Llandaff. It is a hideous drive from Cardiff, but at length you ascend a
little hill which is crowned by a knot of buildings--deanery, canonry, a
few houses, a cross, and the picturesque ruins of the old palace, while
the lofty steeples of the really beautiful cathedral shoot up from the
depths below. It is, in fact, far more picturesque than many more
important places, and the graveyard around the cathedral, and many
picturesque corners inside, make it very attractive.
“Kate took me to Castle Coch--a restored castle of Lord Bute,
beautifully situated. We went to the Palace and saw Mrs. Oliphant, the
charming old wife of the Bishop of Llandaff. Bishop Perry and his very
amusing wife took us with them to dine at Dufferin with a brother of
Lord Aberdare, whom we found there.
“Yesterday I went for an hour to Caerphilly on the way here to Llanover,
where I arrived at 7 P.M. The Hereditary Grand Duke of Baden had already
arrived and gone up to his room. I first saw him when the party was
assembled for dinner--Lord and Lady Raglan, Miss Johnes, Mr. Ram, Mr.
and Mrs. Sandford, and Mr. and Mrs. Herbert of Llanarth, with two sons,
daughter, and daughter-in-law. The Duke received me most cordially and
pleasantly.
“After a very long dinner we all went into the hall, when, from the
curtains at the end, all the servants tripped in, each footman leading a
maid by each hand, in most picturesque Welsh costumes, made obeisance
to the Prince, went backwards, and then danced the most complicated and
picturesque of reels, with ever-varying figures. Lady Llanover’s own
maid was the great performer, and nothing could exceed her consummate
grace and dignity. Then a board was brought in and placed in the centre
of the floor and three candles upon it, around and between which the
footmen and the harper’s boys performed the wonderful candle-dance with
the greatest agility.
“Lady Llanover’s excess of courtesies and overwhelming deference were
rather oppressive to us all, and evidently frightened the poor boyish
Prince dreadfully last night; but this morning she did not come down,
and we have got on splendidly, and he delighted in being talked to like
other people, and was as natural and nice as he could be. He is
certainly a most bewitching Prince, so full of animation and fun, so
right-minded and so courteous and simple.
“In three carriages we went to Llanarth to luncheon. I went with the
royal carriage, which, with its smart scarlet postillions, certainly
went slow enough; for the dear old lady, to do the Prince more honour,
had engaged for the occasion not only the two horses used for the
weddings at Abergavenny, but also the two used at funerals, and the
steeds of death outweighed those of mirth, and kept us down to a
funereal pace.
“Llanarth is a sunny, well-kept place. Its great relic is the portrait
of Pope’s Arabella Fermor, whose sister was a direct ancestress of the
present possessors. After luncheon, we all ranged on the steps and were
photographed, and then went on to Raglan, where Lord and Lady Raglan
(she a very charming person) did the honours of the really beautiful
ruin. To my surprise, I heard the Duke beginning to compare it to
Hurstmonceaux, not knowing my connection with the latter. I drove back
with him, and told him many stories, and we made pleasant friendly
acquaintance. He ran after me when we came in, and kept me to talk to
him quietly, and spoke very nicely and kindly of his mother’s liking for
my books. He has one of the most open, frank countenances I have ever
looked upon.”
* * * * *
“_Llanover, Sept. 21._--This morning the Herberts went to mass at
Llanarth, and we (English Church) had a queer service in the
drawing-room, with a congregation of eight, and a clergyman in a
surplice, &c. He gave a capital little sermon, but illustrated his text,
‘Pray without ceasing,’ by the story of the Welsh Prince for whom all
the birds sang when they were asked. He was taken captive, and the birds
immediately became silent. Then his captors commanded them to sing, but
still all the birds in Wales held silence. Then they asked the captive
Prince to desire them to sing, and he, kneeling down, prayed that God
would open the mouths of the birds, upon which they all sang lustily.
This was to prove that prayer was worth while even in the smallest
things of life!
“The poor Prince has been victimised to-day to see all the relics of
Mrs. Delany, the fetish of this house, and was afterwards taken to the
lake to see two coracles, the boats of ancient Wales, in which Ivor and
Arthur Herbert besported themselves.”
* * * * *
“_Holmhurst, Sept. 27._--On Monday, all Llanover was in motion for the
Prince’s departure, more scarlet cloth than ever all over the place, the
Welsh harpers harping at the door, the Welsh housemaids, in high hats
and bright scarlet and blue petticoats, waiting with bouquets in the
park, and every guest in the house compelled to go to the station to see
the Prince off. Highly comical was the scene on the platform--the yards
of red cloth hurriedly thrown down by two footmen wherever the poor
boyish Prince, in his brown frieze suit and wideawake hat, seemed likely
to tread. I wished to have travelled to Windsor by Gloucester, which is
two and a half hours’ less journey; but no, that was impossible: the
Queen of England sometimes has her own way; the Queen of South Wales
_always_.
“Mrs. Herbert of Llanarth was sent to travel with the Prince to Malvern,
Mr. Ram to Worcester, I to Oxford. However, one could hardly see too
much of him, he is such a nice Prince--kind, courteous, clever,
intelligent, simple, and sincere. Captain Sommer, the gentleman in
waiting, is also a most superior person.
“I reached Ronald Gower in the evening. He met me at the Windsor
station, and took me to his really charming little house, which is full
of lovely things. It is an odd _ménage_, with the artistic valet, Robert
Stubbs, supreme. It was a great pleasure to take up with Ronald the
links of a much-relaxed, never-forgotten friendship, and to find him far
nicer than I had remembered him.
“We spent Tuesday at Cliveden, a pouring day, but it did not matter. The
Duchess of Westminster[320] is Ronald’s favourite sister, and was very
pleasant and cordial to his friend. She is gloriously handsome, though
so large. We talked for four hours without ceasing, and she took us into
every corner of the beautiful house full of charming pictures, and then
put on an ulster and hood and walked with us through the torrents of
rain to the conservatories. One felt that she was a person to whom one
could say anything without being misunderstood, and who would become an
increasingly true friend. Her daughter, Lady Beatrice Cavendish, was
there, and the handsome young husband, Compton Cavendish, Lord Chesham’s
son, came in to luncheon and tea. All saw us off at 5 P.M. in the little
cart with Piggy the pony.
“On Wednesday morning we went into the castle to see Lady Ponsonby, who
lives in the old prison over Edward III.’s gateway--most curious, and
fitted up in admirable taste, despairing to Mr. Ayrton.”
* * * * *
“_Osterley Park, Nov. 13._--I came here yesterday, most kindly welcomed
by the good old Duchess of Cleveland, who is delightful. The greatness
of her charm certainly lies in the absence of charm: no one ever had
less of it. But what bright intelligence, what acute perceptions, what
genuine kindness, what active beneficence! I found Julia, Lady Jersey,
here, and Mr. Brandling, and a Mr. and Mrs. Bramston, relations of the
Cleveland family. After dinner, the Duchess made me sit exclusively by
her, saying kindly that she could not waste any of my short visit. She
talked in a very interesting way of the great Duke of Wellington, and
then of the present Duke. She said that when she asked the latter if
the great Duke had never shown him any kindness, he said, ‘No, he never
even so much as patted me on the shoulder when I was a boy, but it was
because he hated my mother.’
“After luncheon to-day I walked with Brandling and Colonel Bramston to
Boston Hall, the fine old house of the Clitherows.
“As Lady Caroline Paulet, the Duchess of Cleveland used to be very proud
of her little foot. She wore an anklet, and would often sit upon a
table, and let it fall down over her foot to show it. It was inscribed,
‘La légèreté de Camille et la vitesse d’Atalante.’ One day Lady Isabella
St. John, who was equally proud of her little foot, said, ‘I wish you
would let me try if I can get your anklet over my foot, Lady Caroline.’
And she put it on, and, to Lady Caroline’s great disgust, _kicked it
off_, to show how easily her foot would go through it.
“In those long-ago days--one cannot imagine it now--she used to be very
_décolletée_, and the Duchess Elizabeth (Miss Russell), who did not like
her, once flung a napkin at her across the table, saying, ‘Caroline,
here is something to cover your nakedness with.’
“How many and amusing are the anecdotes remembered of that Duchess
Elizabeth, who went on receiving a pension from the Duke of Bedford, as
his cast-off mistress, after she was married to the Duke of Cleveland.
She had been a washerwoman. She left Newton House, where she lived as a
widow, to her nephew Mr. Russell, whose grandson married a Lushington.
She gave £70,000 to her niece Laura when she married Lord Mulgrave, and
the marriage very nearly went off because the Normanbys stuck out for
£100,000. ‘Laura is not my only niece, remember that,’ she said, and
then they became frightened. She used to call Lord Harry Vane ‘My
‘Arry.’ One day, with Mr. Francis Grey, the conversation turned upon
Venus. ‘I do not like her,’ she said; ‘she had a bad figure, and by no
means a good character.’ Her companion laughed and said, ‘She mistakes
her for a living person,’ and so she did.”
* * * * *
“_Nov. 14._--Life is very pleasant in this fine old house, and its long
sunny gallery full of books and pictures is a delightful resort on
winter mornings. We breakfast at ten, during which Mr. Spencer
Lyttelton, who is frequently here, does his best to shock people for the
day, but is certainly very clever and amusing. I never saw any one who
called a spade a spade as he does, but I believe he likes every one to
think him worse than he is. This morning I walked with Brandling in the
long shrubberies, the great trees casting perfectly blue shadows upon
the park white with hoar-frost and the lake thinly coated with ice.
“In the afternoon we went to Ham House--a most curious visit. No
half-inhabited château of a ruined family in Normandy was ever half so
dilapidated as this home of the enormously rich Tollemaches. Like a
French château too is the entrance through a gateway to a desolate yard
with old trees and a sundial, and a donkey feeding. All the members of
the family whom I knew were absent, but I sent in my card to Mr.
Algernon Tollemache, who received us. As the door at the head of the
entrance-stair opened, its handle went through a priceless Sir Joshua
of Louisa, Countess of Dysart: it always does go through it. We were
taken through a half-ruined hall and a bedroom to an inner room in which
Mr. Algernon Tollemache (unable to move from illness) was sitting. It
presented the most unusual contrasts imaginable--a velvet bed in a
recess backed by the most exquisite embroidery on Chinese silk; an
uncarpeted floor of rough boards; a glorious Lely portrait of the
Duchess of Lauderdale; a deal board by way of washing-stand, with a
coarse white jug and basin upon it; a splendid mirror framed in massive
silver on a hideous rough deal scullery table without a cover; and all
Mr. Tollemache’s most extraordinarily huge boots and shoes ranged round
the room by way of ornament.
“The vast house is like a caravansary; in one apartment lives young Lord
Dysart, the real owner; in another his Roman Catholic mother, Lady
Huntingtower, and her two Protestant daughters; in a third, his
great-aunt, Lady Laura Grattan; in a fourth, his uncle, Mr. Frederick
Tollemache, who manages the property; in a fifth, Mr. and Mrs. Algernon
Tollemache, who made a great fortune in Australia.
“We were sent over the house. All was of the same character--a glorious
staircase with splendid carving in deep relief; the dismal chapel in
which the different members of the family, amongst them Lady
Ailesbury[321] and Lady Sudeley,[322] have been married, with the
prayer-book of Charles I., in a most wonderful cover of metallic
embroidery; marvellous old rooms with lovely delicate silk hangings of
exquisitely beautiful tints, though mouldering in rags; old Persian
carpets of priceless designs worn to shreds; priceless Japanese screens
perishing; beautiful pictures dropping to pieces for want of varnish;
silver grates, tongs, and bellows; magnificent silver tables; black
chandeliers which look like ebony and are solid silver; a library full
of Caxtons, the finest collection in the world except two; a china
closet with piles of old Chelsea, undusted and untouched for years; a
lovely little room full of miniatures, of which the most beautiful of
all was brought down for us to examine closer. ‘Do you see that mark?’
said Mr. Tollemache. ‘Thirty years ago a spot appeared there upon the
miniature, so I opened the case and wetted my finger and rubbed it: I
did not know paint came off(!). Wasn’t it fortunate I did not wipe my
wet hand down over the whole picture: it would _all_ have come
off!’[323]
“And the inhabitants of this palace, which looks like that of the
Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, have wealth which is inexhaustible, though
they have scarcely any servants, no carriage, only bread and cheese for
luncheon, and never repair or restore anything.
“All the family have had their peculiarities. The late Lord Huntingtower
was at one time separated from his wife, and when he was persuaded that
he ought in common justice to allow her to return to Ham, he assented,
but he draped the gates and portico with black cloth for her reception,
and he put a band of black cloth round the left leg of every animal on
the estate, the cows in the field, the horses in the stable, even the
dogs and the cats. _His_ grandfather, Lord Huntingtower, was more
extraordinary still. When he bought a very nice estate with a house near
Buckminster, he bought all the contents of the house at the same time.
There was a very good collection of pictures, but ‘What do I want with
pictures? All that rubbish shall be burnt,’ he said. ‘But, my lord, they
are very _good_ pictures.’ ‘Well, bring them all down here and make a
very great fire, and I will see them burnt.’ And he did.
“There is a ghost at Ham. The old butler there had a little girl, and
the Ladies Tollemache kindly asked her to come on a visit: she was then
six years old. In the small hours of the morning, when dawn was making
things clear, the child, waking up, saw a little old woman scratching
with her fingers against the wall close to the fireplace. She was not at
all frightened at first, but sat up to look at her. The noise she made
in doing this caused the old woman to look round, and she came to the
foot of the bed, and grasping the rail with her hands, stared at the
child long and fixedly. So horrible was her stare, that the child was
terrified, and screamed and hid her face under the clothes. People who
were in the passage ran in, and the child told what she had seen. The
wall was examined where she had seen the figure scratching, and
concealed in it were found papers which proved that in that room
Elizabeth, Countess of Dysart, had murdered her husband to marry the
Duke of Lauderdale.”[324]
[Illustration: IN THE VERANDAH, HOLMHURST.]
* * * * *
“_Holmhurst, Nov. 24._--Here I am at home again, and we are very busy
increasing the walks round the tiny property with the money which dear
Aunt Sophy left. They will present quite a miniature variety of scenery
now--the ilex walk recalling Italy, and the fir-wood the Black Forest,
but the thick wood at the bottom, and its tiny glens and brook and
bridges, could only be in England. In this wood we are trying to coax a
thousand interesting flowers to ‘grow wild,’ and puzzle the botanists of
the twentieth century.
[Illustration: VERANDAH STEPS, HOLMHURST.]
“I spent the last three days of my absence with Hugh Pearson in his
canonry at Windsor, a delightful old house overlooking the steep ascent
of the hill, where different members of the royal family are constantly
dropping in to visit the dearest man in the world, as the princesses of
George III.’s time did to visit Mrs. Delany--and no wonder!
“Willie Stephens[325] and I had much interesting talk with the beloved
H. Pearson; after being with other people, there is an ease in talking
to him which is like exchanging a frock-coat for a shooting-coat.
“On Friday poor Prince Alemayu of Abyssinia (King Theodore’s son) was
buried in Windsor Castle. After he came from Abyssinia the Queen adopted
him, and he had no one else to look to, for his mother died of
consumption on her way to England, and his only other near relation, his
uncle, the present King, would certainly have cut his head off at once
if he had returned to Abyssinia. He was at Rugby at Jex Blake’s house,
and then at a private tutor’s to prepare him for the army, but he always
passed his holidays in the castle with Lady Biddulph, and was like a
younger brother to Victor Biddulph, her son. Every one liked him. Lately
he had been at a tutor’s near Leeds, where he became ill of inflammation
of the lungs, probably rapid consumption. Lady Biddulph did not believe
in the danger, but Mrs. Jex Blake went to him, and her account of his
last hours was most touching. He said to her, ‘No doubts: no doubts at
all,’ and then he died.
“On Thursday he was brought to Windsor, and we went to look at his
coffin in the little mortuary chapel, draped with black and white, in
front of Princess Charlotte’s monument.
“The funeral was at twelve on Friday. The chapel was full. Most
exquisitely beautiful was the singing--the gradual swell of ‘I am the
Resurrection and the Life’ as the procession formed at the west door and
moved slowly up the nave into the choir. The coffin was piled with
flowers upon a violet and white pall. Lady Biddulph and her children
knelt on one side. Prince Christian, the Chancellor of the Exchequer (as
guardian of the Prince), and Mr. Lowe were amongst the mourners. The
Dead March was played most grandly as the procession moved out again to
the little graveyard by the west door, where the snow had fallen thick
upon the flowers by which the newly-made grave was surrounded.
“I have heard a very eerie story from Lady Waterford:--There is a place
in Scotland called Longmacfergus. Mr. and Mrs. Spottiswoode lived there,
who were the father and mother of Lady John Scott, and they vouched for
the story. The villagers of Longmacfergus are in the habit of going to
do their marketing at the little town of Dunse, and though their nearest
way home would be by crossing the burn at a point called ‘the Foul
Ford,’ they always choose another and longer way by preference, for the
Foul Ford is always looked upon as haunted. There was a farmer who lived
in Longmacfergus, and who was highly respected, and very well-to-do. One
night his wife was expecting him back from the market at Dunse, and he
did not appear. Late and long she waited and he did not come, but at
last, after midnight, when she was very seriously alarmed, he knocked
violently at the door and she let him in. She was horrified to see his
wild and agonised expression, and the awful change which had taken place
in his whole aspect since they parted. He told her that he had come home
by the Foul Ford, and that he must rue the day and the way, for he must
die before morning. He begged her to send for the minister, for he must
see him at once. She was terrified at his state, and implored him rather
to send for the doctor, but he said, ‘No, the minister--the minister was
the only person who could do him any good.’ However, being a wise woman,
she sent for both minister and doctor. When the doctor came, he said he
could do nothing for the man, the case was past his cure, but the
minister spent several hours with the farmer. Before morning he died,
and what he said that night to the minister never was told till many
years after.
“Naturally the circumstances of the farmer’s, death made the inhabitants
of Longmacfergus regard the Foul Ford with greater terror than before,
and for a few years no one attempted to use it. At last, however, there
came a day when the son of the dead farmer was persuaded to linger
longer than usual drinking at Dunse, and after being twitted by his
comrades for cowardice in not returning the shortest way, he determined
to risk it, and set out with a brave heart. That night _his_ wife sat
watching in vain for his return, and she watched in vain till morning,
for he never came back. In the morning the neighbours went to search for
him, and he was found lying dead on the bank above the Foul Ford,
and--it is a foolish fact perhaps, but it has always been narrated as a
fact incidental to the story, that--though there were no marks of
violence upon his person, and though his coat was on, his waistcoat was
off and lying by the side of his body upon the grass; his watch and his
money were left intact in his pockets.
“After his funeral the minister said to the assembled mourners and
parishioners, that now that the second death had occurred of the son, he
thought that he should be justified in revealing the substance of the
strange confession which the father had made on the night he died. He
said that he had crossed the wooden bridge of the Foul Ford, and was
coming up the brae on the other side, when he met a procession of
horsemen dressed in black, riding two and two upon black horses. As they
came up, he saw amongst them, to his horror, every one he had known
amongst his neighbours of Longmacfergus, and who were already dead. But
the man who rode last--the last man who had died--was leading a
riderless horse. As he came up, he dismounted by the farmer’s side, and
said that the horse was for him. The farmer refused to mount, and all
his former neighbours tried to force him on to the horse. They had a
deadly struggle, in which at last the farmer seemed to get the better,
for the horseman rode away, leading the riderless horse, but he said,
‘Never mind, you will want it before morning.’ And before morning he was
dead.”
* * * * *
It was with a feeling of strangeness that, in the autumn of 1879, I felt
that my royal duties were over. I did not see the Prince of Sweden again
after his return from Scotland.
I have heard since at intervals from the Prince (whose career I always
follow with deepest interest), and from the beloved Queen, by the hand
of Countess Rosen; but their letters have referred rather to the past
than to the present or future: my part in the Prince’s life is probably
over.
XXI
A HALT IN LIFE
“When I recall my youth, what I was then,
What I am now, ye beloved ones all;
It seems as though these were the living men,
And we the coloured shadows on the wall.”
--MONCKTON MILNES.
“Pain and joy, deception and fulfilled hopes, are just the rain and
the sunshine that must meet the traveller on his way. Button or
wrap your cloak around you from the first, but do not think for a
single moment that one or the other have anything to do with the
_end_ of your journey.”--JOSEPH MAZZINI.
“Quand la vie cesse d’être une promesse, elle ne cesse pas d’être
une tâche; et même son vrai nom est épreuve.”--AMIEL.
“Non aver tema, disse il mio Signore,
Fatti sicur, chè noi siamo a buon punto:
Non stringer, ma rallarga ogni vigore.”
--DANTE, “_Purgatorio_,” Canto ix.