instead of the suitable name of Altamont,[519] she has insisted on
giving that of Mount Brown. It is beautifully situated on a wooded
platform above the town of Guildford. I thought the inside of the house
very charming, but Frank Thomas, the architect, who was with us,
objected because ‘there was too little of the architect, and too much of
Lady Sligo in it,’ which seemed to me just its greatest recommendation.
“‘May I tum in?’ said a little boy, knocking at his little sister’s
door. ‘No, oo mayn’t,’ answered the little sister. ‘May I tum in now?’
said the little boy. ‘Yes, oo may,’ answered the little sister. ‘And why
mightn’t I tum in before?’ said the little boy. ‘Because Mammy said oo
wasn’t to see me in my chemise, and now I’ve taken it off,’ answered the
little sister.”
* * * * *
“_Dec. 8._--‘I see some pictures by amateurs,’ said Mr. Eddis this
morning, ‘which produce the same effect that _we was_ does in
conversation: it is because they have never studied the grammar of art.
“‘You would scarcely remember Chantrey, I think. He was always a kind
friend to me. He rose quite from the ranks, and began as a carver of
wood. Rogers was always said to have a table which had been carved by
Chantrey.
“‘Lord Eldon sat to me three times, and, while he sat, told me all the
story of his life, so when that Life was published, it was all familiar
to me: he had told it all. He was unsuccessful as a lawyer in early
life, had no practice whatever, and his friends advised him to throw up
the profession altogether. Only two friends urged him to wait just a
little longer, and he took their advice, and in that “little longer” the
tide turned, and carried him on to the Chancellorship: “And then,” said
Lord Eldon, “I was able to provide those two friends with very good
places.’”
* * * * *
In December 1893 my “Story of Two Noble Lives” appeared, and was warmly
welcomed by the upper classes of society--“the public” for whom it was
especially written. The last time I had gone out with Lady Waterford, we
walked up and down the little ilex avenue by the churchyard at
Highcliffe. She spoke then of the great and increasing desolation of her
life, and said, “If I survive Charles Stuart, there will not be any one
left who would even put up a monument to me.” At the time I inwardly
said, “I will,” and held firm to that resolution; and from what people
say of the book, I feel that I may venture to regard it, though very
unworthy, as a memorial of my dear Lady and her so-beloved sister. Lady
Canning’s is the better portrait, for her letters remained; the
destruction of all Lady Waterford’s best letters has prevented an
equally good picture of her life being produced. General Stuart and many
other of Lady Waterford’s friends assured me that a detailed memoir of
her was impossible; but no good work was ever successfully carried
through which has not at one time seemed impossible.
It was curious, on going to London, to see how opinions differed about
the book--how one heard, “Oh, all the interest is confined to Lady
Canning,” or, “Of course all one’s sympathies are with Lady Waterford;
it is only Lady Waterford one cares for,” or, “The old French history is
the only point of interest.” The Reviews were just the same, wishing
that the first, or the second, or the third volume were excluded--“the
general public would have been sure to welcome the book if it had been
much shorter.” But that was exactly the welcome I did not care that it
should receive. The general public had no interest in, could not
understand, and was not constituted to benefit by such “noble lives,”
while the inner circle for whom they were intended could always
skip--skip a whole volume if it pleased, just as suited the reader. “Le
plus grand malheur d’un homme de lettres n’est peut-être pas d’être
l’objet de la jalousie de ses confrères, la victime de la cabale, le
mépris des puissants du monde; c’est d’être jugé par des sots.” I was,
however, very grateful for the letter of “a Radical,” well known, though
quite unknown to me, who wrote that the book had shown him that he had
often talked and written of what he had known nothing about, of a class
he had misjudged or judged only from individuals, and that “the Story”
had taught him what noble, devoted, unselfish lives might belong to the
class he had maligned, and that he would never speak against it--in
generalities--again. Lady Cork was furious because the married life of
Lord and Lady Canning had not been painted as cloudlessly, beatifically
happy. But how could I do this with all the written evidence before me?
And, after all, what made Lady Canning’s so perfectly “noble” a life was
that, however much she suffered, she allowed her mother and sister to
live and _die_ under the impression that she was the happiest of wives.
A very large first edition--5300 copies--was produced. I felt these
would be called for, and that such an edition would probably cover the
very heavy expenses. But the sale of the book is not likely to go on;
the generation contemporary with the two sisters will have passed away.
For myself, if I like a book, I prefer that it should be very long. It
enables you to make a real acquaintance with the people described, to
learn to love them perhaps, and to be very sorry to part with them. I
wonder if it will be so if some of these--very long--journals are ever
made public.
[Illustration: Augustus J C Hare
From a photograph by Elliott & Fry]
XXIX
WRITING THE GURNEY MEMOIRS
“O thou wealthy Past,
Thine are our treasures!--thine and ours alone
Through thee: the Present doth in fear rejoice;
The Future, but in fantasy: but thou
Holdest secure for ever and for ever
The bliss that has been ours; nor present woe,
Nor future dread, can touch that heritage
Of joy gone by--the only joy we own.”
--FANNY ANNE KEMBLE.
“The stream bears us on, and our joys and our griefs are alike left
behind us: we may be shipwrecked, but we cannot be delayed: whether
rough or smooth, the river hastens towards its home, till the
roaring of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of the waves
is beneath our keel, and the lands lessen from our eyes, and the
floods are lifted up around us, and the earth loses sight of us,
and we take our last leave of earth and its inhabitants, and of our
further voyage there is no witness, but the Infinite and the
Eternal.”--REGINALD HEBER, _Farewell Sermon at Hodnet_.
I had frequently been urged by my friend Madame E. de Bunsen to write
the lives and edit the letters of her family--the Gurneys of Earlham;
but I had long declined. Much as I honoured the life-work and character
of the Gurneys, I felt that I was so little in sympathy with their
outward forms of religion, with their peculiar expression of it--with
their religious talking, in fact--that I doubted if I could do them
justice. Others seemed much better fitted for the task.
[Illustration: EARLHAM HALL][520]
But towards the close of 1893 it was again urged upon me--urged with
great persistency; and when I had taken many of the Gurney journals and
letters home, a memoir seemed gradually to unravel itself in my mind,
and at length I promised to do my best. I know, however, how true it is
that “in a whole imbroglio of capabilities, we go stupidly groping
about, to grope which is ours, and very often clutch the wrong
one.”[521]
In many respects the work soon brought its own reward--inwardly, in
being led to enter into the spiritual life and difficulties of so many
holy departed ones: outwardly, in many visits to still living members of
the family, whose life is a constant example, and has often an
intellectual as well as a spiritual charm. Especially charming were some
winter days at Colne House, the delightful home of Catherine, Lady
Buxton, second daughter of Samuel Gurney; and a lovely spring day with
Mrs. Ripley at Earlham, in the old-fashioned rooms, and on the green
lawns, fragrant to the family--but also to thousands of others--with
endless sacred memories.
* * * * *
_To the_ HON. G. HYLTON JOLLIFFE.
“_London, April 1894._--I have had a pleasant time here, and as usual
have found that there is more to be learnt by enduring the ups and downs
of social pleasures than by withdrawing from them, while in the
mornings I have been very busy at the Athenaeum with a new edition of
‘Walks in London’ and the production of my little ‘Sussex.’ At Lady
Wynford’s I met Miss Harynden, the authoress of ‘Ships that Pass in the
Night,’ a very delicate-looking brown ‘Girton girl’--only her degree was
not taken at Girton, but at the London University. She was very simple
and nice, but seems to _feel_ her books too much. She said she was
generally ill and fretful because she was writing, but more ill and more
fretful if she was not. She did not find her lodging at Hampstead quiet
enough to write in, but shut herself up by day in a desolate cottage on
the Heath. She said she had received hundreds of letters about her
‘Ships that Pass.’ That very morning she had a very kind one from an
unknown gentleman, saying he liked her book very much, but was
disappointed because--in spite of the title--he found no information
about shipping in it!
“A little Gould child said the other day, ‘Can God Almighty do
everything, mother?’--‘Yes, my dear, God is omnipotent.’--‘I know one
thing He couldn’t do, mother.’--‘Quite impossible, my dear.’--‘Yes,
mother; God couldn’t make a stone so big that He couldn’t carry
it,’--deep unconscious theology.
” ...There is no place where Death makes a stranger impression than at
the Athenaeum. You become so accustomed to many men you do not know, to
their comings and goings, that they become almost a part of your daily
life. You watch them growing older, the dapper young man becoming
grizzled, first too careful and then too neglectful of his dress: you
see his face become furrowed, his hair grow grey, then white, and at
last he is lame and bent. You become worried by his coughs, and hems,
and little peculiarities. And--suddenly--you are aware that he is not
there, and all your little annoyances immediately seem to have been
absurd. For a time you miss him. He never comes. He will cough no more,
no longer creak across the floor. He has passed into the unseen;
gradually he is forgotten. His place knows him no more. But the wheel
goes on turning; it is others; it is oneself perhaps, who is waning
away.”
* * * * *
_To the_ HON. MRS. W. LOWTHER.
“_Holmhurst, May 21, 1894._--You said you would like to hear about
Belvoir.
“I went with Henry Maxwell-Lyte. At Grantham was a quantity of red
cloth, and crowds of people to see the Princess (Louise), and a string
of carriages from the castle, and George Manners to show us which we
were to go in. In mine I found a young man, who turned out to be Cecil
Hanbury of La Mortola, with whom I made great friends, and found, as I
always do, that it makes all the difference if one has one special
friend in a large party. The Princess was already at tea when we
arrived, and very gracious and kind. But though she is such a really
charming person, the conversation had the effect of muffled drums, which
always accompanies the presence of royalty. Lord Lorne is much improved
in appearance by age--a good Rubens, as his uncle, Ronald Gower--also at
Belvoir--is a bad Bronzino. The Duke, as always, was most delightful, so
courteous, considerate, and full of interesting information. In the
mornings we walked, drew, or sat in the gardens--a many-hued carpet of
spring glories. In the evenings most of the company danced. The last day
we drove, all the way through the property, to Croxton Old Park, where
there was once a monastery, but nothing is left of it now. There is a
quaint little house, where the Duchess Mary-Isabella, whoever she may
have been, died, and in its succursale we had tea, with all possible
‘ameliorations.’ ...
“Holmhurst is now a nest of spring blossoms, the azaleas glorious, and
the gold of the laburnums quite hiding the leaves.
‘A tout oiseau
Son nid semble beau:’
But my nest really _is_ ‘beau.’ I am sometimes blamed for caring so much
about it, so that it was a comfort to read somewhere (I cannot remember
where), ‘Every man’s proper mansion-house and home, being the theater of
his hospitality, the seate of self-fruition, the comfortablest part of
his own life, a kind of private princedome, nay, to the possessor
thereof an epitome of the whole world, may well deserve by these
attributes, according to the degree of the master, to be decently and
delightfully adorned.’”
* * * * *
It had weighed upon my mind for the last two years that my “France”
remained unfinished. There was still another volume which could not be
written without personally visiting all the places of interest in
Normandy and Brittany, and my publishers were constantly urging its
completion. The book has always been utterly unremunerative, very much
the contrary, which is very depressing in its way, but “on ne vit dans
le mémoire du monde que par ses travaux pour le monde.’[522] So I
determined to give up London and home pleasures this summer, and to set
about it, taking my young cousin Theodore Chambers as my companion and
guest.
We left Holmhurst together on the first of June, and spent June in
Normandy and July in Brittany. It was one of the most laborious journeys
I ever made--eight or nine hours a day of walking, standing, collating,
correcting, simmering in the relaxing western heat, and constantly
soaked by the Scotch mist which pervades that district five days out of
seven. For the latter month young Inverurie, Lady Kintore’s eldest boy,
was also with me, a most kind and pleasant fellow-traveller, but, though
eager about drawing, neither of my companions had any more interest in
architecture or history than a stone. Thus my associations with
North-Western France are not transcendent. Places, even the most
beautiful, are innutritious to the mind in the long run; one needs
people with mental life, and enthusiasm to see them with.
[Illustration: MONT S. MICHEL.][523]
[Illustration: S. JEAN DU DOIGT.][524]
[Illustration: AT CARNAC.][525]
To the cloudiest days, however, come gleams of sunshine. I remember with
great pleasure the Abbey of S. Waudrille near Caudebec, restored once
more to the Benedictines, ejected at the Revolution. We were cordially
pressed to go and stay there, and shown the charming rooms we might
have, and I should really have liked it. Then five days at Mont S.
Michel were enchanting, and the invigorating air, which the hundred and
thirty steps to our bedrooms gave us full opportunity of benefiting by.
And then from Brittany come recollections of many wonderful calvaries;
of Tregastel and its golden rocks; of S. Jean du Doigt in its deep
hollow, lovely in spite of soaking rain; and of Carnac and its wild
moorland, redolent of sweet basil and thyme. We also saw two stately
well-kept houses, Josselin of the Duc de Rohan, and Maintenon of the Duc
de Noailles; but, after all, seeing houses without their owners is like
seeing frames without portraits. More living to me, because I felt
already so familiar with the place, was Les Rochers, pervaded by the
spirit of Madame de Sévigné, and even more fragrant from the memories
she has bequeathed to it than from the blossoms with which the glorious
old orange-trees in its garden are covered now as in her day. It was
enchanting to reach home again at the end of July. My companions said
the journey had turned my hair grey, and so it really had--rather.
* * * * *
JOURNAL.
[Illustration: LES ROCHERS.][526]
“_August 16._--Most delightful has been the return to Holmhurst with its
freedom and peace. The shades in my life now are seldom troubles, only
uncongenialities, and the ‘small fretting fretfulnesses’ which accompany
them: still, when these are past, the relief is enormous, and visits
from such delightful young friends as Herbert Vaughan, Cecil Hanbury,
and George Cockerton have been a great enjoyment. The last is indeed, in
every respect, a dear and true friend. No rules of friendship, I feel,
are better than those inculcated by Buddhism:--
“‘An honourable man should minister to his friends and companions by
giving presents, by courteous speech, by promoting their interests, by
treating them as his equals, by sharing with them his prosperity.
“‘They, in return, should show attachment, by watching over him when he
is off his guard, by guarding his property when he is careless, by
offering him a refuge in danger, by adhering to him in misfortune, by
showing kindness to his family.’
“The natural beauty of the garden here is a never-failing delight to me.
Most people seem to be so full of expectations from the future that they
do not allow themselves to enjoy the present; but when I am at home, I
am sure that is not the case with me. On the prettiest site in the
grounds I have just finished putting up the statues of Queen Anne and
her four satellites by Bird, which formerly stood in front of St.
Paul’s. They were taken away four years ago, and disappeared altogether
till last spring, when my friend Lewis Gilbertson discovered them in a
stonemason’s yard on the point of being broken up for the sake of the
marble. I found they belonged to three people--the Archbishop of
Canterbury, the Bishop of London, and the Lord Mayor, and all these were
persuaded to resign their claims to me. The statues were brought down to
Holmhurst at great expense, and put up, at much greater, on a home-made
pedestal like their old one; and now I hope they are enjoying the
verdure and sea-breezes after the smoke of the City.”
* * * * *
_To_ W. H. MILLIGAN, _and_ JOURNAL.
[Illustration: QUEEN ANNE AT HOLMHURST.]
“_Alderley Rectory, Oct. 5, 1894._--I left home on September 29, to
visit the Townshend Marshams at Frognal--the place I have so often heard
of and thought of, from Lord and Lady Canning having been there so
frequently as the guests of Lord and Lady Sydney, who left it to the
Marshams. No wonder they loved it, and that it was one of the places
poor Lady Canning most looked forward to seeing again on her return
from her long Indian exile. It is an enchanting old house!--its endless
succession of small sitting-rooms, all lived in, all full of pictures,
books, and flowers, and opening on to a sunny terrace and broad expanse
of lawn, with pine-trees beyond it. In one of the rooms Lady Sydney
still presides from her picture, but as few alive now can remember her,
radiant in loveliness, with a coronet surmounting her abundant and
beautiful hair. Upstairs there is an oak gallery, half library, half
passage, but deliciously pleasant and quaint. The boy of the family is
named Ferdinand, from Ferdinando Marsham, Charles I.’s esquire, upon
whose tombstone it is said that ‘he was lamented by all gentlemen.’
Amongst the many curious pamphlets in the house is an account of Charles
I.’s execution, printed whilst the king’s body was still lying at
Whitehall, and mentioning his famous word, ‘Remember,’ as referring to
his ‘George,’ which he had desired might be given to his eldest son. A
sketch by Lady Sydney represents the drawing-room at Frognal, with both
the Cannings and many other habitués of the house introduced, and easily
recognisable as portraits.
“Through a most picturesque and lovely bit of primeval chase belonging
to Frognal we walked to Chislehurst, to see the fine tomb of Lord Sydney
by Boehm, surrounded by memorials of his family, and, on the common, the
Prince Imperial’s Memorial Cross. Mr. Marsham Townshend, who recollected
having seen the Empress in all her splendour at Paris, happened once to
come upon her here, a widowed and lonely exile, in her deep mourning,
attended by a single servant, sobbing alone before this memorial of her
murdered son. Often, in the years she was at Chislehurst, while the
family at Frognal were sitting at tea in the hall, a carriage would dash
up, and the Empress Eugénie come in to stay for two hours. She loved the
Sydneys.
“It was most delightful at Frognal having old Mrs. Sackville of Drayton
there--‘still constant in a wondrous excellence.’
“A longish journey took me to Bromsgrove, where a carriage met me and an
old Mrs. Laurence, who is apparently ‘a power’ in American society, with
her nephew, Mr. Mercer, and brought us to Hewell, the great modern house
which Bodley has built for the Windsors. It has an immense hall, with
open galleries round it, never a comfortable arrangement, I think, but
it is handsome, has two beautiful Italian chimney-pieces, and is divided
by arches into compartments at the two ends. Lady Windsor is quite as
beautiful and fascinating as before she married, and her mother, Lady
Paget, is rather additionally embellished than otherwise by added years.
Lady De Vesci was at Hewell also, supremely beautiful in her own--a
poetical way.
[Illustration: BELLA’S LOGHOUSE, ALDERLEY MERE.][527]
“I have enjoyed being in this familiar place, where the Rector of
Alderley, Mr. Bell, and his daughters, are very kind. He has just been
driving me to see the Ernest Leycesters at Mobberley. Passing beneath a
field on the way to Chorley, he said, ‘A curious thing happened there
when I was a little boy. A farmer went out very early to look over his
land, and in that field he found a place where the soil had been
recently upturned. ‘Oh, poachers must have been here,’ he said to
himself, ‘and have buried their game;’ so he dug, and very soon came
upon a sack. ‘Here it is,’ he said, when behold! from the sack emerged
the long tresses of a young woman! Pale as death, he rushed across the
field to Ellen Baskerville’s house, and told what had happened. It was
the body of a young woman, buried in Alderley Churchyard a few days
before. Resurrection-men had dug it up, and being suddenly surprised,
had hastily buried it here.
“‘When I was living as chaplain in the Infirmary at Norwich,’ said Mr.
Bell, ‘I was startled by hearing what seemed to be loud and furious
imprecations overhead. They did not stop, and at last I ran upstairs to
see. There, in bed, was the old fat swarthy cook, screaming with all her
might, and a huge monkey was sitting on the bed grinning at her. I
seized a newspaper which lay there, rolled it up, and hit out at the
monkey. But the beast knew better than to be afraid of that, seized it,
tore it up, and made at me. Then I caught up a large ruler, which was
happily lying near, to defend myself with. The monkey did not like that,
and bounded across the room and out at the window, and I heard a scream
from the people upon whom it had descended in the street.
“‘The woman told me how the monkey had come in at the window, and jumped
straight on to her bed, where it had found the pot of ointment used for
her bad leg, and eaten it all up directly. Having finished that, it made
for the table, where it found her wig-box, pulled it open and began to
demolish her wig. _That_ she could not stand. “Oh, ye varmint! ye
varmint!” she shouted, and continued shouting till I came to the
rescue.’”
* * * * *
“_Temple Newsam, Oct. 9._--This grand old house in the Black Country has
been receiving the Duke and Duchess of York. They were just gone when I
arrived, but the Duchess’s pleasant brother, Prince Adolphus, is here,
and his future bride, Lady Sybil Grosvenor, with Lady Grosvenor and her
daughter, also the William Lowthers and the beloved Halifax’s. With the
Lowthers I have been two excursions--to Swillerton, Sir C. Lowther’s
rather fine house, and to the beautiful old house of Ledstone, a very
picturesque place.”
* * * * *
“_Ravenstone, Oct. 14._--This lovely little place of Mrs. Howard is
above Lake Bassenthwayte, not considered a beautiful lake, but
infinitely lovely at the spot to which she has taken me, through the
garden of Sir H. Vane, where a richly wooded promontory embossed upon
the still evening sky was reflected in every detail in the calm limpid
waters.
“We have been for service to the most delightfully primitive little
church--a Dalesman’s church--such as Wordsworth has described. At
Greystoke we have spent a day, received by the little girl, daughter of
the house, with the manners of a princess. Little of the old castle
remains.”
* * * * *