels at the feet of his fair ladye, and to claim
her promised hand.
And so, on October 2, 1855, the old village church of Eglingham was the
scene of a very pretty country wedding, and friends from far and near
assembled at Harehope, where triumphal arches, with masses of scarlet
rowan-berries outside, and really beautiful trophies of Grant and
Cumming and Gordon tartans, and stag’s-horn moss indoors, gave colour
enough to brighten a somewhat grey and misty day. Kind neighbours, who
remembered how recently Harehope had been a bare hillside, sent generous
gifts of beautiful fruit and flowers. And so, with every promise of a
bright future, the young couple started for their honeymoon in the
English lakes, whence they returned a month later in high health and
spirits to revisit Harehope, ere turning northward to make a home in
Scotland.
They had only been back a few days when George was suddenly seized with
a choleraic attack, and such severe pain that local medical skill failed
to give him relief, and it became necessary to telegraph to Edinburgh
for Dr. Miller, who by a prompt course of blistering succeeded in
relieving the pain, but it was fully three weeks ere the patient was
sufficiently convalescent to venture out.
Meanwhile, on November 15, my sister Seymour had added a fifth little
one to her nursery, my little god-daughter Constance—a fine healthy
baby, warmly welcomed by all. According to Northumbrian custom, a large
cheese, or kebbock, known as “the crying-cheese,” was at once produced,
together with a loaf and a bottle of whisky, and every one in the house,
or entering it, was required to eat and drink for good-luck to the baby.
Six weeks later a happy family party assembled for baby’s christening in
the village church by Mr. Coxe, the vicar (Archdeacon of Lindisfarne),
the same dear old friend who had so recently officiated at my sister
Nelly’s gay wedding. Little did any one then foresee how very soon he
would be called upon to minister under very different circumstances,
when that little one would be left doubly orphaned.
One of the interests of the neighbourhood at this time was the extensive
work going on at stately Alnwick Castle, where “the Sailor Duke
Algernon” and Duchess Eleanor then reigned. There was much anxiety that
the rebuilding of the great Prudhoe Tower should be finished before the
Duke’s birthday—December 15th. This was accomplished, notwithstanding
the intense cold, by working with hot mortar; and the builders were kept
alive during the snowstorms by oft-repeated jorums of hot ale and
ginger. So the great feat was performed, and after the firing of many
guns, the new flag was hoisted amid tremendous cheering, the town being
crowded. Then all the school-children had roast beef and plum-pudding to
their hearts’ content, and in the evening there were fireworks and
fire-balloons which gave great delight.
Having decided that, notwithstanding the Gothic and partly Old Norman
exterior of the castle, the interior of the great state-rooms should be
decorated in the richest Italian style, the Duke resolved as far as
possible to employ local talent, and so, having imported Italian
teachers, he started a school for wood-carving, which wonderfully soon
turned out exquisite work.
I used to delight in seeing this in progress, or when laid out in
compartments on the floor preparatory to being raised to the ceilings,
where, alas! in most of the rooms a further process of gorgeous painting
and gilding, although wondrously beautiful, nevertheless detracts, in my
eyes, from its original perfection. Except to the expert who notes the
wonderful undercutting, the richly gilded carving, or its flat blue or
crimson background, might almost as well be stucco. Certainly this
wealth of colour is more in keeping with the rich crimson or yellow
satin damask hangings of all the walls and corresponding furniture, but
it is a real joy that in the great dining-room the noble ceiling has
been left in its primitive beauty, most restful to the eye. Happily all
the very handsome carved doors and shutters were left uncoloured, as
also the rounded Italian tops of all the windows, and dado of beautiful
inlaid wood round all these rooms.
The fine marbles on the walls of the private chapel and the staircase
all suggest the same Italian inspiration, so that while externally the
grand old castle is a dream of feudal England, internally it is a
gorgeous reproduction of Italian Renaissance.
It so happened that the first Italians who came to the castle were
Signor and Signora Bulletti, who knew little or no English. It was
therefore great joy to them to find a very charming young Italian lady
acting as governess to my sister’s children. There was also a German
governess to give the children all possible advantages.
Signorina Banchi acted the part of a good angel to her countrywoman; but
ere long the great architect of the works, Signor Montiroli, arrived,
and he fully shared our admiration for this ministering spirit. Though
he returned to Italy in single blessedness, he came back ere long to
protest against leaving such a treasure beneath a grey Northumbrian sky,
and so, on October 13, 1856, just a year after my sister’s wedding, our
pretty “Bijou” followed her example, the happy couple being married in
the Roman Catholic Church at Alnwick. Now, who would have expected to
come across a real Italian romance at so unlikely a spot?
Thirty-six years later, on my return from distant wanderings, I spent a
very delightful week in the old castle, to share in the rejoicings on
the coming of age of Lord Warkworth (now Lord Percy). It was in every
respect a scene of quite unique interest.
In the first place, the castle itself and all its beautiful
surroundings, with the noble park and river, are like a dream of some
old-world or fairy legend, as also is the way in which the great House
of Northumberland has ever kept up the best of the old feudal relations
with its almost innumerable tenants of every rank, so that this festival
was no mere outward pageant, but the expression of real all-round
loyalty by the retainers of a loved house.
The castle guests assembled on May 9, 1892. We were forty-two at dinner
in the beautiful crimson satin damask dining-room.
On the following day there was a grand dinner to about sixteen hundred
tenants in the guest-hall and the great covered court—the latter being a
huge temporary hall improvised by covering the great stable-yard with a
tent roof. The whole was decorated in mediæval style, with armorial
shields, large mottoes, banners, armour, pictures, and, of course, with
evergreens. One large trophy was formed of the old flags and weapons of
the volunteer corps of yeomanry, artillery, and infantry, raised by Duke
Hugh II. in the days when an invasion by Napoleon was dreaded.
One end of the great temporary hall was covered by a spirited picture of
a mediæval tournament, with knights tilting in a meadow beside the sea
at Warkworth Castle, and the walls of the guest-chamber were hung with
fine old tapestry. The tenants were seated at twenty-seven tables in the
great hall, while the house-party (gentlemen, no ladies—we ladies
occupied a gallery overlooking the whole) had a raised table in the
guest-chamber, so as to be well seen by all. Behind Earl Percy (the
present Duke) stood a trumpeter or bugler, who blew a resounding call to
herald each toast or response.
Lord Percy was acting for his father, as it was deemed wiser that the
fine old Duke, then in his eighty-second year, should be spared the
unavoidable fatigue of such a week. But the other grandfather (Lady
Percy’s father), the Duke of Argyll, and Lord Lorne, were present to
represent the Campbell side of the family.
One day about three thousand guests assembled at a great garden-party.
Two thousand invitations were issued to all the principal tradesmen and
neighbours, each to “So-and-so and party,” which was a liberal order.
The temporary hall was cleared for those who preferred dancing, even by
daylight, and certainly the excellent band and pipers from Edinburgh
were quite inspiriting.
Another day all the schools of Alnwick and the neighbourhood assembled,
to the number of fully two thousand children, who, notwithstanding some
light showers, had an ideal day of feasting and shows. On the last day
there was a dinner for fifteen hundred workmen and their wives; and
besides these, multitudes who could not come to Alnwick had dinners in
their own villages, or sent to their own homes.
One day was reserved for county neighbours, and for a very brilliant
ball in the great drawing-room, while in the dining-room the display of
priceless gold-plate on buffets lighted by electric light, was like a
tale from the _Arabian Nights_. Specially lovely on that occasion was
the beautiful music-room; its walls of yellow satin damask forming a
perfect background for a profusion of lilac orchids from the great
gardens of Syon House.
Not only within the Castle grounds was there festival. The whole town of
Alnwick was most beautifully decorated, and at night illuminated; and
throughout the week, with the exception of one doubtful forenoon, the
weather was absolutely perfect; and so the splendid fireworks which
followed the great dinner to the tenants were seen to the greatest
advantage. At night we all adjourned to the park to witness the
beautiful display, which was enhanced by the burning of coloured fire on
the battlements and the walls, the clouds of coloured smoke producing
most weird, and really somewhat alarming effects. A final bouquet of two
hundred rockets was hailed with shouts of delight by old as well as
young folk.
One detail of very real interest was a visit to the underground
kitchens, where such excellent and abundant food had been produced
within a week for nine thousand people, a large number of whom, being
household or guests, had to be fed four times daily. We were welcomed by
the great English _chef_, Mr. Thorpe, the same who, twenty-five years
previously, had organised similar feasting on the coming of age of Lord
Percy (the present Duke). His staff consisted of thirteen cooks and a
dozen other men, with thirty women—in all, fifty-six people. I was much
amused at seeing twelve women stirring sixteen hundred pounds of
plum-pudding!
I observed with some surprise that all the beautiful ornamental sweets
and cakes that were untouched at the ball-supper the previous night were
set out for the school-children, but the _chef_ said, sympathetically,
“The children like pretty things.” So they do, especially when so very
good!
These kitchens (or their ancestors!) must have been dreary indeed in
olden days of dim oil-lamps, but now brilliant electric light reigns,
and illumines even the dismal “bottle-shaped” dungeon, into which of old
prisoners were let down, never again to see the sun.
A long new tunnel, lined with pure white glistening tiles, had been
constructed underground for a small railway, whose little trucks brought
all the courses right under the dining-room lift, and to a further point
to supply the great temporary hall. Along the intervening distance were
stationed a regiment of immovable waiters, who passed the dishes from
one to another, as skilled firemen hand on their buckets, instead of
running to and fro. Besides all the waiters, about a hundred neat
waitresses took care that all the multitudes were well and quickly
served.
This week of rejoicing in Northumberland, with bonfires and feasting on
all the estates, was followed by festivities on a smaller scale at
Albury in Surrey, and ended with a great London garden-party at Syon
House.
To return from these festivities in 1892 to our quiet life in the spring
of 1856.
The even tenour of life, sometimes at Cresswell, but chiefly at
Harehope, continued till 21st February, on which my sister Seymour and
Baby Constance both became ill with bad sore throat and red, swollen
skin. The doctor came and pronounced both to be suffering from
erysipelas. Both became worse and worse; in the mother’s case it was
confined to the head, while baby had it all over her tiny body.
On Friday, 29th (it was leap year), while superintending the
farm-drainers, Oswin took a chill, and at night was seized with violent
shivering and sickness. He came to breakfast looking like a grey
ghost—the strong stalwart man seemed literally to have shrunken. Yet,
ill as he was, he said he must go to Alnwick to engage servants for an
extra farm which he had decided to take into his own hands.
Of course by night he was very much worse, and on the following days he
was compelled to stay in bed, the good old coachman devoting himself to
his master, as the womenfolk had their hands so fully occupied with the
other invalids. Although his dear old mother had driven over from
Cresswell to see baby, she was not allowed to see her son or my sister
on account of her own exceeding delicacy. I, aged eighteen, was the only
other relation in the house, and I was sitting up every night with baby.
On March 4th my sister and baby were both so very ill that I telegraphed
to Edinburgh for Dr. Miller, who arrived that night, and pronounced
that, seriously ill as they both were, Oswin was much more so, as his
was undoubtedly a case of typhus fever, that it would probably be
twenty-one days ere he reached the crisis, but that his strength was far
too low for such an early stage of the disease. He said he would at once
send trained nurses from Edinburgh, and till their arrival the faithful
coachman must guard his master, as I was to be with the other patients,
and it was necessary to establish quarantine.
Next day we sent the children and governesses to Cresswell; my sister
had become wildly delirious, baby was worse, and Oswin’s strength was
failing rapidly, notwithstanding all efforts to sustain it. By the time
the trained nurses arrived he was delirious, and soon became
unconscious.
At 5 A.M., March 6th, they admitted me to his room, and a few minutes
later he passed away. No one was more utterly astounded than kind Dr.
Miller himself when at noon he returned from Edinburgh; and in truth it
seemed incredible to all that the man who that day week had seemed to be
the very embodiment of health and strength could have passed away,
literally “like snaw-drift in thaw.” He was only thirty-seven years of
age.
The doctors told us that it was essential to keep my sister in ignorance
of the awful truth, as any shock would turn the erysipelas to the brain,
and probably prove fatal. In her delirium she seemed to have some
consciousness of something being amiss with him, for again and again she
tried to spring from her bed to go to him, and it was heartrending to
hear her asking why he did not come to her. Baby continued on the verge
of life or death.
As consciousness gradually returned, the strain of having constantly to
watch lest any unguarded look or word should arouse her suspicions,
became almost unbearable, and we were thankful when Dr. Wilson consented
to our letting her know all before the funeral. So on the previous
evening, when the doctor had prepared the way by bringing her very bad
accounts of dear Oswin’s condition, our kind, fatherly friend,
Archdeacon Coxe, went to tell her there was no hope—and gradually led on
to the truth that he had already been called away.
By this time our dear sister Ida had come from Cresswell to be with us,
and we three sat together at poor Seymour’s window to see the coffin
carried from the house on its way to old Woodhorne Church, near
Cresswell and the sea—the first of our own generation to be laid there,
but now the resting-place of three of my sisters, and of many other dear
companions of my early years.
From that window we looked down on many details of dear Oswin’s
unfinished work—the half-made approach to the house—it was barely ten
years since he had decided to build the house itself—the half-levelled
bank, half-turfed path, the unfinished wall and railing, the site of the
lodge just staked out, the young trees which he had just bought in
Alnwick for his plantation, lying in bundles all unheeded, the field
which he had been draining on that fatal Friday—all these suggestions of
the work of the strong, capable man so suddenly called away, one by one
impressed themselves on the poor, half-conscious mind, and enabled it
gradually to realise all.
Little by little strength returned, and about a fortnight later it was
arranged that we should all rejoin the family at Cresswell. But
considering the extremes of heat and cold to which I had been exposed in
passing from much-heated sick-rooms through bitterly cold passages,
where doors and windows were kept open for fear of infection, it is
perhaps not surprising that severe pain in all my limbs should have set
in, and developed into an agonising and dangerous attack of rheumatic
fever, which rendered me absolutely helpless for six weeks, during which
my sister Ida and her maid nursed me day and night with most devoted
care. I could not even move one finger from its neighbour—each had its
own little pillow, so my nurse’s patience was sorely taxed.
When at length I was so far convalescent as to be able to walk into the
next room, my sister Seymour, who had gone to her children at Cresswell,
returned thence to see me. On arrival she confessed that she too was
suffering from severe pain in her limbs, and for a fortnight she also
was helplessly laid up. At the same time the pretty Italian governess
endured a similar attack at Cresswell, which, if not actually rheumatic
fever, was few degrees less painful.
I was warned on every hand that there was every probability of my having
frequent future returns of this most unpleasant illness, but I am
thankful to say that I have never had the slightest indication of
it.[35]
After so sad an experience, it was decided that I must leave
Northumberland altogether for a while, so in the middle of May, Ida and
I went thence to stay with our sister Alice Jenkinson and her husband,
who were then renting a place in the vale of the Severn half-way between
Worcester and Malvern—the region of apple-orchards, alike beautiful in
blossom or in fruit.
There we rested, and revelled in roses, and saw all points of chief
interest, especially the whole process of making china and painting it
at the Worcester factory.
After about six weeks all trace of rheumatic fever had so entirely
vanished that I was able to climb to the summit of the Worcestershire
Beacon, where on one side we looked down into Hereford and right away to
the Wrekin in Shropshire, while on the other side lay outspread a vast
flat plain on which lie the towns of Upton, Worcester, Tewkesbury,
Cheltenham, and Gloucester.
I spent July in London with kind old Lady Dysart, doing the usual social
rounds, including a good many operas. Thence right away north to the
George Grants, who were renting Nairnside, some miles from Inverness,
from our cousins, the Mackintoshes of Raigmore. Of course there was
constant coming and going between these two homes, both of which, on my
arrival, I found crammed for a very good “cattle-show” ball, which a
month later was followed by all the gaieties of the “Great Northern
Meeting.”
Afterwards we stayed at Castle Grant[36] for the Grantown games, which
were held on little Lord Reidhaven’s birthday, so the proceedings began
by one hundred and twenty of the tenants, in Highland dress and headed
by flags and pipers, marching up to the castle to cheer the little Chief
and his parents. At night there was a most picturesque torchlight
dance—Highlanders, with a blazing torch in each hand, wildly dancing
reels on a raised platform on the lawn, lighted by flaring torches at
the four corners.
Then there was a very smart tenants’ ball, at which the pretty child
with the long fair ringlets appeared in black velvet, trimmed with old
point lace, and his Grant plaid, and was received with great applause,
in which he heartily joined. The memory-picture is interesting in view
of his deeply lamented death just as he attained to manhood.
Visits to many other kinsfolk in the north filled up a pleasant autumn,
and then winter slipped away at Polmaise, Airthrie Castle, Kinnaird, and
Edinburgh, which was then peopled with relations and intimate friends,
all of whom have now vanished “as a dream when one awaketh.” But they
were very real then.
So they also were in London, where I joined my sister Seymour in the
middle of March, she having by medical advice taken a house in Rutland
Gate for four months. Alas! from the time when she awoke to realise her
terrible loss she had utterly given way to grief, perpetually wandering
alone for hours and hours beside the grey misty sea at Cresswell, or on
the bleak moorlands at Harehope, and this had brought on an obstinate
hacking cough, which was becoming worse and worse.
So at last she consented to take her children to London for dancing and
other lessons, on which she laid great stress, and there she was so
surrounded by near relations, that she could not help being drawn into
sympathy with their interests also.
She was most anxious that I should go everywhere and see everything of
interest, and as there was no lack of kind kinsfolk willing to take
charge of me, I find the record of those months full of social
interests. But in the multitude of names of the companions of those days
and nights, I scarcely find the name of any one still on earth; only
here and there an allusion to the marriage of some bright young girl who
perhaps survives as a lone widow, or to some little child who is now a
grandmother.
Among the interests at that time—not “society”—I specially remember
Kean’s acting of _Richard II._, and the gorgeous _mise-en-scène_ of
Bolingbroke’s entry into London, scenery and dresses all adapted from
old pictures and chronicles.
Another vivid memory is that of going down the Thames by steamer and
being landed on the “Isle of Dogs,” there to inspect Scott Russell’s
monster ship, the _Great Eastern_, which was then—1857—being built. It
was not till after a long climb we reached the upper deck, that we fully
appreciated her enormous size. She was one-eighth of a mile in length,
and was designed to carry ten thousand people.
But the extraordinary facilities for travel, which since then have
created such a fashion for globe-trotting, had not then developed, and
so the ten thousand were never forthcoming, and as a passenger steamship
she proved a failure. Now much larger vessels belonging to American and
German companies can scarcely meet the demand for accommodation. So the
_Great Eastern_ was transferred to other service, and she had the honour
of carrying and laying one of the great Atlantic cables—I forget whether
it was the first or the second.
After being employed in this grand work, it was a sad come-down to hear
of her, about 1887, being anchored in the Mersey, with variety
entertainments on board to attract sightseers, and covered with gigantic
advertisements of a large mercantile firm. Eventually she was broken up
as being unfit for use. But her builders were the first who foresaw the
possibility of carrying ten thousand people at a time.
A similar vast number of human beings were constantly packed into the
Surrey Music Hall, where Spurgeon was then holding services, several of
which I attended, escorted by my stalwart brother Roualeyn. The perfect
silence of so vast a multitude was well-nigh as remarkable as the
eloquence and point of the preacher.
An expedition of very special interest was to Mr. Powell’s glass-works.
We drove to the Strand, where he showed us some fine stained-glass
windows, and then took us all over the factory and showed us glass in
every stage of development. Amongst other things of interest was the
manufacture of glass sticks, to be made into bugles for trimming
dresses, and, strangest of all, a piece of silk, brocaded with spun
glass, which looked like gold but could never tarnish. I sometimes
recall that day, when in St. Columba’s Church at Crieff I admire Mr.
Powell’s beautiful reredos of glass mosaic.
Young Oswin being now an Eton boy, we of course went to college for June
4th, and were duly lionised—playingfields, boats, and all the orthodox
round.
My sister did not gain in health while in London, and in July we
returned to Harehope, where (except that I occasionally stayed for a few
days with country neighbours), we remained stationary till the following
June, many members of the family constantly coming to stay for a week or
two.
All the neighbours were most kind in driving long distances to try to
cheer her who had been such a centre of brightness ever since she
entered the county, and also to arrange pleasant ploys for me. Foremost
among these were the Liddells from Esslington, Lord Ravensworth’s
daughters.
The nearest and most frequent of these kind visitors was Lady Olivia
Ossulston (now the Dowager Lady Tankerville), who was the very
incarnation of breezy sunshine, and who could cheer my sister better
than any one. Lord Ossulston’s singing (a lovely tenor) was truly
fascinating, as was also their group of five pretty children.
Towards the end of October they went to Paris to visit the Emperor Louis
Napoleon and Empress Eugenie, and were much interested by the cosy,
informal life at Compiègne, their country home. The guests numbered
sixty, but, including servants, there were nearly a thousand people in
the house. Every day the party drove about the forest in _char-à-bancs_,
each holding a dozen people, while the huntsmen, in very ornamental
costume, hunted either stags or wild boars. An open-air picnic, followed
by dancing, sometimes fitted into the programme. One day the
entertainment was varied by a paper-chase, in which the Emperor himself
acted the part of the “hare,” scattering showers of torn paper.
Every evening the party either danced to the music of a barrel-organ,
acted charades, or played children’s games, _petits jeux innocents_, the
Emperor and Empress joining with the greatest spirit. All these easily
amused people were amazed and delighted at the newly invented English
walking-dress, looped up over striped woollen petticoats, with coloured
stockings, as worn by Lady Olivia, the Duchess of Manchester, and Lady
Cowley.
What chiefly surprised the English guests was the total absence of any
furniture except chairs in all the principal rooms, and that (except a
few books in the Empress’s own rooms) there were no books nor anything
suggestive of any occupation.
All this time the Indian mails were a source of continual interest and
anxiety, on account of the Indian Mutiny, with all its horrors. Our
brother Bill was stationed in the Mhow district, far from any other
white men. Happily his native troops and servants loved him as a just
and wise man, and a very successful slayer of tigers, and so he passed
safely through many times of imminent danger. Having won the affection
of some of the wild Bheel tribes, he selected men of different tribes
not likely to coalesce for mischief, and so succeeded in forming a corps
of Bheel police, who did most valuable service.
Part of the time he was on duty at Indore, and then guarding the passes
of the Nerbudda while our troops were in pursuit of Tantia Topee. For
his excellent work all through these prolonged anxieties he received
warm thanks from the Indian Government. When after long years of active
service in India he settled down in Scotland, he wrote an account of
some of his personal adventures under the name of _Wild Men and Wild
Beasts_,[37] illustrated by his friend and fellow-sportsman, Major
Baigrie, a capital artist.
The long months at Harehope wore on; there was no longer any concealing
the certainty that Seymour’s ever-increasing illness was consumption in
its most trying form; many a time in her weary hours of dire suffering
and exhaustion did she speak of the cruelty of people who write romances
in which the heroine begins with an interesting hectic flush, and passes
easily away from life. She said that when the doctor first warned her
that by constant exposure to the cold, raw Northumbrian mists she would
bring on consumption, she only thought that it would be an easy way of
escape from her great sorrow, but that if she had had the faintest
conception of what in her case consumption would really mean, she would
have taken every possible precaution from the beginning.
Alas! this wisdom came too late, and her sufferings were terrible. All
through the weary winter and spring they wore on, and we watched the
breathless exhaustion which we could do nothing to relieve.
At the end of May, as several of the family needed to visit the dentist,
and as the George Grants were at Harehope, we left them in charge, and
went to Edinburgh for a few days, which also gave me an opportunity of
seeing several of my aunts, three grand-aunts (my mother’s aunts), and
many other relations and friends, amongst others, the Bishop of Argyll
(Ewing) and his daughter Nina. On Sunday afternoon, in St. John’s
Church, he preached a very striking sermon on “The night is far spent.”
We little thought how far for one of our family.
On June 3rd, George Grant arrived to tell us that the very night we had
started, dear Seymour had become very much worse, and after a terribly
prolonged struggle for breath, had passed away that morning. We returned
at once with her children, now doubly orphaned. In the morning they
helped to gather her favourite flowers, lily of the valley and blue
Brodie Columbine, and laid them on her breast.
A week later we sat in the same window whence, just two years before,
she had watched her husband being taken to his rest; and now she was to
be laid beside him in old Woodhorne Church. It was a long, weary six
hours’ journey of thirty miles for those who accompanied the funeral all
the way.
Thus ended our life at Harehope. Less than twelve years since, in bright
hope for the future, we had watched baby Oswin in his proud father’s
arms, lay its foundation-stone. Henceforth the children lived entirely
at Cresswell, and I found a home with my sister Nelly as soon as she and
George got settled.
My first move was to Wishaw, to my mother’s aunt, Lady Belhaven.
Although so surrounded by collieries, the old place retained much charm
from its gardens and the fine old trees on the high banks of the river
Calder, while indoors there were endless beautiful objects. But these
were as nothing compared with the marvellous art-treasures of Hamilton
Palace, which was a favourite drive; a never-failing source of interest
being a fine picture of my great-grandmother (Elizabeth Gunning) when
she was Duchess of Hamilton.
I returned there often on future visits, as also to the Duke’s Forest in
Cadzow Park, where there still remain some magnificent old oaks, and
also the herd of wild white cattle, which have some slight difference
from those I knew so well at Chillingham, the inner side of the ear of
the Scottish cattle being black, and that of the English being pink.
Both herds have black muzzles. But Lord Tankerville told me that his own
herd at Chillingham is now the only absolutely pure breed remaining,
each of the others having had a cross.
Another delightful home in that near neighbourhood was Barnscleugh, a
charming old place belonging to Lady Ruthven (another grand-aunt). It is
most picturesquely perched on the banks of the Evan, in the midst of
terraces with clipped yews and hollies.
From Wishaw I went to our dear cousins, the Campbells of Skipness, and
after a quiet, peaceful month, Colonel Campbell took his eldest daughter
and me for a tour in Argyllshire, to show me some of its chief beauties,
combined with getting some fishing himself. It was my first visit to my
mother’s county, and we had a most enjoyable time at Oban, Inveraray,
Dalmally, The Brander Pass, and many another lovely spot which in after
years became very familiar ground.
After this came long “homey” visits to the Cumming-Bruces at Dunphail,
to the Murrays of Polmaise at Craigdarroch, in Ross-shire, and to my
eldest brother at Altyre. (“Pen’s sylvania,” as Lady Anne Mackenzie
delighted to call it, in reference to the name by which we always called
him—Penrose, and his love for his beautiful woods.) Then to Raigmore,
and afterwards a very long visit to the Bishop of Moray and Ross, and
all the large family of Edens at Hedgefield, Inverness.
Up to about this date St. John’s was the only Episcopal Church in
Inverness, and as it was scantily filled, its congregation was not very
well pleased when the Bishop decided on purchasing a building beside the
river Ness, which had originally belonged to the Free Church, and had
then been hired by my brother Roualeyn as a temporary museum in which to
exhibit his South African trophies. In this “upper chamber” the Bishop
commenced holding very hearty services, and the little hall was quickly
filled to overflowing.
But when he suggested the erection on the opposite bank of the river of
a large church which should be recognised as the cathedral for the
diocese of Moray and Ross, the scheme was deemed absolutely visionary.
Nevertheless, such was his strong personal influence, that ere long the
fine building became a reality. In the autumn of 1865, the Archbishop of
Canterbury laid the foundation-stone of what was thenceforth to prove
the “Church-home” of a crowded congregation.
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker. ph. sc._
_Elizabeth Gunning, Duchess of Hamilton as Helen of Troy_
_by Gavin Hamilton._
]