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THE STORY OF MY LIFE
VOL. IV
[Illustration: Augustus J. C. Hare]
THE STORY OF
MY LIFE
BY
AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE
AUTHOR OF “MEMORIALS OF A QUIET LIFE.”
“THE STORY OF TWO NOBLE LIVES.”
ETC. ETC.
VOLUME IV
LONDON
GEORGE ALLEN, 156, CHARING CROSS ROAD
1900
[_All rights reserved_]
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
PREFACE
With the exception of the last two chapters, these three volumes were
printed at the same time with the first three volumes of “The Story of
my Life” in 1896, therefore many persons are spoken of in them as still
living who have since passed away, and others, mentioned as children,
have since grown up.
Reviews will doubtless, in general, continue to abuse the book,
especially for its great length. But personally, if I am interested in a
story, I like it to be a long one; and there is no obligation for any
who dislike a long book to read this one: they may look at a page or two
here and there, where they seem promising; or, better still, they can
leave it quite alone: they really need have nothing to complain of.
In the later volumes I have used letters for my narrative even more than
in the former. Many will feel with Dr. Newman that “the true life of a
man is in his letters.... Not only for the interest of a biography, but
for arriving at the inside of things, the publication of letters is the
true method. Biographers varnish, they assign motives, they conjecture
feelings, but contemporary letters are facts.”
AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE.
CONTENTS
PAGE
IN MY SOLITARY LIFE 1
LITERARY WORK AT HOME AND ABROAD 162
LONDON WALKS AND SOCIETY 352
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
VOL. IV
AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE. _From a photograph by Hill and
Sounders._ (_Photogravure_) _Frontispiece_
PAGE
HIGHCLIFFE, THE KING’S ORIEL 9
FRANCIS GEORGE HARE. (_Photogravure_) _To Face_ 20
THE CHURCHYARD AT HURSTMONCEAUX 15
GIBRALTAR FROM ALGECIRAS. (_Full-page woodcut_) _To face_ 34
TOLEDO. (_Full-page woodcut_) _To face_ 38
SEGOVIA. (_Full-page woodcut_) _To face_ 42
FOUNTAIN OF S. CLOUD 45
FROM THE LIBRARY WINDOW, FORD 52
HATFIELD 75
FIDENAE 86
VIEW FROM THE TEMPIETTO, ROME 91
SUBIACO. (_Full-page woodcut_) _To face_ 96
ISOLA FARNESE 96
PONTE DELL’ ISOLA, VEII 97
CASTEL FUSANO 100
CYCLOPEAN GATE OF ALATRI 104
THE INN AT FERENTINO 105
PAPAL PALACE, ANAGNI 106
TEMPLES OF CORI 107
NINFA 108
S. ORESTE, FROM SORACTE 109
CONVENT OF S. SILVESTRO, SUMMIT OF SORACTE 111
SUTRI 112
CAPRAROLA 113
PAPAL PALACE, VITERBO 114
FROM THE WALLS OF ORVIETO 115
PORCH OF CREMONA 120
PIAZZA MAGGIORE, BERGAMO 121
THE HOSPICE, HOLMHURST 130
LANGLEY FORD, IN THE CHEVIOTS 138
RABY CASTLE 146
LAMPEDUSA FROM TAGGIA 167
STAIRCASE, PALAZZO DELL’ UNIVERSITA, GENOA 168
CLOISTER OF S. MATTEO, GENOA 169
COLONNA CASTLE, PALESTRINA 172
GENAZZANO 173
SUBIACO 174
SACRO SPECO, SUBIACO 175
S. MARIA DI COLLEMAGGIO, AQUILA 176
SOLMONA 177
HERMITAGE OF PIETRO MURRONE 178
CASTLE OF AVEZZANO 179
GATE OF ARPINUM 180
TRIUMPHAL ARCH, AQUINO 181
PORTO S. LORENZO, AQUINO 182
FARFA 190
GATE OF CASAMARI 191
LA BADIA DI SETTIMO 195
AT MILAN 197
PARAY LE MONIAL 198
THE GARDEN TERRACE, HIGHCLIFFE 210
THE HAVEN HOUSE 211
THE LIBRARY, HIGHCLIFFE 214
THE FOUNTAIN, HIGHCLIFFE 216
GATEWAY, LAMBETH PALACE 220
THE BLOODY GATE, TOWER OF LONDON 221
COMPIÈGNE 225
HOLLAND HOUSE 227
HOLMHURST, THE ROCK WALK 229
HOLLAND HOUSE (GENERAL VIEW) 231
HOLLAND HOUSE, THE LILY GARDEN 234
COBHAM HALL 238
LOUISA, MARCHIONESS OF WATERFORD. (_Line engraving_) _To face_ 256
THE SECRET STAIR, FORD 257
NORHAM-ON-TWEED 259
THE KING’S ROOM, FORD 263
THE PINETA, RAVENNA 302
IL SAGRO DI S. MICHELE 313
CANOSSA 314
URBINO 315
GUBBIO 316
LA VERNIA 319
CAMALDOLI 320
BOBBIO 321
FRANCES, BARONESS BUNSEN. (_Line engraving_) _To face_ 322
LOVERE, LAGO D’ISEO 322
LAMBETH, INNER COURT 324
DORCHESTER HOUSE 332
CROSBY HALL 337
THE GARDEN PORCH, HIGHCLIFFE 341
THE SUNDIAL WALK, HIGHCLIFFE 342
FOUNTAIN COURT, TEMPLE 361
IN FRONT OF ST. PAUL’S 364
CHAPEL AND GATEWAY, LINCOLN’S INN 372
STAPLE INN, HOLBORN 373
JOHN BUNYAN’S TOMB, BUNHILL FIELDS 377
TRAITOR’S GATE, TOWER OF LONDON 378
THE SAVOY CHURCHYARD 380
RAHERE’S TOMB, ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S, SMITHFIELD 381
THE SLEEPING SISTERS, ST. MARY OVERY 382
CHARLTON HALL 389
COURTYARD, FULHAM PALACE 399
HOLMHURST 405
LOUISA, MARCHIONESS OF WATERFORD. _From a photograph
by W.J. Reed._ (_Photogravure_) _To face_ 406
CHURCHYARD OF ST. ANNE, SOHO 413
LONDON BRIDGE FROM BILLINGSGATE 485
XVI
IN MY SOLITARY LIFE
“Console if you will, I can bear it;
’Tis a well-meant alms of breath;
But not all the preaching since Adam
Has made Death other than Death.”--LOWELL.
“Whoever he is that is overrun with solitariness, or crucified with
worldly care, I can prescribe him no better remedy than that of
study, to compose himself to learning.”--BURTON, _Anatomy of
Melancholy_.
“E certo ogni mio studio in quel temp’ era
Pur di sfogare il doloroso core
In qualche modo, non d’acquistar fama,
Pianger cercai, non già del pianto onore.”
--PETRARCH, _In Morte di Laura_, xxv.
“Why should we faint, and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven hath willed, we die,
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh?”
--KEBLE.
“Let us dismiss vain sorrows: it is for the living only that we are
called to live. Forward! forward!”--CARLYLE.
I spent the greater part of the fiercely cold winter of 1870-71 in
complete seclusion at Holmhurst, entirely engrossed in the work of the
“Memorials,” which had been the last keen interest of my Mother’s life.
In calling up the vivid image of long-ago days spent with her, I seemed
to live those days over again, and I found constant proof of her loving
forethought for the first months of my solitude in the materials which,
without my knowledge, and without then the slightest idea of
publication, she must have frequently devoted herself to arranging
during the last few years of her life. As each day passed, and the work
unravelled itself, I was increasingly convinced of the wisdom of her
death-bed decision that until the book was quite finished I should give
it to none of the family to read. They must judge of it as a whole.
Otherwise, in “attempting to please all, I should please none: shocking
nobody’s prejudices I should enlist nobody’s sympathies.”
Unfortunately this decision greatly ruffled the sensibilities of my
Stanley cousins, especially of Arthur Stanley and his sister Mary, who
from the first threatened me with legal proceedings if I gave them the
smallest loop-hole for them, by publishing a word of their own mother’s
writing without their consent, which from the first, also, they declared
they would withhold. They were also “quite certain” that no one would
ever read the “Memorials” if they were published, in which I always
thought they might be wrong, as people are so apt to be when they are
“quite certain.”
My other cousins did not at first approve of the plan of the
“Memorials,” but when once completely convinced that it had been their
dear aunt’s wish, they withdrew all opposition.
Still the harshness with which I was now continually treated and spoken
of by those with whom I had always hitherto lived on terms of the utmost
intimacy was a bitter trial. In a time when a single great grief
pervades every hour, unreasonable demands, cruel words, and taunting
sneers are more difficult to bear than when life is rippling on in an
even course. I was by no means blameless: I wrote sharp letters: I made
harsh speeches; but that it was my duty to fight in behalf of the
fulfilment of the solemn duty which had devolved upon me, I never
doubted then, and I have never doubted since. In the fulfilment of that
duty I was prepared to sacrifice every friend I had in the world, all
the little fortune I had, my very life itself. I felt that I must learn
henceforth to act with “Selbständigkeit,” which somehow seems to have a
stronger meaning than independence; and I believe I had in mind the
maxim of Sœur Rosalie--“Faites le bien, et laissez dire.”
A vivid impression that I had a very short time to live made me more
eager about the _rapid_ fulfilment of my task. I thought of the Spanish
proverb, “By-and-by is always too late,” and I often worked at the book
for twelve hours a day. My Mother had long thought, and latterly often
said, that it was impossible I could long survive her: that when two
lives were so closely entwined as ours, one could not go on alone. She
had often even spoken of “when we die.” But God does not allow people to
die of grief, though, when sorrow has once taken possession of one, only
hard work, laboriously undertaken, can--not drive it out, but keep it
under control. It is as Whittier says:--
“There is nothing better than work for mind or body. It makes the
burden of sorrow, which all sooner or later must carry, lighter. I
like the wise Chinese proverb: ‘You cannot prevent the birds of
sadness from flying over your head, but you may prevent them from
stopping to build their nests in your hair.’”[1]
I had felt the _gradual_ separation of death. At first the sense of my
Mother’s presence was still quite vivid: then it was less so: at last
the day came when I felt “she is nowhere here now.”
It was partly owing to the strong impression in her mind that I could
not survive her that my Mother had failed to make the usual arrangements
for my future provision. As she had never allowed any money to be placed
in my name, I had--being no legal relation to her--to pay a stranger’s
duty of £10 per cent on all she possessed, and this amounted to a large
sum, when extended to a duty on every picture, even every garden
implement, &c.[2] Not only this, but during her lifetime she had been
induced by various members of the family to sign away a large portion of
her fortune, and in the intricate difficulties which arose I was assured
that I should have nothing whatever left to live upon beyond £60 a year,
and the rent of Holmhurst (fortunately secured), if it could be let. I
was urged by the Stanleys to submit at once to my fate, and to sell
Holmhurst; yet I could not help hoping for better days, which came with
the publication of “Walks in Rome.”
Meanwhile, half distracted by the unsought “advice” which was poured
upon me from all sides, and worn-out with the genuine distress of my
old servants, I went away in March, just as far as I could, first to
visit the Pole Carews in Cornwall, and then to the Land’s End, to
Stephen Lawley, who was then living in a cottage by the roadside near
Penzance. I was so very miserable and so miserably preoccupied at this
time, that I have no distinct recollection of these visits, beyond the
image on my mind of the grand chrysoprase seas of Cornwall and the
stupendous rocks against which they beat, especially at Tol Pedn
Penwith. I felt more in my natural element when, after I had gone to
Bournemouth to visit Archie Colquhoun,[3] who was mourning the recent
loss of both his parents, I was detained there by his sudden and
dangerous illness. While there, also, I was cheered by the first
thoughts for a tour in Spain during the next winter.
* * * * *
_To_ MARY LEA GIDMAN.
“_Penzance, March 13, 1871._--I know how much and sadly you will have
thought to-day of the last terrible 13th of March, when we were awakened
in the night by the dear Mother’s paralytic seizure, and saw her so
sadly changed. In all the anguish of looking back upon that time, and
the feeling which I constantly have now of all that is bright and happy
having perished out of my life with her sweet presence, I have much
comfort in thinking that we were able to carry out her last great wish
in bringing her home, and in the memory of the three happy months of
comparative health which she afterwards enjoyed there. Many people since
I left home have read some of the ‘Memorials’ I am writing, and express
a sense of never having known before how perfectly beautiful her
character was, and that in truth, like Abraham, they ‘entertained an
angel unawares.’ Now that dear life, which always seemed to us so
perfect, has indeed become perfected, and the heavenly glow which came
to the revered features in death is but a very faint image of the
heavenly glory which always rests upon them.”
* * * * *
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
“_Stewart’s Hotel, Bournemouth, March 30, 1871._--The discussion of a
tour in Spain comes to me as the pleasant dream of a possible future....
It is of course easy for us to see Spain _in a way_ in a few weeks, but
if one does not go in a cockney spirit, but really wishing to _learn_,
to open one’s eyes to the glorious past of Spain, the story of Isabella,
the Moorish dominion, the boundless wealth of its legends, its proverbs,
its poetry--all that makes it different from any other country--we must
begin in a different way, and our chief interest will be found in the
grand old cities which the English generally do _not_ visit--Leon,
Zaragoza, Salamanca; in the wonderful romance which clings around the
rocks of Monserrat and the cloisters of Santiago; in the scenes of the
Cid, Don Roderick, Cervantes, &c.
“You will be sorry to hear that I am again in my normal condition of day
and night nurse, in all the varying anxieties of a sick-room. I came
here ten days ago to stay with Archie Colquhoun, whom I had known very
little before, but who, having lost both father and mother lately,
turned in heart to me and begged me to come to him. On Tuesday he fell
with a great crash on the floor in a fit, and was unconscious for many
hours.... It was a narrow escape of his life, and he was in a most
critical state till the next day, but now he is doing well, though it
will long be an anxious case.[4] You will easily understand how much
past anguish has come back to me in the night-watches here, and I feel
it odd that these duties should, as it were, be perpetually _found_ for
me.”
* * * * *
In May I paid the first of many visits to my dear Lady Waterford at
Highcliffe, her fairy palace by the sea, on the Hampshire coast, near
Christ Church, and though I was still too sad to enter into the full
charm of the place and the life, which I have enjoyed so much since, I
was greatly refreshed by the mental tonic, and by the kindness and
sympathy which I have never failed to receive from Lady Waterford and
her friend Lady Jane Ellice. With them, too, I was able to discuss my
work in all its aspects, and greatly was I encouraged by all they said.
[Illustration: HIGHCLIFFE, THE KING’S ORIEL.][5]
For many years after this, Highcliffe was more familiar to me than any
other place except my own home, and I am attached to every stone of it.
The house was the old Mayor’s house of Les Andelys, removed from
Normandy by Lord Stuart de Rothesay, but a drawing shows the building as
it was in France, producing a far finer effect than as it was put up in
England by Pugin, the really fine parts, especially the great window,
being lower down in the building, and more made of. In the room to which
that window belonged, Antoyne de Bourbon, King of Navarre, died. The
portraits in the present room of the Duchess of Suffolk and her second
husband, who was a Bertie, have the old ballad of “The Duchess of
Suffolk” inscribed beneath. They fled abroad, and their son Peregrine,
born in a church porch, was the progenitor of the present Berties. I
have myself always inhabited the same room at Highcliffe--one up a
separate stair of its own, adorned with great views of the old
Highcliffe and Mount Stuart, and with old French furniture, including a
chair worked in blue and red by Queen Marie Amélie and Madame Adelaïde.
The original house of Highcliffe was built on land sold to Lord Stuart
by a Mr. Penlees, who had had a legacy of bank-notes left him in the
case of a cocked-hat--it was quite full of them. Mr. Penlees had built a
very ugly house, the present “old rooms,” which Lord Stuart cased over.
Then he said that, while Lady Stuart was away, he would add a few rooms.
When she came back, to her intense consternation, she found the new
palace of Highcliffe: all the ornaments, windows, &c., from Les Andelys
having been landed close by upon the coast. I always liked going with
Lady Waterford into the old rooms, which were those principally used by
Lady Stuart, and contained a wonderful copy of Sir Joshua which Lady
Waterford made when she was ten years old. There was also a beautiful
copy of the famous picture of Lord Royston, done by Lady Waterford
herself long ago; a fine drawing of the leave-taking of Charles I. and
his children--Charles with a head like the representations of the
Saviour; and a portrait of the old Lady Stuart, “Grannie Stuart,” with
all the wrinkles smoothed out. “Oh, if I am like that, I am only fit to
die,” she said, when she saw it.[6]
I have put down a few notes from the conversation at Highcliffe this
year.
* * * * *
“Mr. M. was remonstrated with because he would not admire Louis
Philippe’s régime. He said, ‘No, I cannot; I have known him before so
well. I am like the peasant who, when he was remonstrated with because
he would not take off his hat to a new wooden cross that was put up,
said he couldn’t _parceque je l’ai connu poirier_.’”
“Some one spoke to old Lady Salisbury[7] of Adam’s words--‘The woman
tempted me, and I did eat.’ ‘Shabby fellow,’ she said.”
“Lady Anne Barnard[8] was at a party in France, and her carriage never
came to take her away. A certain Duke who was there begged to have the
honour of taking her home, and she accepted, but on the way felt rather
awkward and thought he was too affectionate and gallant. Suddenly she
was horrified to see the Duke on his knees at the bottom of the
carriage, and was putting out her hands and warding him off, when he
exclaimed, ‘Taisez-vous, Madame, voilà le bon Dieu qui passe.’ It was a
great blow to her vanity.”
“Old Lord Malmesbury[9] used to invent the most extraordinary stories
and tell them so well; indeed, he told them till he quite believed them.
One was called ‘The Bloody Butler,’ and was about a butler who drank the
wine and then filled the bottles with the blood of his victims. Another
was called ‘The Moth-eaten Clergyman;’ it was about a very poor
clergyman, a Roman he was, who had some small parish in Southern
Germany, and was a very good man, quite excellent, absolutely devoted to
the good of his people. There was, however, one thing which militated
against his having all the influence amongst his flock which he ought
to have had, and this was that he was constantly observed to steal out
of his house in the late evening with two bags in his hand, and to bury
the contents in the garden; and yet when people came afterwards by
stealth and dug for the treasure, they found nothing at all, and this
was thought, well ... not quite canny.
“Now the diocesan of that poor clergyman, who happened to be the
Archbishop of Mayence, was much distressed at this, that the influence
of so good a man should thus be marred. Soon afterwards he went on his
visitation tour, and he stopped at the clergyman’s house for the night.
He arrived with outriders, and two postillions, and four fat horses, and
four fat pug-dogs, which was not very convenient. However, the poor
clergyman received them all very hospitably, and did the best he could
for them. But the Archbishop thought it was a great opportunity for
putting an end to all the rumours that were about, and with a view to
this he gave orders that the doors should be fastened and locked, so
that no one should go out.
“When morning came, the windows of the priest’s house were not opened,
and no one emerged, and at last the parishioners became alarmed, for
there was no sound at all. But when they broke open the doors, volleys
upon volleys of moths of every kind and hue poured out; but of the poor
clergyman, or of the Archbishop of Mayence, or of the outriders and
postillions, or of the four fat horses, or of the four pug-dogs, came
out nothing at all, for they were all eaten up. For the fact was that
the poor clergyman really had the most dreadful disease which bred
myriads of moths; if he could bury their eggs at night, he kept them
under, but when he was locked up, and he could do nothing, they were too
much for him. Now there is a moral in this story, because if the people
and the Archbishop had looked to the fruits of that excellent man’s
life, and not attended to foolish reports with which they had no concern
whatever, these things would never have happened.
“These were the sort of things Lord Malmesbury used to invent. Canning
used to tell them to us.”
“I call the three kinds of Churchism--Attitudinarian, Latitudinarian,
and Platitudinarian.”
* * * * *
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
“_Holmhurst, June 12, 1871._--In a few days’ solitude what a quantity of
work I have gone through; and work which carries one back over a wide
extent of the far long-ago always stretches out the hours, but how
interesting it makes them! I quite feel that I should not have lived
through the first year of my desolation without the companionship of
this work of the ‘Memorials,’ which my darling so wisely foresaw and
prepared for me. Daily I miss her more. Now that the flowers are
blooming around, and the sun shining on the lawn, and the leaves out on
the ash-tree in the shade of which she used to sit, it seems impossible
not to think that the suffering present must be a dream and that she is
only ‘not yet come out;’ and what the empty room, the unused pillow are,
whence the sunshine of my life came, I cannot say. On Thursday I am
going for one day to Hurstmonceaux, to our sacred spot. The cross is to
be put up then. It is very beautiful, and is only inscribed:--
MARIA HARE,
Nov. 22, 1798. Nov. 13, 1870.
Until the Daybreak.
No other words are needed there; all the rest is written in the hearts
of the people who loved her.
[Illustration: THE CHURCHYARD AT HURSTMONCEAUX.]
“I have been thinking lately how all my life hitherto has been down a
highway. There was no doubt as to where the duties were; there could be
no doubt whence the pleasures, certainly whence the sorrows would come.
Now there seem endless byways to diverge upon. But all the interest of
life must be on its highway: the byways may be beautiful and attractive,
but never interesting.”
* * * * *
“_Sept. 26._--I much enjoyed my Peakirk visit to charming people (Mr.
and Mrs. James) and a curious place--an oasis in the Fens, the home of
St. Pega (sister of St. Guthlac), whose hermitage with its battered but
beautiful cross still remains. I saw Burleigh, like a Genoese palace
inside; and yesterday made a fatiguing but worth while pilgrimage, for
love of Mary Queen of Scots, to Fotheringhay. One stone, but only one,
remains of the castle which was the scene of her sufferings; so people
wondered at my going so far. ‘Why cannot you let bygones be bygones?’
said young W. to me. However, the church is very curious, and contains
inscriptions to a whole party of Plantagenets--Richard, Earl of
Cornwall; Cicely, Duchess of York; Edward, father of Edward IV.--for
Fotheringhay, now a hamlet in the fen, was once an important place: the
death of Mary wrought the curse which became its ruin.”
* * * * *
I have said little for many years of the George Sheffield who was the
dearest friend of my boyhood. He had been attaché at Munich, Washington,
Constantinople, and was now at Paris as secretary to Lord Lyons. In this
my first desolate year he also had a sorrow, which wonderfully reunited
us, and we became perhaps greater friends than we had been before.
Another of whom I saw much at this time was Charlie Dalison. A younger
son of a Kentish squire of good family, he went--like the young men of
olden time--to London to seek his fortunes, and simply by his good
looks, winning manners, and incomparable self-reliance became the most
popular young man in party-giving London society; but he had many higher
qualities.
I needed all the support my friends could give me, for the family feud
about the “Memorials” was not the only trouble that pressed upon me at
this time.
It will be recollected that, in my sister’s death-bed will, she had
bequeathed to me her claims to a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds. It was
the very fact of this bequest which in 1871 made my poor Aunt Eleanor
(Miss Paul) set up a counter-claim to the picture, which was valued at
_£_2000.
Five-and-twenty years before, the picture had been entrusted for a time
to Sir John Paul, who unfortunately, from some small vanity, allowed it
to be exhibited in his own name instead of that of the owner. But I
never remember the time when it was not at Hurstmonceaux after 1845,
when it was sent there. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was an intimate family
friend, painted it in the house of Bishop Shipley, when my father was
two and a half years old. It was painted for my great-aunt Lady Jones,
widow of the famous Orientalist. Lady Jones adopted her nephew Augustus
Hare, and brought him up as her own son, but, as she died intestate, her
personalty passed, not to him, but to her only surviving sister, Louisa
Shipley. Miss Shipley lived many years, and bequeathed the portrait to
her youngest nephew, Marcus Hare. But Marcus gave up his legacy to my
Uncle Julius, who always possessed the picture in my boyhood, when it
hung over the dining-room chimney-piece at Hurstmonceaux Rectory. Uncle
Julius bequeathed the portrait, with all else he possessed, to his
widow, who transferred the picture at once to my adopted mother, as
being the widow of the adopted son of Lady Jones.
The claim of the opposite party to the picture was that Mrs. Hare
(“Italima”) had said that Lady Jones in her lifetime had promised to
give her the picture, a promise which was never fulfilled; and that my
sister, after her mother’s death, had said at Holmhurst, “If every one
had their rights, that picture would belong to me, as my mother’s
representative, for Lady Jones promised it to my mother,” also that she
proved her belief in having a claim to it by bequeathing that claim to
me. But the strongest point against us was that somehow or other, _how_
no one could explain, the picture had been allowed to remain for more
than a year in the hands of Sir John Paul, and he had exhibited it.
Though the impending trial about the picture question was very different
from that at Guildford, the violent animosity displayed by my poor aunt
made it most painful, in addition to the knowledge that she (who had
inherited everything belonging to my father, mother, and sister, and had
dispersed their property to the four winds of heaven, whilst I possessed
_nothing_ which had belonged to them) was now trying to seize property
to which she could have no possible moral right, though English law is
so uncertain that one never felt sure to the last whether the fact of
the picture having been exhibited in Sir John Paul’s name might not
weigh fatally with both judge and jury.
For the whole month of November I was in London, expecting the trial
every day, but it was not till the evening of the 6th of December that I
heard that it was to be the next morning in the law-court off
Westminster Hall. The court was crowded. My counsel, Mr. Pollock, began
his speech with a tremendous exordium. “Gentlemen of the jury, in a
neighbouring court the world is sitting silent before the stupendous
excitement of the Tichborne trial: gentlemen of the jury, _that_ case
pales into insignificance--pales into the most _utter_ insignificance
before the thrilling interest of the present occasion. On the narrow
stage of this domestic drama, all the historic characters of the last
century and all the literary personages of the present seem to be
marching in a solemn procession.” And he proceeded to tell the really
romantic history of the picture--how Benjamin Franklin saw it painted,
&c. I was called into the witness-box and examined and cross-examined
for an hour by Mr. H. James. As long as I was in the region of my
great-uncles and aunts, I was perfectly at home, and nothing in the
cross-examination could the least confuse me. Then the counsel for the
opposition said, “Mr. Hare, on the 20th of April 1866 you wrote a
letter, &c.: what was in that letter?” Of course I said I could not
tell. “What do you think was in that letter?” So I said something, and
of course it was exactly opposite to the fact.
[Illustration: _Francis George Hare_
(Photogravure)]
As witnesses to the fact of the picture having been at the Rectory at
the time of the marriage of my Uncle Julius, I had subpœnaed the
whole surviving family of Mrs. Julius Hare, who could witness to it
better than any one else, as they had half-lived at Hurstmonceaux
Rectory after their sister’s marriage. Her two sisters, Mrs. Powell and
Mrs. Plumptre, took to their beds, and remained there for a week to
avoid the trial, but Dr. Plumptre[10] and Mr. (F. D.) Maurice had to
appear, and gave evidence as to the picture having been at Hurstmonceaux
Rectory at the time of their sister’s marriage in 1845,[11] and having
remained there afterwards during the whole of Julius Hare’s life. Mr.
George Paul was then called, and took an oath that, till he went to
America in 1852, the picture had remained at Sir John Paul’s; but such
is the inattention and ignorance of their business which I have always
observed in lawyers, that this discrepancy passed absolutely unnoticed.
The trial continued for several hours, yet when the court adjourned for
luncheon I believed all was going well. It was a terrible moment when
afterwards Judge Mellor summed up dead against us. Being ignorant,
during my mother’s lifetime, of the clause in Miss Shipley’s will
leaving the picture to Marcus Hare, and being anxious to ward off from
her the agitation of a lawsuit in her feeble health, I had made
admissions which I had really previously forgotten, but which were most
dangerous, as to the difficulty which I then felt in establishing our
claim to the picture. These weighed with Judge Mellor, and, if the jury
had followed his lead, our cause would have been ruined. The jury
demanded to retire, and were absent for some time. Miss Paul, who was in
the area of the court, received the congratulations of all her friends,
and I was so certain that my case was lost, that I went to the solicitor
of Miss Paul and said that I had had the picture brought to Sir John
Lefevre’s house in Spring Gardens, and that I wished to give it up as
soon as ever the verdict was declared, as if any injury happened to it
afterwards, a claim might be made against me for £2000.
Then the jury came back and gave a verdict for ... the defendant!
It took everybody by surprise, and it was the most triumphant moment I
ever remember. All the Pauls sank down as if they were shot. My friends
flocked round me with congratulations.
The trial took the whole day, the court sitting longer than usual on
account of it. The enemy immediately applied for a new trial, which
caused us much anxiety, but this time I was not required to appear in
person. The second trial took place on the 16th of January 1872, before
the Lord Chief Justice, Judge Blackburn, Judge Mellor, and Judge Hannen,
and, after a long discussion, was given triumphantly in my favour, Judge
Mellor withdrawing his speech made at the former trial, and stating
that, after reconsideration of all the facts, he rejoiced at the
decision of the jury.
As both trials were gained by me, the enemy had nominally to pay all the
costs, but still the expenses were most heavy. It was just at the time
when I was poorest, when my adopted mother’s will was still in abeyance.
There were also other aspirants for the picture, in the shape of the
creditors of my brother Francis, who claimed as representing my father
(not my mother). It was therefore thought wiser by all that I should
assent to the portrait being sold, and be content to retain only in its
place a beautiful copy which had been made for me by the kindness of my
cousin Madeleine Shaw-Lefevre. The portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds was
sold at Christie’s in the summer of 1872 for £2200, and is now in the
National Gallery of America at New York.
A week after the trial, on the 13th of December, I left England for
Spain. It had at first been intended that a party of five should pass
the winter there together, but one after another fell off, till none
remained except Miss Wright--“Aunt Sophy”--who joined me in Paris. The
story of our Spanish tour is fully told in my book “Wanderings in
Spain,” which appeared first as articles in _Good Words_. These were
easily written and pleasant and amusing to write, but have none of the
real value of the articles which I afterwards contributed on “Days near
Rome.” I will only give here, to carry on the story, some extracts from
my letters.
* * * * *
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
“_Paris, Dec. 14, 1871._--How different France and England! At Holmhurst
I left a green garden bright with chrysanthemums and everlastings: here,
a pathless waste of snow up to the tops of the hedges became so deep
near Creil that, as day broke, we remained fixed for an hour and a half
in the midst of a forest, neither able to move backwards or forwards.
And by the side of the rail were remains of a frightful accident of
yesterday--engine smashed to bits, carriages cut in half, the linings
hanging in rags, cushions lying about, &c. The guard was not
encouraging--‘Oui, il y avait des victimes, pas beaucoup, mais il y a
toujours des victimes.’ ... The state of Paris is unspeakably wretched,
hillocks of snow, uncarted away and as high as your shoulder, filling
the sides of the streets, with a pond in the intervening space. The
Tuileries (after the Commune) looks far worse than I
expected--restorable, but for the present it has lost all its form and
character. We went inside this morning, but were soon warned out on
account of the falling walls weakened by the frost.”
* * * * *
“_Pau, Dec. 20_.--I was glad to seize the opportunity of Aunt Sophy’s
wishing for a few days’ rest before encountering Spain to pay a visit to
the Taylors.[12] ... This morning I have walked on the terrace of the
park, and lived over again many of those suffering scenes when we were
here before. Truly _here_ I have no feeling but one of thankfulness for
the Mother’s release from the suffering body which was so great a burden
to her. I went to the Hotel Victoria, and looked up at the windows of
the rooms where, for the first time, we passed together through the
valley of the Shadow of Death.”
* * * * *
_To_ MARY LEA GIDMAN,
“_Jan. 2._--You will imagine how the long-ago came back to me at
Pau--the terrible time when we were hourly expecting the blow which has
now fallen, and which we both, I know, feel daily and hourly. But I
think it was in mercy that God spared us then: we were better prepared
for our great desolation when it really came, and in the years for which
our beloved one was given back to us, she was not only our most precious
comfort and blessing, for her also they were filled with comfort, in
spite of sickness, by the love with which she was ever surrounded. When
I think of what the great blank is, life seems quite too desolate; but
when I think of her _now_, and how her earthly life must have been one
of increasing infirmity, instead of the perfected state from which I
believe she can still look down upon us, I am satisfied.
“Do you still keep flowers or something green in her room? I hope so.”
* * * * *
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
“_Convent of Montserrat, in Catalonia, Jan. 4, 1872._--At the best of
times you would never have been able to travel in Spain, for great as is
the delight of this unspeakably glorious place, I must confess we paid
dear for it in the sufferings of the way. The first day introduced us to
plenty of small hardships, as, a train being taken off _al improviso_,
we had to wade through muddy lanes--and the Navarre mud is _such_
mud--in pitch darkness, to a wretched hovel, where we passed the night
with a number of others, in fierce cold, no fires or comforts of any
kind. From thence (Alasua) we got on to Pamplona, our first picturesque
Spanish town, where we spent part of Christmas Day, and then went on to
Tudela, where we had another wretched posada; no fires; milk, coffee,
and butter quite unknown, and the meat stewed in oil and garlic; and
this has been the case everywhere except here, with other and worse
in-_conveniences_.
“At Zaragoza we were first a little repaid by the wonderful beauty of
the Moorish architecture--like lace in brick and stone, and the people
as well as the place made a new world for us; but oh! the cold!--blocks
of ice in the streets and the fiercest of winds raging.... No words
certainly can describe the awful, the hideous ugliness of the railway
the whole way here: not a tree, not a blade of grass to be seen, but
ceaseless wind-stricken swamps of brown mud--featureless, hopeless,
utterly uncultivated. However, Manresa is glorious, a sort of mixture of
Tivoli (without the waterfall) and Subiaco, and thence we first gazed
upon the magnificent Monserrat.
“We have been four days in the convent. I never saw anything anywhere so
beautiful or so astonishing as this place, where we are miles and miles
above every living thing except the monks, amid the most stupendous
precipices of 3000 feet perpendicular, and yet in such a wealth of
loveliness in arbutus, box, lentisc, smilax, and jessamine, as you can
scarcely imagine. Though it is so high, and we have no fires or even
_brasieros_, we scarcely feel the cold, the air is so still and the
situation so sheltered, and on the sunlit terraces, which overlook the
whole of Catalonia like a map, it is really too hot. The monks give us
lodging and we have excellent food at a _fonda_ within the convent
walls, and are quite comfortable, though it must be confessed that my
room is so narrow a cell, that when I go in it is impossible to turn
round, and I have to hoist myself on the little bed sideways.
“It has been a strange beginning of the New Year. We breakfast at eight,
and all day draw or follow the inexhaustibly lovely paths along the
edges of the precipices. Yesterday we ascended the highest peak of the
range, and were away nine hours--Aunt Sophy, the maid, and I; and
nothing can describe the sublimity of the views across so glorious a
foreground, to the whole snowy Pyrenean ranges and the expanse of blue
sea.
“I act regular courier, and do all the work at inns, stations, &c., and
Miss Wright is very easy to do for, and though very _piano_ in
misfortunes, is most kind and unselfish. The small stock of Spanish
which I acquired in lonely evenings at Holmhurst enables me to get on
quite easily--in fact, we never have a difficulty; and the kindness,
civility, and helpfulness of the Spanish people compensates for all
other annoyances. No one cheats, nor does it seem to occur to them. All
prices are fixed, and so reasonable that my week’s expenses have been
less than I paid for two dismal rooms and breakfast only in Half-Moon
Street.”
* * * * *
“_Barcelona, Jan. 9_.--We arrived here on the evening of the Befana--a
picturesque sight. It was coming into perfect summer, people out walking
in the beautiful Rambla till past 12 P.M., ladies without bonnets and
shawls. It is a very interesting place, full of lovely architecture,
with palms, huge orange-trees, and terraces, and such a deep blue sea.”
* * * * *
_To_ MARY LEA GIDMAN.
“_Barcelona, Jan. 17._--We have good rooms now, but everywhere the food
is shocking. At the _table-d’hôte_ one of the favourite dishes is
snail-soup, and as the snails are cooked in their shells, it does not
look very tempting. If the food were improved, this coast would be
better for invalids in winter than the Riviera, as it is such a splendid
climate--almost too dry, as it scarcely ever rains for more than fifty
days out of the 365. The late Queen ordered every tree in the whole of
Spain which did not bear fruit to be cut down, so the whole country is
quite bare, and so parched and rocky that often for fifty miles you do
not see a shrub, but in some places there are palms, olives, oranges,
and caroubas.
“We are very thankful for the tea which Miss Wright’s maid makes for us
in a saucepan.”
* * * * *
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
“_Tarragona, Jan. 19._--We delighted in Barcelona, and wondered it did
not bring people to this coast instead of to the south of France.... We
get on famously with the Spaniards. I talk as much as I can, and if I
cannot, smile and look pleased, and everybody seems devoted to us, and
we are made much of and helped wherever we go. It is quite different
from Italy: and we are learning _such_ good manners from the incessant
bowing and complimenting which is required.”
* * * * *
“_Cordova, Feb. 6._--We broke the dreadful journey from Valencia to
Alicante by sleeping at Xativa, a lovely city of palms and rushing
fountains with a mountain background, but the inn so disgusting we could
not stay. Alicante, on the other hand, had no attraction except its
excellent hotel, with dry sheets, bearable smells, no garlic, and
butter. The whole district is burnt, tawny, and desolate beyond
words--houses, walls, and castle alike dust-colour, but the climate is
delicious, and a long palm avenue fringes the sea, with scarlet
geraniums in flower. With Elche we were perfectly enraptured--the
forests of palms quite glorious, many sixty feet high and laden with
golden dates; the whole place so Moorish, and the people with perfectly
Oriental hospitality and manners. We spent four days there, and were out
drawing from eight in the morning to five in the afternoon; _such_
subjects--but I lamented not being able to draw the wonderful
figures--copper-coloured with long black hair; the men in blue velvet,
with _mantas_ of crimson and gold and large black sombreros.
“It was twenty-three hours’ journey here, and no possible stopping-place
or buffet. But as for Miss Wright, she never seems the worse for
anything, and is always equally kind and amiable. She is, however, very
_piano_ in spirits, so that I should be thankful for a little pleasant
society for her, as it must have been fearfully dull having no one but
me for so long.
“We were disappointed with Murcia, though its figures reach a climax of
grotesque magnificence, every plough-boy in the colours of Solomon’s
temple. But though we had expected to find Cordova only very
interesting, it is also most beautiful--the immense court before the
mosque filled with fountains and old orange-trees laden with fruit, and
the mosque itself, with its forest of pillars, as solemn as it is
picturesque.”
* * * * *
TO MARY LEA GIDMAN.
“_Seville, Feb. 10._--The dirt and discomfort of the railway journey to
Cordova was quite indescribable, but the mosque is glorious. It is so
large that you would certainly lose your way in it, as it has more than
a thousand pillars, and twenty-nine different aisles of immense length,
all just like one another. We made a large drawing in the court with its
grove of oranges, cypresses, and palms, and you would have been quite
aghast at the horrible beggars who crowded round us--people with two
fingers and people with none; people with no legs and people with no
noses, or people with their eyes and mouths quite in the wrong place.
“The present King (Amadeo) is much disliked and not likely to reign
long. Here at Seville, in the Carnival, they made a little image of him,
which bowed and nodded its head, as kings do, when it was carried
through the street, and all the great people went out to meet it and
bring it into the town in mockery; and yesterday it was strangled like a
common criminal on a scaffold in the public square; and to-day tens of
thousands of people are come into the town to attend its funeral.
“The Duchesse de Montpensier, who lives here, does a great deal of good,
but she is very superstitious, and, when her daughter was ill, she
walked barefoot through all the streets of Seville: the child died
notwithstanding. She and all the great ladies of Seville wear low
dresses and flowers in their hair when they are out walking on the
promenade, but at large evening parties they wear high dresses, which
is rather contrary to English fashions. Miss Wright’s bonnet made her so
stared at and followed about, that now she, and her maid also, have been
obliged to get mantillas to wear on their heads instead, which does much
better, and prevents their attracting any attention. No ladies ever
think of wearing anything but black, and gentlemen are expected to wear
it too if they pay a visit.
“I often feel as if I must be in another state of existence from my old
life of so many years of wandering with the sweet Mother and you, but
_that_ life is always present to me as the reality--this as a dream.
There is one walk here which the dear Mother would have enjoyed and
which always recalls her--a broad sunny terrace by the river-side edged
with marble, which ends after a time in a wild path, where pileworts are
coming into bloom under the willows. I always wonder _how_ much she
knows of us now; but if she can be invisibly present, I am sure it is
mostly with me, and then with you, and in her own room at Holmhurst,
whence the holy prayers and thoughts of so many years of faith and love
ascended.”
* * * * *
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
“_Seville, Feb. 13._--Ever since we entered Andalusia it has poured in
torrents, but even in fine weather I think we must have been
disappointed with Seville. With such a grand cathedral interior and such
beautiful pictures, it seems hard to complain, but there never was
anything less picturesque than the narrow streets of whitewashed houses,
uglier than the exterior of the cathedral, or duller than the
surrounding country. Being Carnival, the streets are full of masks, many
of them not very civil to the clergy--the Pope being led along by a
devil with a long tail, &c. Every one speaks of the Italian King
(Amadeo) as thoroughly despised and disliked, and his reign (in spite of
the tirades in his favour in English newspapers) must now be limited to
weeks; then it must be either a Republic, Montpensier, or Alfonso. Here,
where they live, the Montpensiers are very popular, and they do an
immense deal of good amongst the poor, the institutions, and in
encouraging art. Their palace of San Telmo is beautiful, with a great
palm-garden. When we first came, we actually engaged lodgings in the
Alcazar, the great palace of the Moorish kings, but, partly from the
mosquitoes and partly from the ghosts, soon gave them up again.”
* * * * *
“_Algeciras, Feb. 25._--Though we constantly asked one another what
people admired so much in Seville, its sights took us just a fortnight.
Our pleasantest afternoon was spent in a drive to the Roman ruins in
Italica, and we took Miss Butcher with us, who devotes her life to
teaching the children in the Protestant school, for which she gets well
denounced from the same cathedral pulpit whence the _autos-da-fé_ were
proclaimed, in which 34,611 people were burnt alive in Seville alone!