A VICTORIAN GIRL
The Christmas festivities of 1862 had to be suspended, as my mother's
health again obliged my father to take her to the South of France. This
time I was their sole companion, the younger children remaining in
England.
We travelled by easy stages, sleeping at Folkestone, Boulogne, Paris,
Dijon, Lyons, Avignon, and Toulon. I kept a careful journal of our travels
on this occasion, and note that at Lyons we found one of the chief silk
manufactories employed in weaving a dress for Princess Alexandra, then
engaged to the Prince of Wales. It had a gold rose, shamrock and thistle
combined on a white ground. There also we crossed the Rhone and saw in the
hospital at Ville Neuve, among other curious old paintings, one by King
Rene d'Anjou. It represented the Holy Family, and my childish eyes carried
away the impression of a lovely infant patting a soft woolly lamb. So
completely was I fascinated that, being again at Lyons after my marriage,
I begged my husband to drive out specially to see the picture of my dream.
Alas! ten years had changed my eyesight, and instead of the ideal figures,
I saw a hard stiff Madonna and Child, with a perfectly wooden lamb. I
mention this because I have often thought that the populace who were so
enraptured with a Madonna like Cimabue's in S. Maria Novella at Florence
_saw_ as I did something beyond what was actually there. Grand and
stately it is, but I think that unsophisticated eyes must have endowed it
with motherly grace and beauty, as I gave life and softness to the baby
and the lamb.
[Sidenote: MENTONE]
We went on by train from Toulon as far as Les Arcs and then drove to
Frejus, and next day to Cannes. Whether the train then only went as far as
Les Arcs or whether my parents preferred the drive through the beautiful
scenery I do not know--anyhow we seem to have thoroughly enjoyed the
drive. I note that in April we returned from Cannes to Toulon by a new
railroad. Cannes was a little seaside country town in those days, with few
hotels and villas such as have sprung up in the last half-century; but
even then it attracted sufficient visitors to render hotel accommodation a
difficulty, and we had to shorten our intended stay. We went to pay our
respects to the ex-Lord Chancellor Brougham, already King of Cannes. He
was then eighty-five, and I have a vague recollection of his being very
voluble; but I was most occupied with his great-nephew, a brother of the
present Lord Brougham, who had a little house of his own in the garden
which was enough to fascinate any child. From Cannes we drove to Nice,
about which I record that "the only thing in Nice is the sea." We had
considerable difficulty in our next stage from Nice to Mentone, as a rock
had in one place fallen from the top of a mountain to the valley below and
filled up part of the road with the debris of its fall. At Mentone we
spent over three weeks, occupied in walks with my father and drives with
him and my mother, or sometimes he walked while I rode a donkey up the
mountains. There was considerable political excitement at that time,
Mentone having only been ceded by Italy to France in 1861 and the natives
being by no means reconciled to French rule. There was a great local
feeling for Garibaldi, and though the "Inno Garibaldi" was forbidden I
fear that my mother occasionally played it in the hotel, and any listener
(such as the waiter) who overheard it beamed accordingly. I happened to
have a scarlet flannel jacket for outdoor wear, and remember women in the
fields shouting out to me "Petite Garibaldi."
My mother often sat on the beach or among olive trees to draw while I
read, or looked at the sea, or made up stories or poems, or invented
imaginary kingdoms to be shared with my sister and brothers on my
return--I fear always reserving supreme dominion for my own share.
When we left England the idea had been to continue our travels as far as
Rome, but my mother's health forbade, as the doctor said that the
cold--particularly of the Galleries--would be too much for her. It was a
great disappointment, above all to her, but she was very good in
submitting. As so long a tranquil sojourn anywhere had not been
contemplated, our library was rather restricted, but two little volumes
which she had brought, one of Dryden, and Milton's "Paradise Regained,"
afforded me happy hours. Also I perpetrated an Epic in six Cantos on the
subject of Rienzi! From Mentone we went to San Remo for a week, returning
to Mentone February 17th, when preparations began for a Fete to be given
by the English and Danish to the inhabitants of the town on the occasion
of the Prince of Wales's marriage. Old Lord Glenelg was, I believe,
nominal President, but my father was the moving spirit--entertaining the
populace being for him a thoroughly congenial task.
Many years afterwards in Samoa Robert Louis Stevenson told me that he was
at Mentone with his father at the time of the festivities, but he was a
young boy, and neither he nor I knew under what circumstances we were
ultimately to make acquaintance. There were all sorts of complications to
be overcome--for one thing it was Lent and my father had to obtain a
dispensation from M. le Cure for his flock to eat meat at the festal
dinner. This was accorded on condition that fish was not also consumed.
Then there appeared great questions as to who would consent to sit down
with whom. We were told that orange-pickers would not sit down with
orange-carriers. As a matter of fact I believe that it was against
etiquette for women to sit down with the men, and that in the end 300
workmen sat down in the garden of the Hotel Victoria (where we were
staying) and I can still recollect seeing the women standing laughing
behind them while the men handed them portions of food. Posts were
garlanded with heath and scarlet geraniums, and decorated with English,
French, and Danish flags and portraits of Queen Victoria and the Prince
and Princess of Wales. The festivities included a boat-race and other
races, and ended with illuminations and fireworks at night. All went off
splendidly, though the wind rather interfered with lighting the little
lamps which decorated some of the buildings.
In connection with the Prince's wedding I heard one story which I believe
was told by my aunt Macclesfield--(appointed Lady-in-Waiting to the
Princess) to my mother, which as far as I know has never appeared in
print.
The present ex-Kaiser, then little Prince William aged four, came over
with his parents for the wedding. He appeared at the ceremony in a
Scottish suit, whereupon the German ladies remonstrated with his mother,
saying that they understood that he was to have worn the uniform of a
Prussian officer. "I am very sorry," said his mother; "he had it on, but
Beatrice and Leopold" (the Duke of Albany) "thought that he looked so
ridiculous with tails that they cut them off, and we had to find an old
Scottish suit of his uncle's for him to wear!" An early English protest
against militarism!
[Sidenote: GENOA]
Two days after the excitement of these royal festivities we again left
Mentone by road for Genoa, which we reached March 16th, having stopped on
the way at San Remo, Alassio, and Savona. At Genoa we joined my mother's
sister Agnes and her husband, Sir Archibald Campbell (of Garscube), and
saw various sights in their company.
I knew very little of my Uncle Archibald, as he died comparatively young.
At Genoa he was certainly very lively, and I fear that I contrived
unintentionally but naturally to annoy him--it only shows how Italian
politics excited everyone, even a child. He had seen some map in which the
Italians had marked as their own territory, not only what they had lately
acquired, but all to which they then aspired; I hardly imagine the
Trentino, but certainly Venice. Uncle Archy scoffed at their folly--with
precocious audacity, and I suppose having heard such Italian views at
Mentone, I asserted that they would ere long have both Venice and Rome! He
was quite indignant. It was impertinent of me, as I knew nothing of their
power or otherwise, but it was a good shot!
I have heard that Sir Archibald's mother was a stately old Scottish lady
who thought a great deal of family, and precedence, and that one day he
scandalised her by asking, "Well, mother, what would be the precedence of
an Archangel's eldest son?"
Aunt Aggy was broken-hearted when he died, and always delicate, fell into
very ill-health. When the Franco-German War broke out she set to work
undauntedly for the sick and wounded, and positively wanted to go abroad
to nurse in some hospital--probably in Germany. A certain very clever Dr.
Frank, of German-Jewish descent, was to make arrangements. The whole
Grosvenor family and all its married connections were up in arms, and my
father was dispatched to remonstrate with her. With much annoyance and
reluctance she gave in--and soon after married Dr. Frank! The family were
again astounded, but after all when they knew him they realised that he
made her happy and took to him quite kindly. My aunt and Dr. Frank lived a
great deal at Cannes, where they had a nice villa--Grandbois--and many
friends, and he had a tribe of admiring patients. Aunt Aggy was very
charming and gentle and lived to a good age.
From Genoa we drove in easy stages to Spezia, noting towns and villages on
the way. It was a delightful means of travelling, walking up the hills and
stopping at little townships for luncheon in primitive inns. Motors have
somewhat revived this method of travel, but whirling along at a great pace
can never allow you to see and enjoy all the lesser beauties which struck
you in the old leisurely days. I have duly noted all sorts of trivial
incidents in my journal, but they are much what occur in all such
expeditions and I need not dilate on the beauties of mountain, sea, and
sky which everyone knows so well. At Spezia we saw the scene of Shelley's
shipwreck, and on one coast of the Gulf the prison where Garibaldi had
been interned not very long before. I record that it was a large
building, and that his rooms, shown us by a sailor, were "very nice." I
trust that he found them so. After returning to our old quarters we left
Mentone on April 15th, evidently with great regret and with a parting sigh
to the voiturier who had driven us on all our expeditions, including those
to Genoa and Spezia--also to my donkey-man and to the chambermaid. Looking
back, I feel that these southern weeks were among the happiest of my life,
and that something of the sunlight and mountain scenery remained as
memories never effaced.
[Sidenote: TRAFALGAR VETERANS]
We returned to England by much the same route as our outward journey, only
the railroad being now open from Cannes to Toulon a night at Frejus was
unnecessary. I cannot remember whether it was on our outward or our
homeward journey, but on one or the other we met at the Palace of the
Popes at Avignon an old custodian who had fought at Trafalgar and been for
some years prisoner in England. He showed with some pride an English book,
and it amused my mother to recognise a translation from a German work of
which she did not hold a high opinion. I do not suppose that the French
soldier read enough of it to do him much harm.
It is rather curious that my father on two or three occasions took us to
see at Greenwich Hospital an old servant of Nelson's who was with him at
Trafalgar, so I have seen both a Frenchman and an Englishman who took part
in that battle. Nelson's servant had a little room hung all round with
pictures of the hero. My father asked him whether the Admiral said the
prayer which one print represents him as reciting on his knees before the
battle. The man said he did not know what words he used, but he saw him
kneel down to pray. On our way to Paris we spent a night at
Fontainebleau--and finally reached Stoneleigh on May 1st, 1863.
Speaking of my mother's numerous brothers and sisters, I ought not to omit
the eldest, Eleanor, Duchess of Northumberland, who was a very great lady,
handsome and dignified till her death at an advanced age. She had no
children, but was admired and respected by many nephews and nieces. I
believe that her country neighbours regarded her as almost royal,
curtsying when she greeted them. I remember her telling me that she could
not go and hear some famous preacher in London because she would not have
her carriage out on Sunday and had never been in any sort of cab. What
would she have thought of the modern fashion of going in omnibuses?
However, a year or two before her death the late Duke of Northumberland
(grandson of her husband's cousin and successor) told me with great glee
that they had succeeded in getting Duchess Eleanor into a taxi and that
she had enjoyed it very much. I cannot think how they managed it. She
lived during her widowhood at Stanwick Park, and my youngest sister
Cordelia had a rather comical experience when staying with her there on
one occasion. My aunt, among other tabooed innovations, altogether
objected to motors and would not allow any through her Lodge gates.
Previous to her visit to Stanwick, Cordelia had stayed with the Lawsons at
Brayton in Cumberland and while there had been stopped by a policeman for
riding a tricycle after dark without a light. She left her address with
the Lawson family, and while at Stanwick the local policeman appeared,
absolutely trembling at having been forced to enter these sacred
precincts, to summon her in that she "drove a carriage, to wit a tricycle,
between the hours, etc." The household managed to keep it dark from Aunt
Eleanor, and Cordelia sent authority to the Lawson family to settle the
case and pay the fine--but what would the aunt have said had she known of
her niece's crime and penalty?
[Sidenote: LORD MUNCASTER AND GREEK BRIGANDS]
Lady Macclesfield, the second daughter, I have already mentioned. The
surviving sister (one having died young) next above my mother in age was
Elizabeth Lady Wenlock, who was very clever and, among her nine children,
had charming daughters to whom I may refer later on. Then after my mother
came Octavia and Agnes--and then Jane, married to Lord Muncaster, who died
seven years later at Castellamare, leaving her with one little girl of
about two years old. Margaret or Mimi, as we called her, was a great
interest when the young widowed mother brought her to stay with us, soon
after her father's death. She was a dear little girl, and we were told
that she was a great heiress, and somehow in the hands of the Lord
Chancellor. Her father had died without a will, and all the property,
including the beautiful Muncaster Castle in Cumberland, went to the child
though her uncle succeeded to the title. However, poor little Mimi died
when she was eleven years old, so her uncle succeeded to the property
after all. He was the Lord Muncaster who was captured by the brigands near
Marathon in 1870 with his wife and her sister, Miss L'Estrange, Mr. Vyner,
Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, and two other men. The brigands let the ladies go
without injury--Lady Muncaster had hidden her rings in her mouth to
protect them--but they would only let one man go to get ransom for the
rest. The men drew lots and it fell to Vyner, but he absolutely refused to
take the chance, saying that he was a bachelor and Lord Muncaster a
married man. Instead of ransom the Greek Government sent troops. The
brigands were annihilated, but they first killed Vyner and his companions.
It was said that the Government stood in with the brigands, but I have
never quite understood why, if so, the former did not prefer the money to
the death of their allies--unless they thought that they would have to
produce the ransom. Lord Muncaster always had his head hanging a little to
one side, and in my youth I had a floating idea that it was from permanent
grief at the tragedy. Meantime my Aunt Jane married a second time, a
brother of Lord Crawford's. She was pretty, with green eyes and a nervous
manner. She was a beautiful needlewoman and I believe a true musician.
[Sidenote: THE GROSVENOR FAMILY]
One more Grosvenor aunt must be remembered, my mother's youngest sister
Theodora. I have heard that my grandmother was greatly distressed at the
loss of her fourth daughter, Evelyn, who died as a child, although there
were seven surviving sisters, therefore when another girl-baby arrived she
called her Theodora--the gift of God. Certainly she was greatly attached
to the child, and I fancy that the little Theodora was given much more
spoiling and freedom than her elder sisters. She was very lively and
amusing, and being the only daughter left unmarried when my grandfather
died--in 1869--she became her mother's constant companion. When she
ultimately married a brother of Lord Wimborne's she and Mr. Merthyr Guest
continued to live with my grandmother, who endowed them with a large
fortune. Mr. Guest died some years ago, but Aunt Theodora still lives--and
has one daughter.
My grandfather was a quiet old gentleman as far as I recollect him--he is
somehow associated in my mind with carpet slippers and a diffident
manner. He was what they call of a "saving" disposition, but I really
believe that he was oppressed with his great wealth, and never sure that
he was justified in spending much on himself and his family. When he
became a thorough invalid before his death he was ordered to take certain
pills, and in order to induce him to do so my grandmother would cut them
in two and take half herself. After his death his halves were discovered
intact done up with red tape!
During his lifetime I stayed with my parents once or twice at the old
Eaton Hall, before my uncle (the first Duke) built the present Palace. It
was a nice, comfortable house. I have heard, from a neighbour who
recollected the incident, that when it was being built the workmen
employed would chisel rough representations of each other's features in
the gargoyles which formed part of the decoration. I suppose that was done
in ancient times by the men who built the churches and colleges of those
days.
My grandparents besides these numerous daughters had four sons--two, both
named Gilbert, died, one as a baby, the other, a sailor, as a young man.
The late Duke was my godfather and always very kind to me, particularly
when, after my marriage, I stayed on more than one occasion at the new
Eaton. I never knew a man more anxious to do all he could for the people
about him, whether in the country or on his London property. He had very
much the feeling of a patriarch and loved nothing better than to have
about him the generations of his family. It was a complicated family, as
he married first his own first cousin, Constance Leveson-Gower, and after
her death the sister of his son-in-law Lord Chesham, husband of his
second daughter Beatrice. I cannot quite unravel it, but somehow he was
brother-in-law to his own daughter. The youngest son, Richard, a quaint,
amusing man, was created Lord Stalbridge.
Having said so much of my mother's family, I think I should mention the
two sisters of my father whom I have hitherto omitted. One was his second
sister, Emma--a typical and excellent maiden aunt. She was principally
noted for being my sister Agnes's godmother and feeling it her duty to
hear her Catechism--but neither Agnes nor any of us minded; in fact I
remember--I suppose on some wet Sunday--that we all insisted on sharing
the Scripture lesson and were given figs in consequence. The third sister
was Caroline, twin with Augusta, but very different, for whereas Aunt
Gussie was delicate and nervous, not to say irritable, Aunt Car was slow
and substantial. She ended with marrying when no longer very young an old
cousin of my father's, a clergyman, Lord Saye and Sele, who had actually
baptized her early in life. She made him an excellent wife; she had
numerous step-children, though none of her own. Looking back on these
Early Victorian uncles and aunts with their various wives and husbands, I
cannot but claim that they were good English men and women, with a keen
sense of duty to their tenants and neighbours rich and poor. Of course
they varied immensely in character and had their faults like other people,
but I cannot recall one, either man or woman, who did not try to act up to
a standard of right, and think I was fortunate to have been brought up
among them.
[Sidenote: UNCLES AND AUNTS]
In my younger days I had also living several great-uncles and aunts on
both sides, but the only one whom I can spare time and space to mention
here is my Grandfather Leigh's sister, Caroline Lady East. When she was
young Mr. East fell in love with her and she with him, but he was an
impecunious youth and my great-grandparents would not permit the marriage.
Whereupon he disguised himself as a hay-maker and contrived an interview
with his lady-love in which they exchanged vows of fidelity. Then he went
to India, where he remained eleven years, and returned to find the lady
still faithful, and having accumulated a sufficient fortune married her.
They had a nice little country house on the borders of Oxfordshire and
Gloucestershire, and, though they had no children, were one of the
happiest old couples I ever knew. My great-aunt died in 1870, but Uncle
East lived till over ninety and went out hunting almost to the end--so
eleven years of India had not done him much harm. He stayed with us at
Middleton after my marriage when old Lord Abingdon was also a guest. Lord
Abingdon must have been over seventy at the time, but a good deal younger
than Sir James. They had known each other in youth and were quite
delighted to meet again, but each confided separately to my husband and
myself that he had thought that the other old fellow was dead. However,
they made great friends, and in token of reunion Lord Abingdon sent his
servant to cut Uncle East's corns!
To return to my recollections of my own girlhood. I think that it must
have been in 1864 that I had a bad attack of chicken-pox which temporarily
hurt my eyes and left me somewhat weak. Either in that autumn or the
following one my parents took me to the Isle of Arran and left me there
for a time with a maid--while they accompanied my brother Gilbert back to
school. I loved the Isle of Arran, and was only disturbed by the devotion
of a child-niece of the landlady's who would follow me about everywhere.
The only way of escape was to go--or attempt to go--into the mountains of
which she was afraid, knowing that there were giants there.
I must not omit one honour which I enjoyed in 1865. My mother took me to
see my Aunt Macclesfield, who was in Waiting at Marlborough House when His
present Majesty was born. My aunt welcomed us in the Princess of Wales's
pretty sitting-room hung with a kind of brocade with a pattern of roses.
The baby was then brought in to be admired, and to my gratification I was
allowed to hold the little Prince in my arms. I did not then realise that
in after years I could claim to have nursed my King.
Shortly afterwards we used to hear a good deal of the American Civil War.
We were too young to have much opinion as to the rival causes, but there
was a general impression conveyed to our minds that the "Southerners were
gentlemen." Some time after the war was over, in December 1868, Jefferson
Davis, the Southern (Confederate) President, came to stay at Stoneleigh.
He was over in Europe on parole. We were told that he had been in prison,
and one of my younger brothers was anxious to know whether we "should see
the marks of the chains." We had a favourite old housemaid who was
preparing his room, and we imparted to her the thrilling information of
his former imprisonment. Her only response was "Umph, well, I suppose he
won't want these silver candlesticks." A large bedroom was being prepared
for him, but she considered that silver candlesticks were only for ladies,
and that presidents and prisoners were not entitled to such luxuries.
He proved to be a benevolent old gentleman who impressed my cousins and
myself by the paternal way in which he addressed any elder girl as
"daughter."
After this--but I cannot remember the particular years--we went in the
autumn to Land's End, The Lizard, and Tintagel, and also had villas at
Torquay and Bournemouth respectively, but our experiences were too
ordinary to be worthy of record. I think I was about seventeen when I went
with my parents to Vichy, where my father drank the waters--and we went on
to some beautiful Auvergne country. This was my last excursion abroad with
my parents before I married.
[Sidenote: CONFIRMATION]
In 1867 I was confirmed. The church which we attended was in Park Street.
It has since been pulled down, but was then regarded as specially the
church of the Westminster family. My grandparents sat in a large pew
occupying the length of the gallery at the west end of the church. We had
a pew in the south gallery with very high sides, and my early
recollections are of sitting on a dusty red hassock from which I could see
little but the woodwork during a very long sermon. One Sunday when I was
approaching years of discretion the clergyman gave out notice of a
Confirmation, with the usual intimation that Candidates should give in
their names in the Vestry. My mother told me to do this accompanied by my
younger brother (Gilbert) as chaperon. The clergyman seemed a good deal
surprised, and I rather fancy that I was the only Candidate. He was an old
man who had been there for a long time. He said that he would come and see
me at my parents' house, and duly arrived at 37 Portman Square. I was sent
in to my father's sitting-room for the interview, and I believe that he
was more embarrassed than I was, for I had long been led to regard
Confirmation as the proper sequence to learning my Catechism and a fitting
step in religious life. The clergyman somewhat uneasily remarked that he
had to ascertain that I knew my Catechism, and asked me to say it. This I
could have done in my sleep, as it had for years formed part of my Sunday
instruction. When I ended he asked after a slight pause whether I knew why
the Nicene Creed was so called. This was unexpected pleasure. I had lately
read Milman's _Latin Christianity_ to my mother, and should have enjoyed
nothing better than delivering to my pastor a short lecture on the Arian
and Athanasian doctrines. When I began it, however, he hastily cut me
short, saying that he saw that I knew all about it--how old was I?
"Seventeen and a half." "Quite old enough," said he, and told me that he
would send me my ticket, and when I went to the church someone would show
me where to sit. This ended my preparation as far as he was concerned. I
believe he intimated to my parents that he would see Miss Leigh again, but
in practice he took care to keep clear of the theological _enfant
terrible_.
I was duly confirmed on May 31st, by Dr. Jackson, Bishop of London. I feel
sure that my mother amply supplied any lacunae left by the poor old
clergyman. No doubt in those days Preparation for Confirmation was not
regarded as seriously as at present, but I do not think that mine was
quite typical, as some of my contemporary cousins underwent a much more
serious course of instruction.
[Sidenote: "COMING OUT"]
That autumn I began to "come out" in the country. We went to a perfectly
delightful ball at the Shaw-Stewarts' at Ardgowan, where the late Duke of
Argyll--then Lord Lorne--excited my admiration by the way he danced reels
in Highland costume. Thence my brother and I went to Hans Hall to the
coming-of-age of my cousin Charles Adderley, now Lord Norton. The whole
country-side swarmed to the festivities, and one party unable to obtain
any other conveyance chartered a hearse. Miss Ferrier, in her novel _The
Inheritance_, makes one of her female characters arrive at a country
house, where she was determined to be received, in a hearse--but she was
even more gruesome than my cousin's guests as she accompanied the corpse!
The following year (1868), May 12th, I was presented--Princess Christian
held the Drawing-Room on behalf of the Queen, who still lived in
retirement as far as social functions were concerned. She, however,
attended this Drawing-Room for about half an hour--receiving the entree.
Her devotion to the Prince Consort and to his memory was unparalleled. No
doubt the fact that she had practically never had anyone with whom she
could associate on equal terms until her marriage had a good deal to do
with it. I know of a lady whom she summoned to sit with her when the
Prince Consort was being carried to his funeral on the ground that she was
a widow and could feel for her, and she said that her shudders when the
guns went off were dreadful, and that she seemed unable to realise that
here for the first time was something that she could not control.
To return to my entry in the world. Naturally I went during 1868 and the
three or four succeeding years to the balls, dinners, and garden parties
usual in the course of the season. The "great houses" then existed--they
had not been pulled down or turned into public galleries and offices.
Stafford House, Grosvenor House, Northumberland House, and others
entertained in royal style, and there were Garden Parties at Argyll Lodge
and Airlie Lodge on Campden Hill, at Syon, and at Chiswick, then in
possession of the Duke of Devonshire.
In those days there was still a sort of question as to the propriety of
waltzing. Valses and square dances were danced alternately at balls, and a
few--but very few--girls were limited to the latter. Chaperones were the
almost invariable rule and we went back to them between the dances.
"Sitting-out" did not come in till some years later. In the country,
however, there was plenty of freedom, and I never remember any restriction
on parties of girls and young men walking or rowing together without their
elders. By the time I came out my brother Gilbert (Gilly) was at Harrow
and Dudley and Rupert at Mr. Lee's Private School at Brighton. My special
charge and pet Rowland was still at home, and the youngest of the family
Cordelia a baby.
Dudley and Rupy were inseparable. Duddy delicate, Rupy sturdy and full of
mischief into which he was apt to drag his elder brother. I had to look
after them, and see that they accomplished a few lessons in the
holidays--no light task, but I was ready for anything to keep off holiday
tutors and, I am afraid, to retain my position as elder sister. Love of
being first was doubtless my besetting sin, and my good-natured younger
brothers and sisters accepted my rule--probably also because it was easier
than that of a real grown-up person. My mother had bad health, and my
father took it for granted that it was my business to keep the young ones
as far as possible out of mischief. As for my sister Agnes, she was always
a saint, and I am afraid that I was a tyrant as far as she was concerned.
Cordelia was born when I was over sixteen and was always rather like my
child. Rowland was just seven when her arrival delighted the family, and
his first remark when he heard that he had a little sister was "I wonder
what she will think of my knickerbockers"--to which he had lately been
promoted. Boys wore little tunics with belts when they first left off baby
frocks, and sailor suits were not introduced when my brothers were
children.
[Sidenote: IRELAND]
My next special recollection is of a visit to Ireland which I paid in
company with my parents, Gilbert, and Agnes in August 1869. We crossed in
the _Leinster_ and duly lionised Dublin. I kept a journal during this tour
in which the sights of the city are duly noted with the remark, after
seeing the post office, that we "made the various observations proper to
intelligent but tired travellers."
The country--Bray, Glendalough, and the Seven Churches seem to have
pleased us much better. I do not know whether the guides and country
people generally are as free with their legends now as they were fifty
years ago, but they told us any amount of stories to our great
satisfaction. Brough, the guide at the Seven Churches, was particularly
voluble and added considerably to the tales of St. Kevin given in the
guide-book. St. Kevin, as recounted by Moore in his ballad, pushed
Kathleen into the Lake when she would follow him. I remember that Brough
was much embarrassed when I innocently asked _why_ he did this. However,
he discreetly replied: "If your honourable father and your honourable
mother want you to marry a gentleman and you don't like him, don't push
him into the water!" Excellent advice and not difficult to follow in a
general way. When St. Kevin was alive the skylark used to sing early in
the morning and waken the people who had been up late the night before at
a wedding or merrymaking. When the Saint saw them looking so bad he
asked, "What's the matter?" On hearing that the lark would not let them
get any sleep, he laid a spell that never more should lark sing above that
lake. This encouragement of late hours seems rather inconsistent with his
general asceticism. St. Kevin was more considerate to a blackbird than to
the laverock. The former once laid her eggs on his extended hand, and he
kept it held out until she had had time to build her nest in it and hatch
her young.
Brough was even better acquainted with fairies than with saints. He knew a
man at Cork named Jack M'Ginn, a wool-comber, who was carried away by the
fairies for seven years. At the end of that time he accompanied them to a
wedding (fairies like weddings). There was present a young lady whom the
fairies wanted to make sneeze three times, as if they could do so and no
one said "God bless her" they could take her away. So they tickled her
nose three times with horse-hair, but as they were withdrawing it the
third time Jack cried out in Irish "God bless her." This broke the spell,
and Jack fell crashing down amongst the crockery, everyone ran away, and
he arose retransformed to his natural shape.
Another acquaintance of Brough's--a stout farmer--met one evening three
fairies carrying a coffin. Said one, "What shall we do for a fourth man?"
"Switch the first man who passes," replied the second. So they caught the
farmer and made him carry it all night, till he found himself in the
morning nearly dead not far from his own door. Our guide enjoined us to be
sure, if fairies passed us in the air, to pick some blades of grass and
throw them after them, saying "Good luck to you good folk": as he sagely
remarked, a civil word never does harm. As more prosaic recollections,
Brough told us of the grand fights at Glendalough, when the young men were
backed up by their sisters and sweethearts. The etiquette was for a young
woman to take off her right stocking, put a stone in it and use it as a
weapon, "and any woman who fought well would have twenty young farmers
wanting to marry her."
[Sidenote: KILLARNEY]
We stopped at Cork, whence we drove to see Blarney Castle and its stones.
In those days, and probably still, there were two, one called the Ladies'
Stone, which we three children all kissed, and another suspended by iron
clamps from the top of the Castle, so that one had to lie down and hold on
to the irons with one's body partly over an open space--rather a
break-neck proceeding, particularly in rising again. Only Gilly
accomplished this. The railway to Glengariff then went as far as
Dunmanway, whence it was necessary to drive. We slept at the Royal Hotel
where we arrived in the evening, and to the end of my life I never shall
forget the beauty of Bantry Bay as we saw it on waking next morning with
all its islands mirrored in purple shadows. But the whole drive to
Killarney, and above all the Lakes as they break upon your sight, are
beyond description. We saw it all in absolutely glorious weather--possibly
rare in those regions, but certainly the Lakes of Killarney impressed me
then as more beautiful than either the Scottish or the English Lakes
because of their marvellous richness of colour. After fifty years, and
travels in many lands, I still imagine that they are only excelled in
_colour_ by the coral islands of the Pacific; but of course the Irish
Lakes may dwell in my memory as more beautiful than they really are, as I
saw them first when I had far fewer standards of comparison. Anyhow, they
were like a glorious dream. We spent some enchanting days at Killarney and
saw all the surrounding beauties--the Gap of Dunloe with the Serpent Lake
in which St. Patrick drowned the last snake in Ireland (in a chest into
which he enticed the foolish creature by promising to let it out again),
Mangerton, the highest mountain in Ireland but one, and Carrantuohill, the
highest of all, which my brother and sister and I were allowed to ascend
on condition that the guide would take good care of us. However, when out
of our parents' sight he found that he was troubled with a corn, and lay
down to rest, confiding us to a ponyman who very nearly lost us in a fog.
The ponies could only approach the base, the rest was pretty stiff
climbing.
[Sidenote: THE O'DONOGHUES]
The Upper, the Middle, and the Lower Lake are all lovely, but the last was
particularly attractive from its connection with the local hero--the Great
O'Donoghue, whose story we gleaned from our guides and particularly a boy
who carried our luncheon basket up Mangerton. He was a magician and had
the power of taking any shape he pleased, but he ended by a tremendous
leap into the Lake, after which he never returned to his home. Once every
seven years, however, between six and seven on May Day morning, he rides
from one of the islands in the Lower Lake to the opposite shore, with
fairies strewing flowers before him, and for the time his Castle also
reappears. Any unmarried man who sees him will marry a rich wife, and any
unmarried woman a rich husband. Our boatman pointed out an island where
girls used to stand to see him pass, but no one ever saw him except an old
boatman, and he had been married a long time, so the apparition did not
help him. No O'Donoghue has ever been drowned since the hero's
disappearance. We heard two different versions of the cause of the
tragedy. Both attributed it to his wife's want of self-control. One
related that the husband was in the habit of running about as a hare or a
rabbit, and as long as she did not laugh all went well, but when he took
this flying leap into the water she burst into a fit of laughter and
thereby lost him permanently. Our boy guide's story was more
circumstantial and more dramatic. According to him, the O'Donoghue once
turned himself into an eel, and knotted himself three times round Ross
Castle, where he lived (a super-eel or diminutive castle!). This
frightened the lady dreadfully, and he told her that if she "fritted"
three times on seeing any of his wonders she would see him no more. Some
time after he turned himself into a goose and swam on the lake, and she
shrieked aloud, thinking to lose him. Finally he brought out his white
horse and told her that this was her last chance of restraining her fears.
She promised courage and kept quiet while he rode straight up the Castle
wall, but when he turned to come down she fainted, whereupon, horse and
all, he leapt into the water. The boy also declared that in the previous
year he was seen by two boatmen, a lady and a gentleman, another man, and
some "company," whereupon the lady fainted--recalling the lady of
O'Donoghue, it was the least she could do. In the lower Lake may still be
seen rocks representing the chieftain's pigeons, his spy-glass, his books
containing the "Ould Irish," and his mice (only to be seen on Sundays
after prayers). In the Bitter Lake, which was pointed out to us from a
distance, is the fairy-island where he dances with the fairies.
[Sidenote: MYTHS AND LEGENDS]
The O'Donoghue in his lifetime had his frivolous moments. He once changed
a number of fern fronds into little pigs, which he took to the fair at
Killarney and sold to the jobbers. They looked just like other pigs until
the purchasers reached some running water. As we all know, running water
dissolves any spell, and the pigs all turned back into little blades of
fern. As testimony to the authenticity of this tale the water was duly
shown to us. The O'Donoghue, however, knew that the jobbers would not
remain placid under the trick, so he went home and told his maid to say,
if anyone asked for him, that he had gone to bed and to sleep and could
only be wakened by pulling his legs. The jobbers arrived, received the
message, went in and pulled his legs, which immediately came off! Off they
ran in alarm, thinking that they had killed the man, but the good
O'Donoghue was only having his fun with them, so called them back and
returned their money. We picked up a good deal of fairy-lore during our
sojourn in the south of Ireland, and I record it as it may have passed
away during the past half-century. The driver who took us to the Gap of
Dunloe told me that in his mother's time a woman working in the fields put
down her baby. While she was out of the way the steward saw the fairies
change it for a fairy-baby who would have been a plague to her all her
life. So as the child was crying and shrieking he stood over it and
declared that he would shoot the mother or anyone else who should come
near it, and as no one came to comfort it the fairies could not leave
their baby to cry like that, so they brought back the stolen child and
took away their own. That steward was such a man of resource that one
cannot help wishing that he were alive to deal with the Sinn Feiners of
the present day. Another piece of good advice which we received was, if
we saw a fairy (known by his red jacket) in a field to keep an eye fixed
on him till we came up with him--then to take away his purse, and each
time we opened it we should find a shilling. I regret to say that I never
had the opportunity, but the guide, remarking my father's tendency to give
whenever asked, observed that he thought his lordship had found a fairy
purse. It is a commonplace to notice the similarity of folk-lore in many
lands pointing to a common origin, but it is rather curious to compare the
tale of the O'Donoghue with that of the Physicians of Myddfai in South
Wales. Only in that the husband, not the wife, caused the final tragedy.
The fairy-wife, rising from the Lake, warns her mortal husband that she
will disappear for ever if he strikes her three times. Long years they
live in happiness, but thrice does he give her a slight blow to arouse her
from unconventional behaviour at a christening, a wedding, and a funeral
respectively. Thereupon she wends her way to the Lake and like a white
cloud sinks into its waters. She leaves her sons a legacy of wisdom and
healing skill, and from time to time a shadowy form and clear voice come
to teach them still deeper knowledge.
From the south of Ireland we went to the north, but I regret to say were
not nearly so fascinated by the loyal Ulsterman as by the forthcoming sons
of the south. Nevertheless we enjoyed the wild scenery of Lough Swilly and
the legends connected with Dunluce Castle and the Giant's Causeway. Among
the tales of Dunluce was that of a banshee whose duty it is (or was) to
keep clean one of the rooms in the ruin. The old man who showed us over
declared that she did not always properly fulfil her task. She is supposed
to be the spirit of a cook who fell over the rocks into the water and
reappears as a tall woman with red hair. The place of cook must have been
a rather trying one in ancient days, for the kitchen pointed out to us was
on the edge of a precipice and we were told that once when a good dinner
was prepared the attendants let it all fall into the sea! It was not,
however, explained whether this was the occasion on which the like fate
befell the cook. Possibly she died in a frantic effort to rescue it.
[Sidenote: THE GIANT BENADADDA]
The Giant's Causeway was very interesting. We first entered Portcorn Cave,
which has fine colours and a great deal of froth said to have been caused
by the giant's washerwoman washing a few collars there. The giant in
question was called Fin MacCoul, and at the same time there lived another
Giant in Scotland called Benadadda. Wishing to pass backwards and
forwards, the two agreed that Fin should pave a way of columns and
Benadadda should work it. Hence Fingal's Cave--_gal_ or _gael_ meaning
"the stranger"--presumably the name was given in compliment to the future
guest. But the two champions found the work harder than they had expected,
and Benadadda sent to tell Fin that if he did not make haste he must come
over and give him a beating. Fin returned that he was not to put himself
out, but to come if he pleased. Soon after Fin rushed in crying out to his
wife, "Goodness gracious! he's coming. I can't face that fellow!" And he
tumbled into bed.
Soon Benadadda walked in. "Good day, ma'am. Ye're Mrs. McCoul?"
"Yes, sir; I percave you are Benadadda?"
"I am ma'am. Is Fin at home?"
"He's just gone into the garden for a few vegetables, but he'll be back
directly. Won't ye take a cheer?"
"Thank you kindly"--and he sat down.
She continued: "I've got a little boy in that cradle and we think he's
taything, fer he won't give the fayther nor me any raste. Just put your
finger along his gums."
Benadadda, unable to refuse a lady, put his fingers into Fin's mouth, who
promptly bit them off, and then jumping up called on Benadadda to come on.
The Scottish giant, unable to fight with his wounded hand, told them, "I
wish I'd never come among you craters," and walked off. Mrs. MacCoul ran
after him with an oatcake, but having tasted it he said, "Very good
outside, but give the rest to your goodman"; for she had baked the tin
girdle inside the cake. This is how I recorded the tale, which I suppose I
picked up locally, but I have somewhere heard or read another account in
which, without waiting for his fingers to be bitten off, Benadadda
exclaimed, "Begorra, is that the baby? then I'll be but a mouthful to the
fellow himself," and made off.
I am unable to say which version is authentic, but neither seems to
attribute undaunted valour to either champion, and both agree that Irish
wit got the better of superior Scottish strength. I record these tales
rather than attempt description of the Caves and other beauties of the
coast, as the physical features remain and the legends may be forgotten.
The great rocks shaped like columns are called the Giant's Organs, and are
(or were) supposed to play every Christmas morning. The tune they play is
"St. Patrick's day in the morning," upon hearing which the whole Causeway
dances round three times.
We left Ireland at the end of August, having thoroughly enjoyed our
travels there. It was then a peaceful country. The Queen had given her
name to Queenstown Harbour in 1849, and I suppose had visited Killarney on
the same occasion. Anyhow, memories of her stay still lingered there. I
recollect even now the enthusiasm with which a boatman who had been one of
those who had taken her on the Lake said, "I passed a long day looking at
her." It was a thousand pities that she did not often revisit Ireland.