Ralston, Henry James the American novelist, Sir Samuel Baker, and three
others. Harriet Martineau’s Memoirs had just arrived, and were a great
topic. Lord Houghton, who had known her well, said how often he had been
sent for to take leave of Miss Martineau when she had been supposed to
be dying, and had gone at great personal inconvenience; but she had
lived for thirty years after the first time. Her fatal illness (dropsy)
had set in before she went to America. Her friends tried strongly to
dissuade her from going, suggesting that she would be very ill received
in consequence of her opinions. ‘Why, Harriet,’ said Sydney Smith, ‘you
know, if you go, they will tar and feather you, and then they will turn
you loose in the woods, and the wild turkeys will come and say, “Why,
what strange bird are you?”’
“Of course, much of politics was talked, especially about the Turkish
atrocities. Sir S. Baker said that at the old Duchess of Cleveland’s he
had met Lord Winchester, now quite an old man. He said that he had
ridden from Constantinople to the Danube in 1832, and had passed thirty
impaled persons on the way. He himself (Sir Samuel) had seen the
impaling machine on the Nile--a stake tapered like a pencil, over which
a wheel was let down to a certain height, and when the man was impaled,
he was let down on the wheel and rested there; he often lived for three
or four days; if the machine was in the market-places of the country
towns, the relations of the victims gave them coffee. ‘It is not worse,’
said Lord Houghton, ‘than the stories we are told every Sunday: “he
destroyed them all, he left not one of them alive;” especially of the
cruelties of David, who made his enemies pass under the harrow, a
punishment much worse than impalement. How grateful David would have
been for a steam-roller! what a number of people he would have been able
to despatch at once!’
“At Mrs. Tennant’s I saw the three girls who have been so much admired,
and painted by Millais and so many others; their chief beauty consisting
in their picturesqueness as a group.”
* * * * *
“_March 5._--To Mr. Brandram’s recitation of the ‘Merchant of Venice’ at
Lord Overstone’s. He said the whole play by heart, giving different
character and expression to each person--an astonishing effort of
memory. Hearing a play in this way certainly fixes it in the mind much
more than reading it, though not so much as seeing it.”
* * * * *
“_March 8._--Luncheon at charming old Mrs. Thellusson’s, where I met
Madame Taglioni, the famous _danseuse_. She is now an old lady, with
pretty refined features, perfect grace of movement, and a most
attractive manner. She has begun in her old age to give lessons again
for the benefit of her family, though she is, at the same time,
presenting her princess grand-daughter--the Princess Marguerite
Trubetskoi, a simple natural girl. Madame Taglioni spoke of her dancing
as ‘un don de Dieu,’ just as she would of music or any other art. We
asked her if she would like to be young again. ‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ she
said; ‘how I _should_ dance!’ She said her father, a ballet-master, made
her practise nine hours a day; ‘however great a talent you may have, you
never can bring it to perfection without that amount of practice.’
“Lady Charlemont was there, and after luncheon we asked her to recite.
She made no difficulties, but said nothing; only, while we had almost
forgotten her, she had glided round the room to where there was a red
curtain for a background, and suddenly, but slowly, she began. It was
only a simple ballad of Tennyson--‘Oh, the Earl was fair to see’--but
she threw a power into it which was almost agony, and the pauses were
absolute depths of pathos. You felt the power of her unfaltering
vengeance, you _heard_ the raging of the storm ‘in turret and tree;’
and, when the moment of the murder came, you quivered in every nerve as
she stabbed the Earl ‘through and through.’ It was absolutely awful.
“Afterwards Mrs. Greville recited ‘Jeanne d’Arc.’ It is her best part.
She cannot look refined, but an inspired French paysanne she can look
and be thoroughly.
“Sir Baldwin Leighton made himself so pleasant, that when he asked me to
go to their box at the Lyceum in the evening, I promised to go, though I
never like seeing any, even the very best plays, twice. However, the
nearness of the box to the stage enabled me to see many details
unobserved before. Richard III. will always, I should think, be Irving’s
best part, for he looks the incarnation of the person. In Shakspeare,
Richard III. is most anxious to become king, and perfectly determined to
remain king when he has become so; but Irving carries out far more than
this. Irving’s Richard is perfectly determined that vice shall triumph
over virtue, and utterly enraptured when it does triumph, in a way which
is quite diabolical. The night before Bosworth Field is most striking
and beautiful. You are with the king in his tent. He draws the curtain
and looks out. On the distant wind-stricken heath the camp-fires are
alight, and the lights in the tents blaze out one by one, eclipsing the
stars overhead. Richard says little for a time; your whole mind is
allowed the repose of the beauty. The king, who has been through the
last acts trying (you feel him striving against his personal
disadvantages) to be kingly, is all-kingly on that night, in the
immediate face of the great future on which everything hangs. He gives
his orders--simply, briefly, royally. He lies down on the couch, folding
himself in the royal velvet robe, which, like Creusa’s cloak, is
associated with all his crimes. He falls asleep. Then, out of the almost
darkness, just visible as outlines but no more, rise the phantoms; and,
like a whiffling wind, the voice of Clarence floats across the stage. As
each spirit delivers its message in the same faint spiritual harmonious
monotone, the sleeping figure shudders and groans, moans more sadly.
[Illustration: LONDON BRIDGE FROM BILLINGSGATE.][257]
“Then there is a powerfully human touch in the way in which he, so
coldly royal as he lay down, turns human-like for sympathy in his great
horror and anguish to the first person he sees, the soldier who wakens
him.”
* * * * *
“_March 10._--Went with Victor Parnell down the river in search of the
old houses at Limehouse and Stepney. We found them, but the accounts in
the _Daily News_, which had led us to the excursion, were so exaggerated
that the houses were scarcely to be recognised. We came back by
Ratcliffe Highway. It all looked very clean, and thriving, and decent,
very different indeed from the descriptions in religious magazines.”
* * * * *
“_March 11._--Luncheon with Sir Robert and Lady Cunliffe, who showed me
a volume of portrait sketches by Downman, a little-known master of
George III.’s time, but a wonderfully charming artist.”
END OF VOL. IV.
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO
_Edinburgh and London_
ERRATA
_Page_ 60, _for_ “Marocetti” _read_ “Marochetti.”
“ 136, “ “Curramore” _read_ “Curraghmore.”
“ 232, “ “Keats” _read_ “Keate.”
“ 435, “ “vieillir être heureuse” _read_ “vieillir pour être
heureuse.”
“ 478, “ “Bedel and Bijou” _read_ “Babil and Bijou.”
“Story of my Life.”--End of Vol. IV.
THE STORY OF MY LIFE
VOL. V
[Illustration: Mary Lea Gidman.
from a miniature by Barber.]
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 V
LONDON
GEORGE ALLEN, 156, CHARING CROSS ROAD
1900
[_All rights reserved_]
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
CONTENTS
PAGE
WHILST WRITING THE BUNSEN MEMOIRS 1
ROYAL DUTIES AND INTERESTS 75
A HALT IN LIFE 241
HOME SORROWS 326
IN THE FURROWS OF LIFE 382
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
VOL. V
MARY LEA GIDMAN. _From a miniature by Barber._
_Photogravure_ _Frontispiece_
PAGE
CHANTRY OF HENRY V., WESTMINSTER 12
LOWTHER LODGE 23
HOLMHURST, THE POULTRY-YARD 31
TITTENHANGER 51
SOPHIE, QUEEN OF SWEDEN AND NORWAY. _Photogravure_ _To face_ 80
THE ROSENBORG PALACE, COPENHAGEN 100
ROESKILDE 101
CASTLE OF ELSINORE 102
THE JUNCTION OF LAKE MALAR AND THE BALTIC, STOCKHOLM 103
RIDDARHOLMEN 104
THE CHURCH OF OLD UPSALA 105
GRIPSHOLM 107
BOLKESJÖ 111
THE CHURCH OF HITTERDAL 112
THRONDTJEM FIORD 114
THRONDTJEM CATHEDRAL 115
S. OLAF’S WELL, THRONDTJEM 116
IN THE ROMSDAL 117
GUSTAF, CROWN PRINCE OF SWEDEN AND NORWAY. _Photogravure_
_To face_ 138
CORNETO 142
CATHEDRAL OF CORNETO 143
PERUGIA 154
ASSISI 155
IN THE ENTRANCE-HALL, HOLMHURST 165
AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE. (_Full-page woodcut_) _To face_ 176
IN THE FIR-WOOD, HOLMHURST 189
LA SAINTE BAUME 192
THE JERUSALEM CHAMBER 197
THE LOLLARDS’ PRISON, LAMBETH 206
THE WAKEFIELD TOWER, TOWER OF LONDON 207
IN THE VERANDAH, HOLMHURST 235
VERANDAH STEPS, HOLMHURST 236
FROM S. GREGORIO, MESSINA 245
TAORMINA 246
ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE, SYRACUSE 248
FROM THE WALLS OF EPIPOLAE 249
ON THE RIVER CYANE 250
ACI CASTELLO 251
TEMPLE OF CONCORD, GIRGENTI 252
IN THE TEMPLE OF JUNO LUCINIA, GIRGENTI 254
IN THE TEMPLE OF HERCULES, GIRGENTI 255
TEMPLE OF CASTOR AND POLLUX, GIRGENTI 256
PALERMO, FROM S. MARIA DI GESU 259
SOLUNTO 261
CLOISTERS, MONREALE 263
GATE OF MOLA 267
TARANTO 268
CASTEL DEL MONTE 269
TOMB OF BOHEMUND, CANOSA 270
MRS. DUNCAN STEWART. (_Full-page woodcut_) _To face_ 288
NORWICH FROM MOUSEHOLD 331
LAKE OF AVERNUS, NEAR NAPLES 345
CAPRI 347
SCILLA 349
FROM THE CAMPO DELLA CARITÀ, VENICE 351
REV. CANON HUGH PEARSON. _Photogravure_ _To face_ 354
GATEWAY, KENSINGTON PALACE 361
SASSENPOORT, ZWOLLE 364
MILL NEAR AMSTERDAM 365
HURSTMONCEAUX CASTLE GATEWAY 379
ON THE TERRACE, HOLMHURST 388
IN THE KITCHEN, HOLMHURST 389
CATHEDRAL OF ST. ISAAC, ST. PETERSBURG 391
ST. SOPHIA OF NOVGOROD 393
KREMLIN, MOSCOW 394
THE NEW JERUSALEM 395
THE DNIEPER, KIEFF 396
THE HOLY CHAPEL OF KIEFF 397
CITADEL OF CRACOW 398
NOYON 409
SOISSONS 410
CHÂTEAU DE COUCY 411
SHRINE OF ST. ERASMUS, WESTMINSTER ABBEY 429
LE CROZANT 434
SOLIGNAC 435
ROCAMADOUR 436
CLOISTER OF CADOUIN 438
ARCADES OF MONTPAZIER 439
AT FONTEFROIDE 441
CONQUES 443
CROMER 450
GATEWAY OF BUCKHURST 456
XIX
WHILST WRITING THE BUNSEN MEMOIRS
* * * * *
“Here we have no communion; company enough, but no fellowship.
Meanwhile, the grand perennial Communion of Saints is ever open to
us. Let us enter in and worthily comport ourselves
there.”--CARLYLE.
“Ce n’est ni le génie, ni la gloire, ni l’amour, qui mesurent
l’élévation de l’âme; c’est la bonté.”--PÈRE LACORDAIRE.
It was soon after the death of my dear and honoured old friend, the
Baroness Bunsen, that her daughters, Frances and Emilia, wrote to
consult me about a Memoir of her beautiful and helpful life. I promised
all the help I could give, but did not understand, till several months
later, that they wished me to undertake the whole biography myself.
This, however, I rejoiced to do, being assured that beyond her own
children, no one had a warmer love and appreciation for the friend of my
whole life, and delighting to be raised, whilst dwelling amongst her
written words and thoughts, into the serene and lofty atmosphere of her
inner life.
The work which I had undertaken began at this time to bring me into
constant and intimate connection with all the branches of the Bunsen
family, especially with Lady Llanover, the sister of my dear old friend.
* * * * *
“_Llanover, March 18, 1877._--I left London on my birthday and went to
the Harfords at Blaise Castle. It was bright but bitter March weather,
and though the woods were full of flowers, there was no enjoyment of
them. I had much talk with sweet Mrs. Harford about old days and the
many passed-away things and people dear to us both. Sir George and Lady
Grey were staying at Blaise, to my great pleasure.
“Yesterday I came here by the ferry over the Severn. Lady Llanover’s old
ramshackle carriage met me at the Nantyderry Station, and brought me to
Llanover. I had received endless solemn warnings about what I was to say
and not to say here, what to do and not to do; but with a person of whom
one is not likely to see much in after life, one never feels any alarm.
Lady Llanover is very small and has been very pretty. We have a mutual
bond in our love for her sister, whose memory is enshrined in her inmost
heart with that of her mother, Mrs. Waddington, to whom she was quite
passionately devoted. Of the Bunsen family she talked from 4 till 10.30
P.M. ‘You see I have still the full use of my lungs,’ she said.
“At eight we had tea. There is no dinner, which I like, but every one
would not. After tea she gathered up all the lumps of sugar which
remained and emptied them with a great clatter into a box, which she
locked up. With £20,000 a year, the same economy pervades everything.
Her great idea is Wales--that she lives in Wales (which many doubt), and
that the people must be kept Welsh, and she has Welsh schools, Welsh
services, a Welsh harper, always talks Welsh to her servants, and wears
a Welsh costume at church.”
* * * * *
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
“_March 24, 1877._--I may tell you now, as it is no longer a secret,
that I have acceded to the wish of all her family in undertaking to
write the Life and edit the beautiful letters of my dear old friend the
Baroness de Bunsen. How perfectly great and noble her character was, and
the intense interest of all she wrote, few know better than myself, and,
beyond her own family, no one loved her more; so, when my ‘London’ is
done, I shall give myself gladly to this sacred task, and trust that it
may be, as _her_ writings cannot fail to be, a blessing to many.”
* * * * *
JOURNAL.
“_Holmhurst, April 6, 1877._--I look back on my visit to Llanover as
quite a bit apart in my life. It was important that I should please, as
much of the success of the memorials of her sister, which I have
undertaken to edit, must depend upon Lady Llanover’s favourable
co-operation. It was equally important that I should assert my own
absolute independence of will and action, and knock under in nothing. So
it was a difficult course to steer. The very warnings I had received
were enough to annihilate self-confidence. I was not to believe anything
Lady Llanover said about different members of her family, for she was
always guided by her own prejudices and sympathies. I was not to be
guided by her opinion on any subject, yet was never to contradict her. I
was not to make to her any one of the promises she was sure to attempt
to exact from me: above all, I was never to leave any letter or paper
about in my room, as there were always ‘tame panthers stealing about the
house,’ who would master the contents and make it known to their
mistress.
“I began by disregarding _all_ this advice, and taking Lady Llanover as
if I had never heard a word about her, and I am sure that it was the
best way. I listened to all she had to say, and received part of it to
profit by. I left all my papers about, and if the mistress of the house
learnt what was in them, I hope it was beneficial to her. I found her
difficult to deal with certainly, but chiefly because, with endless
power of talking and a vocabulary absolutely inexhaustible, it is next
to impossible to keep her in the straight conversational path along
which she ought to be travelling: she will linger to pick all the
flowers that grow in the lanes diverging along the wayside. Thus, though
on an average we talked for six hours a day, not more than one of those
hours could be utilised.
“There is a great deal to admire in Lady Llanover: her pertinacity in
what she _thinks_ right, whether she _is_ right or not: her insistence
on carrying out her sovereign will in all things; but chiefly her
touching devotion to the memory of the mother from whom she, the
youngest and favourite daughter, was scarcely ever separated. The
whitewashed ‘Upper House’ in the park is kept fresh and bright and
aired, as if the long-lost mother were constantly expected. In her
sitting-room a bright fire burns in winter, and fresh flowers are daily
placed on the little table by her old-fashioned sofa. The plants she
loved are tended and blooming in the little garden; the pictures and
books are unremoved from the walls; the peacocks she used to feed, or
their descendants, still spread their bright tails in the sun under her
windows.
“It is in the kitchen of the ‘Upper House’ that Lady Llanover’s Welsh
chaplain performs service on Sundays, for to the church she and her
people will not go, as the clergyman is--undesirable. Lady Llanover on
Sundays is even more Welsh than on week-days. She wears a regular man’s
tall hat and short petticoats like her people, and very becoming the
dress is to her, and very touching the earnestness of the whole
congregation in their national costume, joining so fervently--like one
person--in the services, especially in the singing, which is exquisitely
beautiful. I suppose it may be only from the novelty, but this earnest
service, these humble prayers on the worn benches in the brick-floored
kitchen, with the incidents of manual labour in the background, and
farmhouse scenes outside the windows, seemed more of a direct appeal to
God than any formal prayers I ever heard in a church--the building
called a church. I feel more and more that I shall probably end my
days--a Dissenter!
“We had more of the Welsh music in the evening. We went and sat in the
armchairs in the hall, and the household filed in above, and filled the
music-gallery, and sang most gloriously, especially the burial-hymn ‘It
is finished,’ which was sung in parts all the way from the house to the
churchyard at the funerals of Mrs. Waddington and Lord Llanover and his
son. At other times, the blind harper attached to the house came in and
harped to us, and four little boys sat in a circle on the floor and
sang.
“One afternoon we went to the churchyard overlooking the Usk. A great
pine-tree, the seed of which was brought from Rome by Mrs. Waddington,
overshadows the burial-place of the family, and, in accordance with a
line in some poet she liked, her grave is covered with the simple
camomile. By its side is the colossal altar-tomb of Lord Llanover. It is
generally supposed to be merely commemorative, but Lady Llanover herself
unlocked a door concealed beneath the carving, and we went in. There are
three coffins--of Lord Llanover, his eldest son, and his grandson
Stephàn, son of Mrs. Herbert of Llanarth, whom she, the Roman Catholic
mother, insisted should be brought here, the priests accompanying the
corpse to the churchyard gate, and there delivering it to the Welsh
people, who sang their beautiful hymns over it. There was a fourth place
in the tomb, which Lady Llanover, tearless in her desolation, showed me
as hers, which she must soon occupy. The poor Welsh women were busy
‘dressing the graves’ in the churchyard--the graves are always dressed
for Palm Sunday.
“At Llanover, in the weird house of dead associations, it was a relief
when pleasant, handsome young Arthur Herbert came the last day. Almost
the only other guest was Miss Geraldine Jewsbury, the intimate and
faithful friend of Mrs. Carlyle. I found it difficult to trace in the
ancient spinster the gifted brilliancy I had heard described, though of
her strong will there was abundant evidence.[258] During an illness of
Mrs. Carlyle there was a comic instance of this. Miss Jewsbury had
unlimited faith in black currant jelly for a cold. Now Mrs. Carlyle’s
throat was very bad, and Miss Jewsbury took some of her jelly to her.
‘But I will not take it; I will not take it, Geraldine,’ said Mrs.
Carlyle, with her strong inflexion on the ‘ine.’ So Miss Jewsbury sat by
the head of the bed and kept her black currant jelly well out of sight.
But a moment came when Mrs. Carlyle fell fast asleep, and--if the truth
must be told--opened her mouth very wide. It was Miss Jewsbury’s
opportunity, and she filled a spoon full of jelly, and popped it into
the open mouth. ‘Good God! Geraldine, what was that?’ exclaimed Mrs.
Carlyle, waking up. ‘_That_ was the black currant jelly.’--‘Good God,
Geraldine! I thought it was a leech gone the wrong way.’
“Since I returned, I have greatly enjoyed a fortnight’s halt in life at
home. When here, with charming rooms full of books and pictures,
inexhaustible employment within and without, and the dear Lea, the one
living relic of _our_ past, I wonder how I can ever go away.”
* * * * *
“_April 14._--The other day I dined at Lord Charlemont’s. Lady
Charlemont[259] is astonishing. I sat near her at dinner. First she
startled me by saying what a bore her neighbour on the other side was:
it was Lord Campbell. Then she said, ‘I am so happy. I have found some
one who breaks the first commandment.’--‘What! “Thou shalt have none
other gods but me?”’--‘Yes, and the man who breaks it is Dr. Schliemann;
he adds Jupiter and Venus and a lot of others, all on the same level.’
“Sir Julius Benedict was at dinner, a most amusing person. He described
how he was at Mentmore, and sat up very late in the hall reading, the
rest of the gentlemen having gone to the smoking-room, and Baron
Rothschild having gone to bed. He was surprised after some time to see
Baron Rothschild come down again and cross the entrance hall in
conversation with a strange gentleman. Soon after, when Sir Julius had
gone to his own room, a guest in the house knocked at the door and
apologised for disturbing him, but begged to know if he knew Sir James
Fergusson by sight. He said, ‘Yes, perfectly,’ and then he remembered
who the stranger was whom he had seen crossing the hall with the Baron:
it was Sir James Fergusson; he had not recognised him at the moment.
“The guest said, ‘You do not know what an awkward difficulty you have
relieved us from; a gentleman has arrived who seems to think he is
expected, and whom nobody knows, and he says he is Sir James Fergusson.’
And it was.
“Sir James had been called out from dinner by a servant from Mentmore,
who said that there had been no time to write, but that he had been
sent off to fetch him, for the Baroness was so alarmingly ill that there
was not a moment to be lost. Sir James rushed off in a cab to Euston
Square, and asked for a special train. It was Sunday, and there was none
to be had without great delay; but the station-master, hearing the
urgency of the case, and whom it was for, said that the express, just
starting, should be allowed to stop at the station for Mentmore. On
arriving there, Sir James was surprised to find no carriage, but
procured a trap from the inn, and drove as hard as he could. As they
reached the house, the servant got down and went round it, saying he was
going in the other way.
“The servant was quite mad, and the insanity first showed itself in this
odd form.
“Sir Julius also told us that--
“‘One day an American bishop called in his carriage at Hunt & Roskell’s.
He asked to see some bracelets, mentioning that he was returning to
America and wished to take a present to his wife. ‘Nothing very
expensive,’ he said; ‘he could not afford that, but something about £70
or £80.’ Eventually he agreed to take a bracelet that cost £100. He said
that he would pay for it with a £100 note which he had with him: it
happened to be the only money he had at the moment, but he would wait
while they sent it to the bank to ascertain that it was all right; he
should really prefer doing this. They sent it to the bank and received
answer that it was perfectly correct.
“‘Having paid for his bracelet, the bishop took it, and was just about
to step into his carriage, when a policeman tapped him on the shoulder
and said, ‘Hallo, Jim! you’re up to your old tricks again, are you?
You’ll just come along with me,’ and he brought him back into the shop.
Hunt & Roskell said there was some mistake, that the gentleman was an
American bishop, that he had just bought a £100 bracelet and paid for it
with an excellent £100 note. ‘Just let me look at the note, will you?’
said the policeman. He looked at it and said, ‘Yes, it’s just as I
thought; this note is one of a particularly clever batch of forgeries,
which are very difficult to detect, and the man is no more a bishop than
you are. We will go off to the police-station at once. I will take the
note and go on with the prisoner in the carriage, and you must send your
men in a cab to meet us and bear witness.’ So the policeman took the
bishop and the bracelet and the note, but when Hunt & Roskell’s men
reached the police-station, they had not yet arrived; and they have
never been heard of since!’”
* * * * *