with her a magic crystal ball, in which she was very anxious that we
should ‘see something,’ and was greatly disappointed when we did not.
The ball was given to her by the old Lord Stanhope,[374] a firm
believer, and many strange things had been seen in it--figures, and
sometimes figures in armour. Mr. Hussey heard of a curious
sixteenth-century MS. on magic balls in the British Museum, and went to
look at it, and it was strange to find it say that ‘men in armour
frequently appeared, especially on Sundays.’
“In the evening the conversation turned on witchcraft, and on Mr.
Maitland, author of the ‘Church in the Catacombs,’ chaplain of
Archbishop Howley, who undertook to prove the absurdity of belief in
witchcraft, but, on examination, found such incontrovertible evidence of
its reality, that he abandoned the subject. Talk of strange relics led
to mention of the heart of a French king preserved at Nuneham in a
silver casket. Dr. Buckland, whilst looking at it, exclaimed, ‘I have
eaten many strange things, but have never eaten the heart of a king
before,’ and, before any one could hinder him, he had gobbled it up, and
the precious relic was lost for ever. Dr. Buckland used to say that he
had eaten his way straight through the whole animal creation, and that
the worst thing was a mole--that was utterly horrible.[375]
“Speaking of Lady Waterford, led Mr. Hussey to recall some of the wild
escapades which he remembered in Lord Waterford’s youth. At one time,
when he was living in Dublin with his uncle the Primate, coming home
late at night, he had a great quarrel with his carman about the fare,
and left the man swearing outside the door. Coming into the hall, he
found his uncle’s gown and trencher lying on the side-table, and putting
them hastily on, and going out with a stick and gruff voice, said, ‘What
do you mean by coming here and trying to cheat my nephew? I’ll teach you
not to do such things for the future,’ and he thrashed him soundly. The
man went away, saying that he had been thrashed by the Archbishop of
Armagh in person.”
* * * * *
“_London, June 22._--Tea with Mrs. Duncan Stewart, who, talking of her
youth, recounted how Washington Irving had taken her eleven nights
consecutively to see Talma act, and of the acting of Madame Rachel;
how, in the ‘Cinna’ of Corneille, she sat quietly in a chair whilst all
the people were raging round her, and of the wonderful power with which
she hissed out--
‘Je recevrois de lui la place de Livie,
Comme un moyen plus sur d’attenter à sa vie.’
“Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were there, a pleasant handsome pair; and Madame
Modjeska came in, and taking a live chameleon, which was clinging to the
breast of Miss Thompson, her pet, posed with it perched on her finger,
though it looked the very incarnation of devildom.”
* * * * *
“_June 23._--Drew with Windsor and the Husseys at Ham House. Lady
Huntingtower had said to us the other day, ‘You have heard about the
poor Duke of Richmond?’ We thought it was the live Duke, and inquired
anxiously after him, but she said, ‘No, it is the portrait at Ham: we
can see nothing but the Duke’s legs now.’ And thus at Ham we saw it--the
utter ruin of a glorious Vandyke. They had sent for a common upholsterer
from Richmond to varnish it, and he had covered it with something which
had annihilated it altogether.
“An American being urged to go to see the Park at mid-day as a typical
London scene, returned saying, ‘I was disappointed, the attendance was
so slim.’”
* * * * *
“_July 5, 1882._--Dined with Miss Courtenay. Kinglake of the Crimea sat
close to me--old now and very feeble, but apparently greatly beloved by
those who know him well. Mr. Burton was on the other side, receiving
congratulations on his purchases at the Hamilton sale. We had all been
reading and generally enchanted with Mrs. Kemble’s ‘Later
Reminiscences,’ and Mr. Reeve of the _Edinburgh Review_ was delighted to
have much to say of his personal remembrance of her, much that certainly
was not favourable. She says little of the separation from her husband
(Mr. Butler) in her book, but Mr. Reeve remembered her intensely
overbearing manner to him. Once when he was travelling with them in
Belgium, Mr. Butler, with great difficulty, procured a very beautiful
bouquet for her for the evening. He gave it to her. ‘I have been all
over the town, my dear, to get this bouquet for you,’ he said. She
sniffed at it, said contemptuously, ‘There are no gardenias in this
bouquet,’ and threw it to the back of the fire.
“‘One day,’ said Mr. Reeve, ‘I was talking to Mr. Butler at a party,
when she came up with “Pearce, I want to go.”--“In a minute, my dear.”
In another moment she came again with “Pearce, I want to go
directly.”--“Very well, my dear,” and he prepared to order the carriage.
I said, “It is cruel of you to take him away just now; we were having a
very deep conversation,” and I shall never forget the contemptuous tone
in which she said, “Deep, with--Pearce!”
“‘Mrs. Kemble always disliked those who were afraid of her, but she
hated those who were not.
“‘She loved scenic effect, and so did her sister Adelaide, who was her
superior in many ways. When their father took his leave of the stage,
all the audience wept; but Fanny and Adelaide, who had the stage-box,
leant forward as much as possible over the side and wept copiously with
their pocket-handkerchiefs.
[Illustration: GATEWAY, KENSINGTON PALACE.][376]
“‘No one could do the Semiramide now, but Adelaide was sublime in it.
She was very grand in the Norma, but in the Semiramide no one ever came
up to her. Passion she understood, but in softer and quieter parts she
was a failure.’”
* * * * *
“_July 10._--Luncheon in Sir Francis Seymour’s apartments at Kensington
Palace to meet Don Carlos. He is an immense man, almost gigantic, and
very handsome, and had a magnificent boar-hound with him--a very prince
amongst dogs. He asked if I spoke Spanish. I said that I had spoken it
in Spain, but was afraid of venturing upon it in London. So then he
proposed Italian, in which it was easy to get on with him.”
* * * * *
“_Chevening, July 15._--Yesterday I came here to a house where I have
much memory of past kindness, and where I find the young Lord and Lady
Stanhope eminently desirous of carrying it on. Lochiel and his Lady
Margaret are here; she a daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch, and most
unusually natural and pleasant.”
* * * * *
“_July 16._--After luncheon, we had a pleasant walk to Knockholt
Beeches--Lady Northcote, the two Stanhope brothers, Mr. Banks Stanhope,
Lady Margaret, and I. Afterwards, sitting on the stone platform in front
of the house, Sir Stafford Northcote told us--
“‘The great A. B. was tremendously jostled the other day in going down
to the House. A. B. didn’t like it. “Do you know who I am?” he said; “I
am a Member of Parliament and I am Mr. A. B.”--“I don’t know about
that,” said one of the roughs, “but I know that you’re a damned
fool.”--“You’re drunk,” said A. B.; “you don’t know what you’re
saying.”--“Well, perhaps I am rather drunk to-night,” said the man, “but
I shall be sober to-morrow morning; but you’re a damned fool to-night,
and you’ll be a damned fool to-morrow morning.”’
* * * * *
“_July 18._--Dined with Lady Ossington, the most charming, kindest, and
richest of old ladies, to meet the Duchess of Sermoneta. Lady Enfield
was there, with white hair turned back high on her head, like a Sir
Joshua in real life. Mr. Newton was very amusing with his riddles:--
‘My first Gladstone loves,
My second Gladstone hates:
My whole, pronounced slow, is what Gladstone wishes:
My whole, pronounced quick, is where Gladstone ought to be.’
Answer, _Reformatory_.
“On the Greeks sending marble for a bust of Gladstone, he related the
lines:--
‘When Woolner’s hand, in classic mood, carving the Premier’s pate is,
Hellas, to show her gratitude, sends him the marble gratis.
Oh, could this nation, but in stone, repay the gift genteelly,
This country would send back her own Glad-stone to Hell-as freely.’”
[Illustration: SASSENPOORT, ZWOLLE.][377]
In the beginning of September, my friend Harry Lee came to Holmhurst as
usual for his autumn holidays, and, with the wish of giving him change
and pleasure, I took him with me for a fortnight to Holland. We saw the
whole of that little country, and enjoyed several of the places very
much, especially the so-thoroughly Dutch Dort; quiet Alkmaar, with its
charming old weigh-house; and Zwolle, with its fine old gateway. But the
tour is not one which leaves much interest behind it. There is such a
disadvantage in not being able to understand what people say, and all
the Dutch we had anything to do with were so unaccommodating, so
excessively grasping and avaricious. Besides, all my luggage, registered
through to Brussels, disappeared and could not be traced, so that I had
the odd experience of traversing a whole country with nothing more than
a comb and a tooth-brush. Two months afterwards the luggage arrived
quite safe at Holmhurst, covered with labels, quite intact, having made
a long tour by itself quite in a different direction from the one we
took, and without any explanation or any expense.[378]
[Illustration: MILL NEAR AMSTERDAM.][379]
* * * * *
JOURNAL.
“_Babworth Hall, Notts, Oct. 7, 1882._--I have been spending four
pleasant days with kind Mrs. Bridgeman Simpson, to meet old Lady
Westminster,[380] who is the most winning, courteous, and charming of
old ladies, finding something pleasant to say to every one, putting
every one at their ease, and possessing that real dignity of simplicity
which is so indescribably charming. On Wednesday I went with her to
Clumber, where we saw the new and very ugly hall, with Italian artists
putting down a mosaic pavement.
“Yesterday we went by appointment to Welbeck, arriving by the darksome
tunnel, more than two miles long, upon which the late Duke spent
£60,000, and £60,000 more apiece upon banking up (and spoiling) his
sheet of water with brick walls and building a gigantic riding-school.
The house itself stands well, considering the ugliness of the park, and
is rather handsome. We were shown through a long suite of rooms
containing a good many treasures, the most interesting being a glorious
old chest of metal, in which the Bentincks, who came over with William
III., brought over their jewels. In the last room we found Lady
Bolsover, the Duke’s stepmother.
“The house, vast as it is, has no staircase worth speaking of. The late
Duke lived almost entirely in a small suite of rooms in the old part of
the house. He inherited the peculiarity of his mother, who would see no
one, and he always hid himself. If he gave permission to any one to
visit Welbeck, he always added, ‘But Mr. So-and-so will be good enough
not to _see_ me’ (if they chanced to meet). He drove out, but in a black
coach like a hearse, drawn by four black horses, and with all the blinds
down; and he walked out, but at night, with a woman, who was never to
speak to him, and always to walk exactly forty yards in front, carrying
a lanthorn. When he went to London, it was in a closed brougham, which
was put on a railway truck, and which deposited him at his own house at
Cavendish Square, his servants all being ordered out of the way: no one
ever saw him go or arrive. When he needed a doctor, the doctor only came
to the door, and asked questions through it of the valet, who was
allowed to feel his pulse.
“The Duke’s mania for a hidden life made him build immense suites of
rooms underground, only approachable by a common flight of steps leading
to a long tunnel, down which the dinner is conveyed from the far-distant
kitchen on a tramway. From a great library one enters a billiard-room
capable of holding half-a-dozen billiard-tables. A third large room
leads to an enormous ball-room, which can contain 2000 people. The
approach to this from above is by means of a gigantic hydraulic drop, in
which a carriage can be placed, or twenty persons can be
accommodated--the guests being thus let down to the ball-room itself. A
staircase through the ceiling of one of the rooms, which is drawn up by
a windlass, leads hence to the old riding-school, which is lighted by
1000 jets of gas. Hence a tunnel, 200 yards long, leads to a
quadrangular piece of ground, unbuilt upon, but excavated in preparation
for a large range of bachelor’s rooms, smoking rooms, and nurseries, to
cover four acres of ground. Another tunnel, three-quarters of a mile
long, leads thence to the stables, cow-houses, and dairies, like a large
village. At the Duke’s death there were ninety-four horses in the
stables, only trained for exercise or feeding. Beyond the stables is a
large riding-school, in which there are 8000 jets of gas, an exercising
ground under glass, with a gallop on straw and sawdust for a quarter of
a mile. Close by is an enormous garden, of which six acres are used for
strawberry beds, every alternate row being glazed for forcing the
plants. Alongside of this is a glazed wall a quarter of a mile long. The
garden is about thirty acres in extent, and requires fifty-three men. In
the late Duke’s time there were forty-five grooms and helpers in the
stables. The cow-houses are palaces, with a covered strawyard attached,
and are surrounded by hydraulic screens, which are let down or raised
according to the wind. There were eighty keepers and underkeepers.
“All is vast, splendid, and utterly comfortless: one could imagine no
more awful and ghastly fate than waking up one day and finding oneself
Duke of Portland and master of Welbeck.
“Coming home through the tunnel, Mr. Watson told me the curious story of
the Misses Offley of Norton Hall. These ladies (descended from King
Offa) saw in a vision their only brother, who was with a tutor in
Edinburgh, upon the ridge of the house. Dreadfully alarmed, and
perfectly certain of what they had seen, they went to a neighbour, a
Mr. Shore, and told him they were sure that their brother was dead.
Utterly failing to reassure them, in order to comfort them, Mr. Shore
undertook to ride to Edinburgh (it was before the time of railways), and
find out the truth. As he was crossing the boundary of Yorkshire, he met
the funeral of the young man, who was being brought back to be buried at
his own home. However, he went on to Edinburgh to see the tutor, and
then discovered that, in his illness, young Offley had been persuaded to
make a will entirely in favour of the tutor and his wife. Mr. Shore at
once said that he would give the tutor £20,000 if he would give up all
his claims under this will, but the tutor refused. The next day Mr.
Shore went back and offered £10,000, and it was taken. The property was
then worth £10,000 a year, but is now worth £20,000 a year.
“Staying here with Lady Westminster is her friend Mrs. Hallyburton
(_née_ Owen, and first married to a Mr. Williams), who is the widow of
Judge Hallyburton--‘Sam Slick.’”
* * * * *
Alas! whilst I was enjoying this Babworth visit, the greatest sorrow
which still remained possible for me was preparing, and a few days later
it fell. It would be difficult for any one who had not shared our life
to understand how much my dearest old nurse, Mary Lea, was to me, or the
many causes which, with each succeeding year, had drawn closer and
closer the tender tie, as of mother and son, which existed between us.
And since 1870 she had been more than ever dear to me--the one precious
link with _our_ past which no other knew: the only person to whom I
could talk on all subjects with entire certainty of understanding and
sympathy. Each year, too, had made her more beautiful in her old age,
and there were none who visited Holmhurst and failed to carry away an
attractive remembrance of the lovely old woman, with her pretty
old-fashioned dress and snowy cap, set in the homely surroundings of her
sitting-room, full of pictures and curiosities, or in the poultry-yard,
which was her pride and joy, brimming over with quaint proverbs, wise
sayings, and interesting memories.
My dear Lea had not forgotten any of the places she had seen, or any of
the varied circumstances of her life; and these scenes and events formed
a mental picture-gallery in the circle of her inner consciousness, where
she could amuse herself for ever. Life was never monotonous to her;
there was so much that was beautiful, so much that was good, so much
that was even grand to recollect; and then the surroundings of the
present were full of simple pleasures; her room furnished with treasured
memorials of the long-ago; her farmyard, with its manifold life,
recalling her girlhood in a Shropshire farmhouse; her many kindly
thoughts and deeds towards her neighbours at the hospice or in the
village, one or other of whom loved to come in and chat for an hour
daily with the beautiful old woman who had so much of mild wisdom in her
discourse; her many visitors of the higher class to see the house, in
whose coming she recognised and welcomed a kind of homage to her beloved
mistress, and to whom consequently she would often pour out the most
precious of her recollections; the garden and fields, which brought
fresh interest with each succeeding season; but most especially her
master, her nursling, the child of her heart, whose every employment, or
friendship, or amusement, or duty, or work, or honour, was more to her
than anything else in the world.
In this year especially I had been much with her, and the elder and
younger relation seemed almost obliterated in the intimacy of our
friendship and communion. Daily I used to take a little walk with my
sweet old nurse upon my arm, and the upper path leading to the little
pool above the field will always be connected with her, walking thus,
and recalling a thousand memories out of the rich past, which was common
to us, and to us alone. Here I walked with her the day before I went to
Babworth, and am thankful that I did not give up doing so because a
young man was staying with me. She seemed even more calmly happy than
usual that day. Autumn tints and tones were pervading everything, but
when I spoke of our seeing the plants again in their full beauty in
spring, she said sweetly, “Those who _live_ till the spring will see
them, dear sir.” There are some lines of Lewis Morris which recall what
my dear nurse was at this time:--
“There is a sweetness in autumnal days,
Which many a lip doth praise:
When the earth, tired a little and grown mute
Of song, and having borne its fruit,
Rests for a little space ere winter come.
* * * * *
And even as the hair grows grey
And the eyes dim,
And the lithe form which toiled the live-long day,
The stalwart limb,
Begins to stiffen and grow slow,
A higher joy they know:
To spend the season of the waning year,
Ere comes the deadly chill,
* * * * *
In a pervading peace.”
* * * * *
JOURNAL.
“_Oct. 11, 1882._--Yesterday two terrible telegrams met me when I went
to my breakfast at the Athenæum, telling me that my dearest Lea was
dangerously ill, and bidding me return at once. In half-an-hour I was in
the train, Ronald Gower travelling with me to Hastings, and an
agonising journey it was. I found the carriage at St. Leonards, having
been waiting five hours, with a perfectly hopeless account.
“Yet I found my dearest old nurse better than I had hoped, able to be
glad to see me, even, though very suffering, to tell me little things
which had occurred during my week’s absence. But at night she grew much
worse, and hour after hour I had the anguish of watching, with Harriet
and Mrs. Peters, over terrible suffering, which we were unable to
alleviate. God sends one no discipline so terrible as this. Happy indeed
are those who have only to suffer themselves, not to witness the
suffering of their dear ones.
“To-day she is weaker. Yesterday she spoke of ‘when I am better.’ To-day
she speaks of ‘when I am gone.’
“I sit all day in her room, watching the beloved beautiful old face,
fanning her, repeating words of encouragement and comfort to her; and
she always has a smile for me.
“Outside the window the beautiful laburnum tree which she loves is
shaking off its leaves and preparing for winter, and oh! when its golden
blossoms come again, this dearest friend of my whole life will be away!”
* * * * *
“_Thursday, Oct. 12._--Last night she slept quietly, and her two nurses
by her. I went in and out continually, and she scarcely moved. In the
morning she was better, and able to sit in the arm-chair near her bed.
It was the day on which we always used to try to leave for Rome, and she
spoke of it, and this drew her into many pleasant recollections, such
as the dear Mother had on her last day here; of the anemones in the
Villa Doria at Rome, and the especial corners in which the best were to
be found; of the daisies in the Parco S. Gregorio, and of many happy
hours spent in other favourite places. She also asked after all the
different members of the family, and sent messages to some of them. In
the afternoon she was so well that, by her wish, I went down to Hastings
to see Ronald Gower, and when I came back, she liked to hear about it.
“But to-night (9 P.M.) she is weaker and the pain and wheezing have
increased. I have just read to her, as usual, a litany for the
night-watches and several other prayers. She said the ‘Amen’ to each
most fervently, and repeated the ‘Lord’s Prayer’ after me. Afterwards I
spoke of the comfort prayers and hymns were to the Mother in her
illness: ‘Yes, her’s _were_ prayers,’ she said.
“Then she said, ‘I did not think I should be taken away from you so soon
as this.’ I said, ‘Perhaps, dear Pettie, it may still be God’s will that
you may be raised up to us again, and this is what we must wish and try
for.’--‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘and I _do_ try for it--too much perhaps,
more than is right perhaps; and yet I am quite resigned either to go or
stay: the Lord’s will, that is the best.’
“Then she said, ‘Open that top drawer and take out a box. There are some
things in it I wish you to have, things connected with your family which
you will value, and my large silver brooch; I wish you to keep that. And
I would like you to keep the little bits of chaney that were my
mother’s--the lions, and the little cups and saucers that are in your
Mother’s room; she liked to see them, and you will: I do not wish them
ever to leave this house.’
“‘Dearest Pettie,’ I said, ‘if it should be God’s will that you should
not be given back to us, would you wish to be laid by Mother at
Hurstmonceaux, or should you be taken to your own mother’s grave at
Cheswardine? Whatever you wish shall be done.’ ‘If you please,’ she
murmured, ‘Hurstmonceaux would be best. I have been always with you. All
my own are passed away. You are more to me than any one else. I should
wish to be laid near your dear Mother, and then you would be laid there
too.’--‘Yes, dear, we should all be together,’ I said.
“Then she said, ‘You have been _everything_ to me all your life: quite
like my own child: _all_ that a child of my own could have been.’
“She always smiles sweetly to see me near her; but she is weaker, and
everything is difficult. As Aurora Leigh says--
‘The poor lip
Just motions for a smile, and lets it go.’”
* * * * *
“_Oct. 14._--Two terrible nights have we passed in trying to alleviate
my dearest Lea’s great sufferings, but last night especially it was
anguish to hear her moans and to be able to do _so_ little: but I flit
in and out, and whether it is day or night, am seldom many minutes away
from her, and I think _that_ is a comfort.”
* * * * *
“_Oct. 15._--Last night was better, but all to-day she has been terribly
ill. It is such a struggle to breathe through her worn-out frame. I sit
constantly by her side, and chafe her hands and bathe her forehead, and
can be quite cheerful for her sake; and she smiles to see me always
there whenever she wakes. ‘Oh, how good you are to me,’ she said to-day.
‘I cannot be good enough to you, my own dearest Pettie, to you who have
always been so very good to me.’
“But I feel, though no one tells me so, that I am sitting in the shadow
of Death.”
* * * * *
“_Monday, Oct. 16._--The doctor says she is sinking. She suffers less
to-day, but is overwhelmed by the pressure on the lungs. I sit
there--feed her--watch her, and smile.... I can do it for her sake.
There will be time enough for grief when she cannot be grieved by it.
“She is all thankfulness,--only afraid of wearing us all out. ‘Thank
Thee, O Lord, for my good victuals,’ she said, after taking her glassful
of milk.
“Last night, waking from her sleep, she said, ‘Oh, I thought I was away
and so very happy, and now I am come back to all this.’”
* * * * *