country brilliant with gorse and blackthorn. Beneath a great plantation
on the right was the Loe Pool, only separated by a strip of silver sand
from the sea, and described in Tennyson’s ‘Morte d’Arthur.’ Beyond a
wooded hollow with rocks and fir trees the road enters upon the
high-lying plain of the Lizard, wind-stricken, storm-swept, without a
tree, the houses of ugly Lizard-town rising black against a pellucid sky
on the horizon. A scrambling walk down a rugged lane, and then a pathlet
marked by white stones above tremendous precipices brought me to
Kynance Cove--a little disappointing, for it was high water when it
ought to have been low, and a grey colourless day when it ought to have
been brilliant. However, my drawing ‘answered,’ as Aunt Kitty would have
said, and in two hours, as it began to mizzle, I was ready to return.”
“_Tintagel, May 10._--The ‘girling’ of the sea in the old ballad of ‘Sir
Patrick Spens’ just expresses what one hears here. This ‘Wharncliffe
Arms’ is an ideal inn, and very striking is the little glen, now so
primrosy, with the black ruined castle, the cries of the seabirds--
‘And the great sea-waves below,
Pulse of the midnight, beating slow.’”[596]
* * * * *
“_Royal Hotel, Bideford, May 15._--This house has beautiful old rooms
built by John Davy, the first tobacco merchant, with splendid Italian
ceilings: the little _Revenge_ was built in a shipping yard just before
the house, and in a narrow street on the other side the river is a
public-house which is the house of Sir Richard Grenville. I thought the
path above the precipice at Lynton the most beautiful sea-walk I ever
saw. In places it is a sheer wall of rock rising from the waves--
‘Which roar, rock-thwarted, under bellowing caves
Beneath the windy wall.’”
* * * * *
“_Middlewick, Corsham, May 18._--The kind Clutterbucks, with whom I am
staying, took me to Castlecombe yesterday, the home of the Scroopes for
five hundred years, and quite one of the most enchanting places in
England, in its green glen, its clear rushing river, its exquisite
church tower and old market-cross. I saw it last at nine years old, and
was enchanted to find its loveliness all and more than I remembered.
To-day we went to luncheon at Harnish, and I visited once more the
little rectory where I was at school for three and a half most miserable
years. How different a little boy’s path is now! We saw Corsham Court
afterwards, with Cronje’s flag floating over its staircase.”
“_Holmhurst, May 23._--I found a very large party on Saturday at
hospitable Mr. Astor’s, and Cliveden in great beauty, entrancing carpets
of bluebells under the trees. A telegram from the Queen of Sweden took
me to Roehampton on Monday. It was twenty-two years since I had seen the
King, and I thought him even handsomer and more royal-looking than of
old. The Queen is not less fragile, and as full of good thoughts and
words as ever. I had luncheon with the royal pair and their household,
and a long talk with the Queen afterwards, who told me much of my
especial Prince, now Regent in his father’s absence.”
XXXI
FAREWELL
“Pleasure to our hot grasp
Gives flowers after flowers;
With passionate warmth we grasp
Hand after hand in ours:
Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent.”
--MATTHEW ARNOLD.
“Oh, He has taught us what reply to make,
Or secretly in spirit, or in words,
If there be need, when sorrowing men complain
The fair illusions of their youth depart,
All things are going from them, and to-day
Is emptier of delights than yesterday,
Even as to-morrow will be barer yet:
We have been taught to feel this need not be,
This is not life’s inevitable law;
But that the gladness we are called to know
Is an increasing gladness, that the soil
Of the human heart, tilled rightly, will become
Richer and deeper, fitted to bear fruit
Of an immortal growth from day to day,
Fruit of love, life, and inefficient joy.”--R. C TRENCH.
“Lord, I owe thee a death: let it not be terrible: yet Thy will,
not mine, be done.”--HOOKER.
“When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!”--HERRICK.
I must close this book. Printers are calling for its last pages. It is
like seeing an old friend go forth into a new world, and wondering if
those who inhabit it will understand him and treat him well. Perhaps no
one will read it except the intimate circle--a large one certainly--who
have loved Hurstmonceaux, Stoke, and little Holmhurst at different
times. But I can never regret having written it, and it has been so
great an enjoyment to me, that perhaps others may like it; for I have
concealed nothing, and Coleridge says, “I could inform the dullest
author how he might write an interesting book. Let him relate the events
of his own life with honesty, not disguising the feelings that
accompanied them.”[597]
Most people will say two volumes would have been enough, but the fact is
I have written chiefly for myself and my relations, and not for the
general public at all. They may read the book if they like, but it was
not intended for them, and, as Walter Scott describes it--
“Most men, when drawn to speak about themselves,
Are moved by little and by little to say more
Than they first dreamt; until at last they blush,
And can but hope to find secret excuse
In the self-knowledge of their auditors.”[598]
Except that I have seen more varieties of people than some do, I believe
there has been nothing unusual in my life. All lives are made up of joys
and sorrows with a little calm, neutral ground connecting them; though,
from physical reasons perhaps, I think I have enjoyed the pleasures and
suffered in the troubles more than most. But from the calm backwater of
my present life at Holmhurst, as I overlook the past, the pleasures seem
to predominate, and I could cordially answer to any one who asked me “Is
life worth living?”--“Yes, to the very dregs.”
Sainte-Beuve says, “Il est donné, de nos jours, à un bien petit nombre,
même parmi les plus délicats et ceux qui les apprécient le mieux, de
recueillir, d’ordonner sa vie selon ses admirations et selon ses goûts,
avec suite, avec noblesse.” And latterly my days have been “avec suite;”
“avec noblesse” is what they ought to have been. In my quiet home, of
which little has been said in these volumes, days succeed each other
unmarked, but on the whole happy, though sometimes very lonely. The
whole time passes very quickly, yet it is, as I remember the Grand
Duchess Stephanie of Baden wrote to my aunt Mrs. Stanley--“In youth the
years are long, the moments short, but in age the moments are long, the
years short.” Really I have been alone here for thirty years, twelve in
which my dearest Lea was still presiding over the lower regions of the
house, and eighteen in absolute solitude. It is the winter evenings,
after the early twilight has set in, which are the longest. Then there
are often no voices but those of the past:--
“Time brought me many another friend
That loved me longer;
New love was kind, but in the end
Old love was stronger.
Years come and go, no New Year yet
Hath slain December,
And all that should have cried, Forget!
Cried but--Remember!”
People say, “It is all your own fault that you are solitary; you ought
to have married long ago.” But they know nothing about it; for as long
as my mother lived, and for some time after, I had nothing whatever to
marry upon, and after that I had very little, and I have been constantly
reminded that people of the class in which I have always lived do not
like to marry paupers. Besides, the fact is, that except in one
impossible case perhaps, very long ago, “I have never loved any one
well enough to put myself in a noose for them: it is a noose, you
know.”[599] What I have to regret is that I have no very near relations
who have in the least my own interests and sympathies, though they are
all very kind to me. I have far more in common with many of my younger
friends, “the boys,” who cease to be boys after a few years, and many of
whom, I am sure, turn to Holmhurst as the haven of their lives. But one
feels that there would be this difference between any very congenial
near relations and even the kindest friends: the latter are very glad to
see one, but would be very sorry to see more of one; whilst the former,
if they existed, would take it as a matter of course.
By friends I often feel that I am greatly over-estimated, so many ask my
advice, and act upon what I tell them. It is a responsibility, but I
feel that I am right in urging what I have always found answer in my own
case, and what has greatly added to my happiness. When a wrong,
sometimes a very cruel wrong, is done to one, one must not try at once
to do some good to those who have done it, because that would be to
mortify them; but if one immediately, at once, sets to think of what
one can do for somebody else, it takes out the taste. Then one can very
soon paste down that unpleasant page of life, as if it had never
existed, and all will be as before.
Also, always believe the best of people till the worst is proved, and
meditate not on your miseries, but your blessings.
The greatest of all the blessings I have to be grateful for is, that
though, since my serious illness six years ago, I have never been
entirely without pain, I have, notwithstanding this, good health and a
feeling of youth--just the same feeling I had forty years ago. I suppose
there will be many who will be surprised to see in these pages how old I
am; I am unspeakably surprised at it myself. I have to be perpetually
reminding myself of my years, that I am so much nearer the close than
the outset of life. I feel so young still, that I can hardly help making
plans for quite the far-distant future, schemes of work and of travel,
and I hope sometimes of usefulness, which of course can never be
realised. I have very good spirits, and I feel that I should be
inexcusable if I were not happy when I remember the contrast of my
present life to my oppressed boyhood, or to the terrible trial of the
time when every thought was occupied by such tangled perplexities as
those of the Roman Catholic conspiracy.
My next greatest blessing is my home, so infinitely, so exquisitely
suited to my needs, and indeed to all my wishes. As I write this, and
look from my window across the tiny terrace with its brilliant flowers
to the oakwoods, golden in the autumn sunset, and the blue sea beyond,
with the craggy mass of Hastings Castle rising up against it, I feel
that there are few places more lovely than Holmhurst. Then the walks in
the grounds offer a constant variety of wood and rock, flowers and
water, and the distant view changes constantly, and composes into a
hundred pictures. And in the little circle of this pleasant home love
assuredly reigns supreme. I look upon my servants as my best and truest
friends; their rooms, in their way, are as pretty and comfortable as my
own, and I believe that they have a real pleasure in serving me. We
unite together in looking after our less fortunate friends, who come in
batches, for a month each set, to the little Hospice in the grounds. I
could not ask my servants to do this, but they are delighted to help me
thus, as in everything. When one of our little household community, as
has happened four times now, passes, in an honoured and cherished old
age, from amongst us, we all mourn together, watch by the deathbed, and
follow the flower-laden coffin to the grave.
My local affections are centred in Holmhurst now. Rome, which I was
formerly even fonder of, is so utterly changed, it has lost its
enchaining power, and, with the places, the familiar faces there have
all passed away. I go there every third year, but not for pleasure, only
because it is necessary for “Walks in Rome,” the one of my books which
pays best.
In the summer I generally have guests at Holmhurst, but even then my
mornings are passed in writing, and several twilight hours besides. In
the evenings there is generally reading aloud, or there are drawings to
be looked at, or if “the boys” are with me there are games. Then the
early months of spring are often spent abroad, and the later in London,
and in the autumn I have the opportunity of far more visits than I like
to pay: so that I have quite sufficient people-seeing to prevent getting
rusty, or at any rate to remind me of my utter insignificance in every
society except my own. However, Reviews are a perfect antidote to all
follies of vainglory. I used to be pained by the most abusive ones,
though I generally learnt something from them. Latterly, however, I have
been more aware of the indescribable incapacity and indolence of the
writers, and have not cared at all. I a little wonder, however, why I
have scarcely ever had a favourable Review. My work cannot always have
been so _terribly_ bad, or it would not have had so wide a
circulation--wider, I think, than has attended any other work of the
kind.
How I wish one knew something, anything, of the hereafter to which the
Old Testament never alludes, and of which the New Testament tells us
nothing satisfactory. Can we really sleep, for millions of years
perhaps, or can we live in another hemisphere, or can we linger here
near people and places we love, incorporeal, invisible? I believe all
the truths of revealed religion, but there is so much that is
unrevealed. Oh! if the disciples, during their three years’ opportunity,
had only asked our Saviour a few more questions--questions so absolutely
essential, to which the answers would have been of such _vital_
importance. For oh! how far more important what our state after death is
than all our life’s work, than everything we have done or said or
written, or what any one has thought of us. I can truly say with Olga de
la Ferronays, “Je crois, j’aime, j’espère, je me repens;” but how
strangely dim is the clearest sight as to the future. “The awful
mysteries of life and nature,” says Whittier, “sometimes almost
overwhelm me. What? Where? Whither? These questions sometimes hold me
breathless. How little, after all, do we know! And the soul’s anchor of
Faith can only grapple fast upon two or three things, and fast and
surest of all upon the Fatherhood of God.”[600]
It is astonishing how little good can be derived from all the religious
teaching which is the form and order of the day, from the endless
monotony of services, from the wearisome sermons, not one of which
remains with me from the thousands upon thousands I have been condemned
to listen to, some few of them excellent, but most of them a farrago of
stilted nonsense. I suppose that there are some types of mind which are
benefited by them: I cannot believe that they were good for me. “Oh,
stop, do stop; you have talked enough,” my whole heart has generally
cried out when I have listened to a preacher--generally a man whom one
would never dream of listening to in ordinary conversation for a quarter
of an hour. It is a terrible penalty to pay for one’s religion to have
weekly to hear it worried and tangled by these incapable and often
arrogant beings. What does really remain with me, and raise my mind
heavenwards with every thought of it, is the gentle teaching of my sweet
mother in my childhood, and the practical lesson of her long life of
love to God and man; the austere, unswerving uprightness and justice
which was the mainspring of life’s action to the dear old nurse who was
spared for forty-eight years to be the blessing of our home, ever one of
those who, as Emerson says, “make the earth wholesome;” the remembrance
of Hugh Pearson, Lady Waterford, and many other holy ones entered into
the Perfect Life, and the certainty whence their peace in life and their
calm in death was derived. Whittier again echoes my own thoughts when he
says, “I regard Christianity as a life rather than a creed; and in
judging my fellow-men, I can use no other standard than that which our
Lord and Master has given us, ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ The
only orthodoxy that I am especially interested in is that of life and
practice.”
I know my own great imperfection and unworthiness, and when I turn from
myself to others, I cannot judge them. One cannot know all the secret
guiding wires of action in them. I think perhaps the secret of any
influence I have with boys is, that though I am willing to tell them
what I think best as to the future, I never condemn their past; I am not
called upon to do so. Southey’s lines come back to me:--
“Oh, what are we,
Frail creatures that we are, that we should sit
In judgment man on man! And what were we
If the All-Merciful should mete to us
With the same rigorous measure wherewithal
Sinner to sinner metes!”[601]
When I look at the dates of births and deaths in our family in the
Family Bible, I see that I have already exceeded the age which has been
usually allotted to the Hares. Can it be that, while I still feel so
young, the evening of life is closing in. Perhaps it may not be so,
perhaps long years may still be before me. I hope so; but the lesson
should be the same, for “man can do no better than live in eternity’s
sunrise.”[602]
“La figure de ce monde passe. Sans la possession de l’éternité, sans la
vue religieuse de la vie, ces journées fugitives ne sont qu’un sujet
d’effroi, le bonheur doit être une prière et le malheur aussi. Pense,
aime, agis et souffris en Dieu; c’est la grande science.”[603]
“Seek out with earnest search the things above;
Thence to God’s presence rise on wings of love.
By Truth the veils of earth and sense are riven,
And Glory is the only veil of Heaven.
Seek’st thou by earthly roads to find thy way?
Surprise will seize thy rein and bid thee stay;
Only man’s Guardian has cross’d o’er that sea,
And those whom He has bidden--‘Follow me.’
He who has journeyed on without this Friend,
Worn out, has failed to reach his journey’s end.
Oh, Sàdi, think not man has ever gone
Along the path of Holiness alone,
But only he who treads behind the Chosen One.”[604]
“Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd,
Of that same time when no more Change shall be,
But stedfast rest of all things, firmely stayd
Upon the pillours of Eternity,
That is contrayr to Mutabilitie;
For all that moveth doth in Change delight;
But thence-forth all shall rest eternally
With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight:
O! that great Sabaoth God, grant me that
Sabaoth’s sight.”[605]
INDEX
A.
Abbots-kerswel, iv. 249.
Aberdare, Henry Bruce, 1st Lord, iv. 427, 428; v. 225.
Aberdeen, Hon. Ishbel Marjoribanks, Countess of, v. 192, 204, 205, 380.
---- John Gordon, 7th Earl of, iii. 43; v. 192, 204, 205, 380.
---- Lady Mary Baillie, Countess of, v. 204.
Abinger, James Scarlett, 4th Lord, vi. 380.
Ackermann, Félix, i. 36, 97, 158; ii. 192, 195, 423; iii. 53-56, 338,
349.
---- Madame Victoire, i. 31, 32, 96, 339-340; ii. 192, 195, 405,
422-423, 499; iii. 52-64, 189, 253, 308, 310-312, 339, 351.
---- Victoria, iii. 309.
Acland, Sir Thomas, ii. 149.
Acland-Hood, Sir Alexander, vi. 233.
Acton, Sir John, iv. 437.
Acuto, ii. 426, 438-441; iv. 103.
Adeane, Lady Elizabeth, iv. 360.
---- Henry John, i. 214.
Adelaide, Madame, de France, iii. 23; iv. 339-340; vi. 109.
---- of Saxe-Meiningen, Queen of England, i. 189, 294; vi. 106, 478.
Aïdé, Mrs., iv. 293.
Aigues-Mortes, v. 431.
Ailesbury, Maria Tollemache, Marchioness of, v. 213, 233; vi. 67.
Airlie, Hon. Blanche Stanley, Countess of, iv. 127-128, 325-326; v.
274-275, 278, 289, 312, 384; vi. 90, 97, 135, 415-420, 436-443.
---- David Stanley William Ogilvy, 10th Earl of, vi. 440.
---- Lady Mabel Gore, Countess of, vi. 440.
Alacoque, Marguerite Marie, i. 445.
Alatri, iv. 103.
Albanie, Louisa of Stohlberg, Duchesse d’, vi. 121.
Albert, H.R.H. the Prince Consort, i. 302; ii. 286-288.
Albrecht, Archduke of Austria, 11. 35-36.
Alcock, Mrs., story of, iii. 118-123.
---- Sir Rutherford, v. 209.
Alcott, Miss Louisa, the authoress, vi. 405.
Aldeburgh, vi. 23.
Alderley, i. 61, 66; ii. 292, 293; vi. 351.
Aldermaston, ii. 219.
Alderson, Miss Louisa, iv. 73, 123.
Alemayu, Prince of Abyssinia, v. 237-238.
Alexander, Mary Manning, Mrs., i. 185, 248-251, 357, 469, 481; ii. 128.
Alford, Henry, Dean of Canterbury, i. 479; ii. 390-391, 432-433; iii.
155-157, 393-394.
---- Lady Marian, i. 293; ii. 298; iii. 28, 368; iv. 51, 55-60, 121,
399; v. 20-21, 66, 213-214, 294, 415, 455; vi. 110, 141-142, 270, 404,
483, 484.
Alfriston, i. 505.
Algeciras, iv. 33.
Alice, H.R.H. Princess, of Hesse, ii. 288; iv. 101; v. 147.
Alington, Henry Gerard Stuart, 1st Lord, vi. 164.
Allan, Charles Stuart, ii. 515.
---- John Hay, ii. 515.
Almena, Marqueza d’, iv. 41.
Alnwick Castle, ii. 353; iii. 33; vi. 134-139.
Alston, Carlotta, i. 2; vi. 517.
---- Mary Margaret, i. 2, 5; vi. 519
Altieri, Prince and Princess, v. 148, 159.
Alton Barnes, i. 45-48, 191-192, 278; iii. 110.
Amadeo, Duke of Aosta and King of Spain, iv. 31.
Amboise, ii. 495.
Amesbury, v. 292-293.
Ammerdown Park, vi. 240.
Amory, Henrietta Unwin, Lady Heathcote, vi. 90.
Ampère, J. J., v. 305.
Ampthill, Arthur, 2nd Lord, vi. 75.
Ampthill Park, iv. 412-422; v. 55.
Anagni, iv. 103.
Ancaster, Mary Panton, Duchess of, vi. 105.
Anderson, Henry, of Bradley, ii. 320.
Andover, Henry Charles Howard, Viscount, iv. 392, 393.
---- Lady Jane Coke, Viscountess, iv. 453-454.
Anglesey, Henry-William Paget, 1st Marquis of, v. 335.
Angoulême, Marie Therése de France, Duchesse d’, ii. 298; iii. 43-44;
vi. 113.
Anguillara, vi. 414.
Annesley, vi. 494.
Anson, Sir John, iv. 359.
Anthony, iv. 243.
Antibes, iii. 146-149.
Antonelli, Cardinal Giacomo, ii. 72; iii. 71; iv. 172.
Antrobus, Marianne Dashwood, Lady, v. 292.
Aponte, Dom Emmanuele, i. 6-8.
Apponyi, Countess, v. 148.
Aquila, iv. 179.
Aram, Eugene, ii. 232-234.
Arcachon, ii. 465.
Archaeological Society, Roman, speech at the, v. 179.
Arco, vi. 310.
Argyll, George Douglas Campbell, 8th Duke of, iv. 329.
---- John Campbell, 2nd Duke of, iv. 216-217.
Arkcoll, Mrs. Thomas, ii. 228, 244.
Arles, iii. 184; vi. 3, 39.
---- sur Tech, v. 440.
Arley, iv. 461; vi. 230.
Armagh, Lord John George Beresford, Archbishop of, vi. 326.
Arnold, Edward, iii. 329.
---- Edward, the younger, vi. 145.
---- Mary Penrose, Mrs., i. 177; iii. 327-329, 418; iv. 63.
---- Matthew, the poet, i. 177, 512; v. 288; vi. 143-144.
---- Dr. Thomas, Headmaster of Rugby, i. 160.
Arpino, iv. 181.
Ars, Jean-Marie Vianney, le Curé d’, ii. 417-420.
Ars, visit to, iii. 134-136.
Arthur, King of Britain, vi. 320.
---- H.R.H. Prince, iv. 88, 90-93, 224.
Arundel, vi. 297.
Ashburnham House, London, iv. 337.
Ashburnham, Bertram, 4th Earl of, vi. 79.
---- Lady Catherine Baillie, Countess of, v. 323; vi. 76.
---- Hon. John, iv. 271.
---- Lady Mary, v. 320.
Ashburton, Lady Harriet Montagu, Lady, vi. 441.
---- Louisa Stewart Mackenzie, Lady, iv. 90, 91, 99, 121, 154, 305, 329;
v. 60, 61, 66, 73, 211, 284, 294, 297, 314.
Ashdown, ii. 229.
Ashley, Hon. Anthony Lionel, iv. 290-291.
Ashridge, vi. 367.
Astor, Hon. W., vi. 478, 519, 525.
Athelstan, Mrs., ii. 270.
Atkens, Mr., of Kingston-Lyle, ii. 140.
Aubrey, Sir George, v. 333.
Audley End, iv. 243.
Augusta of Saxe-Weimar, Empress of Germany, v. 195.
Aumale, Henri de Bourbon, Duc d’, iii. 18; v. 446; vi. 109.
Austin, Alfred, the poet, v. 92.
Autun, ii. 320.
Avalanche, on the Mont Cenis, v. 133-135.
Avalon, the Isle of, vi. 320.
Avezzano, iv. 180.
Avila, iv. 43.
Avonmore, Therèse Longworth, Lady, v. 412.
Aylesford, Jane Knightley, Countess of, v. 292.
B.
Babington, Mrs. Catherine, ii. 351.
Babraham, vi. 229.
Babworth Hall, v. 41, 366, 417.
Bacon, Sir Hickman, vi. 64.
---- Mrs. Nicholas, iii. 169.
Baddeley, Helen Grant, Mrs. St. Clair, vi. 459, 460.
Baddesley-Clinton, vi. 34, 495.
Baden, Frederic William, Grand Duke, and Louisa, Grand Duchess, iii.
109.
---- Louis, Hereditary Grand Duke of, v. 211, 212, 213, 225-228.
Baden-Baden, i. 384.
Bagot, Mr. Charles, iii. 132.
---- Lucia Welbore, Lady, iii. 32, 368; vi. 298.
---- William, Lord, iii. 368.
Baillie-Hamilton, Mrs. Cospatrick, iii. 395.
---- James, vi. 17-18.
Baker, Sir George and Lady, v. 245.
---- Sir Samuel, iv. 388, 482.
---- Thomas Barwick Lloyd, iv. 350.
Balcarres, vi. 443.
---- Anne Dalrymple, Countess of, iv. 137.
---- Colin, 3rd Earl of, iii. 25.
---- James, 5th Earl of, iii. 24.
Balcaskie, vi. 442.
Balfour, Right Hon. Arthur, v. 92; vi. 373.
---- Charles, of Newton Don, vi. 88.
---- of Burleigh, Lady Katherine Gordon, Lady, vi. 94.
---- Minnie Georgiana Liddell, Mrs. Charles, vi. 88.
Bamborough Castle, ii. 271, 354; iii. 8, 170.
Bampfylde, Hon. Coplestone, v. 318.
Bankes, Rev. E. S., v. 457.
Bankhead, Charles, Secretary of Legation at Constantinople, i. 26.
---- Maria Horatia Paul, Mrs., i. 27, 28, 296.
Bantry, Jane Herbert, Countess of, vi. 94.
Bar-le-Duc, iii. 333.
Baratieri, General, vi. 510.
Barcelona, iv. 28.
Baring, Mrs. Drummond, v. 41, 417.
---- Hon. Mary, iv. 95.