"How can a man learn to know himself? By reflection never, only by
action. In the measure in which thou seekest to do thy duty shalt
thou know what is in thee. But what is one's duty? The demand of
the hour."--GOETHE.
"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."--SAINTE-BEUVE.
"Every man has a separate calling, an end peculiar to
himself."--FREDERICK SCHLEGEL.
"The old lord-treasurer Burleigh, if any one came to the Lords of
the Council for a licence to travel, he would first examine him of
England: if he found him ignorant, he would bid him stay at home
and know his own country first."--HENRY PEACHAM, 1622, _The
Compleat Gentleman_.
Upon returning to England in the winter of 1858, I felt more bitterly
that ever the want of sympathy which had formerly oppressed me. Though I
had the most idolatrous love for my dearest mother, and the most
over-anxious wish to please her, there was then none of the perfect
friendship between us, the easy interchange of every thought, which
there was in later years; for she was still so entirely governed by her
sisters-in-law as scarcely to have any individuality of her own. Often,
often, did she pain me bitterly by suspecting my motives and questioning
my actions, even when I was most desirous of doing right; and from the
long habit of being _told_ that I was idle and ignorant, that I cared
for nothing useful, and that I frittered away my life, she had grown to
believe it, and constantly assumed that it was so. Thus all my studies
were embittered to me. I was quite sure that nothing I did would be
appreciated, so that it never seemed worth while to do anything, and I
became utterly deficient in that cheerfulness of disposition which is
the most important element in all private success.
As I write this, and remember the number of delightful intimates by whom
my after years have been surrounded, I find it difficult to realise that
I had at this time _no_ friends who, by mutual confidence, could help or
cheer me. The best of them, Milligan, was now settled in London, being
in full work in the Ecclesiastical Commission Office, and though always
very kind to me, he had now fallen into a new set of acquaintances and
surroundings, and had no time to bestow upon me individually. George
Sheffield I seldom saw; and I had no other friends worth speaking of.
At this time all the intellectual impetus I received, and without which
I should have fallen into a state of stagnation, came from the house of
my aunt, Mrs. Stanley. Her grace, ease, and tact in society were
unrivalled. At her house, and there alone, I met people of original
ideas and liberal conversation. In this conversation, however, I was at
that time far too shy to join, and I was so dreadfully afraid of my
aunt, who, with the kindest intentions, had a very cold unsympathetic
manner in private, that--while I always appreciated her--I was unable to
reap much benefit from her society. Perhaps my chief friend was my
cousin Arthur Stanley, whom I was not the least afraid of, and whom I
believe to have been really fond of me at this time; also, though he had
a very poor opinion of my present powers and abilities, he did not seem,
like other people, utterly to despair of my future.
[Illustration: Catherine Stanley]
By my mother's desire, Archdeacon Moore (an old friend of the Hare
family) had written to Sir Antonio Panizzi,[146] then the
autocratic ruler of the British Museum Library, with a view to my
standing for a clerkship there. But this idea was afterwards abandoned,
and it was owing to the kindness of my cousin Arthur and that of Albert
Way (our connection by his marriage with Emmeline Stanley) that I
obtained from John Murray, the publisher, the employment of my next two
years--the "Handbook of Berks, Bucks, and Oxfordshire."
The commission to undertake this Handbook was one which I hailed with
rapture. The work was in every respect welcome to me. I had an inner
consciousness that I could do it well, and that while I was doing it I
should be acquiring information and advancing my own neglected
education. Besides, the people with whom the work would necessarily
bring me in contact were just those who were most congenial. My
principal residence would be Oxford, associated with some of my
happiest days, and where it was now a real pleasure to be near Arthur
Stanley; while, if my mother were ill or needed me in any way, there was
nothing in my work which would prevent my returning to her, and
continuing it at home. Above all, the fact of my having the work to do
would silence the ceaseless insinuations to my mother as to my desire
for an idle life of self-indulgence. I knew nothing then of the
mercantile value of my labour. I did not know (and I had no one to
inform me) that I was giving away the earnest work of two years for a
pitiful sum,[147] which was not a tenth of its value, and which was
utterly insufficient to meet its expenses.
How well I remember my first sight of John Murray, when he came to dine
at the Stanleys' house in Grosvenor Crescent--his hard, dry questions,
his sharp, concise note afterwards, in which he announced the terms of
our hardly-driven bargain, received by me as if it had been the greatest
of favours. Perhaps, however, the very character of the man I had to
deal with, and the rules he enjoined as to my work, were a corrective I
was much the better for at this time. The style of my writing was to be
as hard, dry, and incisive as my taskmaster. It was to be a mere
catalogue of facts and dates, mingled with measurements of buildings,
and irritating details as to the "E. E.," "Dec.," or "Perp."
architecture even of the most insignificant churches, this being the
peculiar hobby of the publisher. No sentiment, no expression of opinion
were ever to be allowed; all description was to be reduced to its barest
bones, dusty, dead, and colourless. In fact, I was to produce a book
which I knew to be utterly unreadable, though correct and useful for
reference. Many a paper struggle did I have with John Murray the
third--for there has been a dynasty of John Murrays in Albemarle
Street--as to the retention of paragraphs I had written. I remember how
this was especially the case as to my description of Redesdale, which
was one of the best things I have ever done. Murray, however, was never
averse to a contribution from one whose name was _already_ distinguished
either by rank or literature, and when Arthur Stanley contributed
passages with his signature to my account of Oxford, they were gladly
accepted, though antagonistic to all his rules.
[Illustration: CANON STANLEY'S HOUSE, OXFORD.]
Arthur Stanley had been made Professor of Ecclesiastical History at
Oxford before we had gone abroad, and, while we were absent, a Canonry
at Christ Church, attached to the professorship, had fallen in to him.
The Canon's house was just inside the Peckwater Gate leading into Tom
Quad, and had a stiff narrow walled garden behind, planted with
apple-trees, in the centre of which Arthur made a fountain. It had been
a trouble to the Canon that it was almost impossible in his position to
make the acquaintance he wished with the young men around him, and in
this I was able to be a help to him, and in some way to return the
kindness which often gave me a second home in his house for many months
together. His helpless untidiness, and utter inability to look after
himself, were also troubles which I could at least ameliorate. I rapidly
made acquaintances in Christ Church, several of which developed into
friendships, and I was only too glad to accede to Arthur's wish that I
should invite them to his house, where they became his acquaintances
also. Of Christ Church men at this time I became most familiar with
Brownlow,[148] Le Strange,[149] Edward Stanhope,[150] Stopford,[151]
Addie Hay,[152] and my second cousin, Victor Williamson.[153] A little
later, at the house of Mrs. Cradock, I was introduced to "Charlie
Wood."[154] I did not think that I should like him at first; but we
became intimate over an excursion to Watlington and Sherborne Castle,
and he has ever since been the best and dearest of my friends. Very soon
in constant companionship, we drew together in the Bodleian and Christ
Church libraries, we read together at home, and many were the delightful
excursions we made in home scenes, forerunners of after excursions in
more striking scenes abroad. We also often shared in the little feasts
in Mrs. Cradock's[155] garden, where we used to amuse ourselves and
others by composing and reciting verses.
I frequently left Christ Church for a week or two upon exploring raids
into the counties on which I was employed, and used to bring back
materials to work up in Oxford, with the help of the Bodleian and other
libraries. Very early, in this time of excursions, I received an
invitation (often repeated) from Jane, Viscountess Barrington, a first
cousin of my real mother, to visit her at Beckett near Shrivenham. I had
seen so little then of any members of my real family, that I went to
Beckett with more shyness and misgivings than I have ever taken to any
other place; but I soon became deeply attached to my dear cousin Lady
Barrington, who began from the first to show an interest in me, which
was more that of a tenderly affectionate aunt than of any more distant
relation. Lord Barrington, the very type of a courteous English
nobleman, was also most kind. Of their daughters, two were
unmarried--Augusta, who was exceedingly handsome, brimful of very
accurate information, and rather alarming on first acquaintance; and
Adelaide, who was of a much brighter, gentler nature. I thought at this
time, however, that Lina, Lady Somerton, was more engaging than either
of her sisters. I often found her at Beckett with her children, of whom
the little Nina--afterwards Countess of Clarendon--used to be put into a
large china pot upon the staircase when she was naughty. Beckett was a
very large luxurious house in the Tudor style, with a great hall, built
by Thomas Liddell, Lady Barrington's brother. The park was rather flat,
but had a pretty piece of water with swans, and a picturesque
summer-house built by Inigo Jones. Much of the family fortune came from
Lord Barrington's uncle, Shute Barrington, Bishop of Durham, who used to
say he was the only licensed poacher in England--"I Shute, by the grace
of God," &c. This old bishop, when his nephew brought his bride to visit
him--a wedding visit--at Mongewell, filled all the trees with rare
cockatoos and parrots, in the hope that when she heard them scream, she
would think they were the native birds of that district. Lord and Lady
Barrington took me, amongst other places, to see Mr. Aitkens of Kingston
Lyle--"the Squire" in Tom Hughes's "Scouring of the White Horse," and
also to see the creature itself, which is far more like a weasel than a
horse. The kindness of Lord Barrington also secured my favourable
reception at every other house in the county, and many were the visits I
paid in Berkshire at places described in my Handbook.
Much kindness was also shown me by old Lady Stanley of Alderley,[156]
who was often very violent, indeed quite furious, about her own
opinions; but full of the most sincere interest and kindness towards me
for my mother's sake. Holmwood, near Henley, whither I went several
times to visit her, was an enchanting place, with luxuriant lawn and
flowers, fine trees, and beautiful distant views. A succession of
grandchildren always filled the house, and found it most enjoyable, the
two unmarried aunts--Rianette (Maria Margaret) and Louisa--being, as one
of them (Lady Airlie) has often told me, "the good fairies of their
childhood." Like most Stanleys, they were peculiarly subject to what
that family calls "fits of righteous indignation" with all who differed
from them; but nobody minded. Having had the most interesting youth
themselves, during which their uncle (afterwards Bishop Stanley) and
other relations were always inventing something for their amusement,
they had a special gift for interesting others, so that those who went
to visit them always felt that though they received many and often
unmerited scoldings, their visit could never be dull. How well I
remember still Louisa Stanley's graphic imitation of many people of her
long-ago--especially of old Mr. Holland, the Knutsford doctor,[157] who
would come in saying, "Well, Miss Louisa, and how are we to-day? We must
take a little more rubbub and magnesia; and I would eat a leetle plain
pudden with a leetle shugger over it!" and then, ringing the bell,
"Would you send round my hearse, if you please?"
Lady Stanley herself had been the pupil of Gibbon at Lausanne, and had
much to tell of past days; and the pertinacity with which she maintained
her own opinions about them and everything else, rendered her
recollections very vivid and amusing. All the family, including my
mother, were so dreadfully afraid of Lady Stanley, that a visit to her
always partook of the nature of an adventure; but it generally turned
out to be a very charming adventure, and I always look back to her with
affectionate gratitude, and feel that there was a great charm in the
singleness, sincerity, and freshness of her character. When I was at
Holmwood, I used to engage a little carriage and go out for long
excursions of eight or ten hours into the country; and when I returned
just before dinner, Lady Stanley was so anxious to hear my adventures,
that she would not wait till I came down, but would insist upon the
whole history through the bedroom door as I was dressing.
If people were not afraid of her, Lady Stanley liked them the better for
it, and she always heartily enjoyed a joke. I remember hearing how one
day at Alderley she raged and stormed because the gentlemen sat longer
after dinner than she liked. Old Mr. Davenport was the first to come
into the drawing-room. "Well now, what _have_ you been doing?" she
exclaimed; "what _can_ you have found to talk about to keep you so
long?"--"Would you really like to know what we've been talking about,
my lady?" said Mr. Davenport. "Yes indeed," she stormed. "Well," said
Mr. Davenport very deliberately, "we talked first about the depression
in the salt (mines), and that led us on inadvertently to pepper, and
that led us to cayenne, and that, my lady, led us ... to yourself,"--and
she was vastly amused. One day her maid told her that there was a
regular uproar downstairs about precedence, as to which of the maids was
to come in first to prayers. "Oh, _that_ is very easily settled," said
Lady Stanley; "the ugliest woman in the house must always, of course,
have the precedence," and she heard no more about it.
Another house which I was frequently invited to use as a centre for my
excursions was that of my father's first cousin, Penelope, Mrs. Warren,
who was living in the old home of Lady Jones at Worting, near
Basingstoke. It was in a most dreary, cold, wind-stricken district, and
was especially selected on that account by Lady Jones, because of its
extreme contrast to the India which she abominated. Internally, however,
the old red-brick house was very comfortable and charming, and Mrs.
Warren herself a very sweet and lovable old lady, tenderly cared for by
her sons and daughters, many of whom were always about her, though only
one of the latter, Anna, was unmarried. Mrs. Warren had been the eldest
of the daughters of Dean Shipley, and the only one who never gave her
family any trouble, and who was invariably loved and honoured by its
other members. Her character through life had been that of a peacemaker,
and in her old age she seemed almost glorified by the effulgence of the
love which had emanated from her, no single member of the family having
a recollection of her which was not connected with some kindly word or
unselfish action.[158] That Lady Jones should bequeath Worting to her
was felt by all the other nephews and nieces to have been most natural.
"Who should it have been to, if not to Penelope?" She liked to talk of
old times, and her reminiscences were most interesting. She was also
very proud of her family, especially of the Mordaunts, and of our direct
descent, through the Shipleys, from the youngest son of Edward I. It was
on one of my early visits at Worting that I first made acquaintance with
my cousin Harriet, Mrs. Thornton, niece of Mrs. Warren, and one of the
daughters of Bishop Heber.[159] She described the second marriage of
her mother to Count Valsamachi in the Greek church at Venice, and the
fun she and her sister thought it to walk round the altar with huge
wedding favours in their hands. She was full of amusing stories of
India, from which she was just returned: would tell how one day she was
sitting next a Rajah who was carving a pie, and when he lifted the crust
a whole flock of little birds flew out--"Whir-r-r-r!" said the Rajah as
they flew all over the room; how, one day, being surprised that an
expected ham was not brought in to dinner, she went out and found it
lying in the court, with all the native servants round it in a circle
spitting at it; and how one day at the Cape she was told that a woman
was bitten by a venomous snake, and going out, found her eating a toad
as a remedy. One of Mrs. Thornton's stories, which I have often repeated
since, is so curious as to deserve insertion here.
"M. de Sartines had been brought up by an old friend of his family
who lived in Picardy. The château of his old friend was the home of
his youth, and the only place where he felt sure that all his
failings would be overlooked and all his fancies and wishes would
be considered.
"While he was absent from France on diplomatic service, M. de
Sartines heard with great grief that his old friend was dead. In
losing him, he lost not only the friend who had been as a second
father, but the only home which remained to him in France. He felt
his loss very much--so much, indeed, that for many years he did not
return to France at all, but spent his time of leave in travelling
in Italy and elsewhere.
"Some years after, M. de Sartines, finding himself in Paris,
received a letter from the nephew of his old friend, who had
succeeded to the Picardy property. It was a very nice letter
indeed, saying how much he and his wife wished to keep up old
family ties and connections, and that though he was well aware that
it would cost M. de Sartines much to revisit the château so
tenderly connected with memories of the dead, still, if he could
make that effort, no guest would be more affectionately welcomed,
and that he and his wife would do their utmost to make him feel
that the friendship which had been held had not passed away, but
was continued to another generation. It was so nice a letter that
M. de Sartines felt that he ought not to reject the hand of
friendship stretched out in so considerate and touching a manner,
and though it certainly cost him a great effort, he went down to
the château in Picardy.
"His old friend's nephew and his wife received him on the doorstep.
Everything was prepared to welcome him. They had inquired of former
servants which room he had occupied and how he liked it arranged,
and all was ready accordingly. They had even inquired about and
provided his favourite dishes at dinner. Nothing was wanting which
the most disinterested solicitude could effect.
"When M. de Sartines retired to his room for the night, he was
filled with conflicting emotions. The blank which he felt in the
loss of his old friend was mingled with a grateful sense of the
kindness he had received from the nephew. He felt he could not
sleep, or would be long in doing so; but having made up a large
fire, for it was very cold weather, he went to bed.
"In process of time, as he lay wakefully with his head upon the
pillow, he became aware of the figure of a little wizened old man
hirpling towards the fire. He thought he must be dreaming, but, as
he listened, the old man spoke--'Il y a longtemps que je n'ai vu un
feu, il faut que je me chauffe.'
"The blood of M. de Sartines ran cold within him as the figure
turned slowly round towards the bed and continued in trembling
accents--'Il y a longtemps que je n'ai vu un lit, il faut que je me
couche.'
"But every fibre in M. de Sartines' body froze as the old man, on
reaching the bed, drew the curtains, and seeing him, exclaimed--'Il
y a longtemps que je n'ai vu M. de Sartines, il faut que je
l'embrasse.'
"M. de Sartines almost died of fright. But fortunately he did not
quite die. He lived to know that it was his old friend himself. The
nephew had got tired of waiting for the inheritance; he had
imprisoned his uncle in the cellar, and had given out his death,
and had a false funeral of a coffin filled with stones. The
invitation to his uncle's friend was a _coup de théâtre_: if any
suspicions had existed, they must have been lulled for ever by the
presence of such a guest in the château. But on the very day on
which M. de Sartines had arrived, the old gentleman had contrived
to escape from his cell, and wandering half imbecile about the
house, made his way to the room where he remembered having so often
been with his friend, and found there his friend himself.
"M. de Sartines saw the rightful owner of the castle reinstated,
and the villainy of the wicked nephew exposed; but the old man died
soon afterwards."
Here is another story which Mrs. Thornton told, apropos of the benefits
of cousinship:--
"Frederick the Great was one day travelling incognito, when he met
a student on his way to Berlin, and asked him what he was going to
do there. 'Oh,' said the student, 'I am going to Berlin to look for
a cousin, for I have heard of so many people who have found cousins
in Berlin, and who have risen through their influence to rank and
power, that I am going to try if I cannot find one too.' Frederick
had much further conversation with him, and on parting said, 'Well,
if you trust to me, I believe that I shall be able to find a cousin
for you before you arrive at Berlin.' The student thanked his
unknown friend, and they parted.
"Soon after he reached Berlin, an officer of the court came to the
student, and said that he was his cousin, and that he had already
used influence for him with the King, who had desired that he
should preach before him on the following Sunday, but that he
should use the text which the King himself should send him, and no
other.
"The student was anxious to have the text, that he might consider
his sermon, but one day after another of the week passed, and at
last Sunday came and no text was sent. The time for going to church
came, and no text had arrived. The King and the court were seated,
and the unhappy student proceeded with the service, but still no
text was given. At last, just as he was going up into the pulpit, a
sealed paper was given to him. After the prayer he opened it, and
it was ... blank! He turned at once to the congregation, and
showing them the two sides of the paper, said, '_Here_ is nothing,
and _there_ is nothing, and out of nothing God made the world'--and
he preached the most striking sermon the court had ever heard."
Mrs. Thornton described how old Mr. Thornton had been staying in
Somersetshire with Sir Thomas Acland, when he heard two countrymen
talking together. One of them said to the other, who was trying to
persuade him to do something, "Wal, noo, as they say, 'shake an ass and
go.'" Mr. Thornton came back and said to Sir Thomas, "What very
extraordinary proverbial expressions they have in these parts. Just now
I heard a man say 'shake an ass and go'--such a _very_ extraordinary
proverbial expression." "Well," said Sir Thomas, "the fact is there are
a great many French expressions lingering in this neighbourhood: that
meant 'Chacun à son goût!'"
Of the new acquaintances I made in Oxfordshire, those of whose
hospitality I oftenest availed myself were the Cottrell Dormers, who
lived at the curious old house of Rousham, above the Cherwell, near
Heythrop. It is a beautiful place, with long evergreen shrubberies,
green lawns with quaint old statues, and a long walk shaded by yews,
with a clear stream running down a stone channel in the midst. Within,
the house is full of old family portraits, and has a wonderful
collection of MSS., and the pedigree of the family from Noah! Mr. and
Mrs. Dormer were quaint characters: he always insisting that he was a
Roman Catholic in disguise, chiefly to plague his wife, and always
reading the whole of Pope's works, in the large quarto edition, through
once a year; she full of kind-heartedness, riding by herself about the
property to manage the estate and cottagers, always welcoming you with a
hearty "Well, to be sure, and how do _you_ do?" She was a _maîtresse
femme_, who ruled the house with a sunshiny success which utterly set at
nought the old proverb--
"La maison est misérable et méchante
Où la Poule plus haut que le Coq chante."
Mrs. Dormer was somehow descended from one of the daughters of Sir
Thomas More, and at Cokethorpe, the place of her brother, Mr.
Strickland, was one of the three great pictures by Holbein of the family
of Sir Thomas More, which was long in the possession of the
Lenthalls.[160] Another place in the neighbourhood of Rousham which I
visited was Fritwell Manor, a most picturesque old house, rented by the
father of my college friend Forsyth Grant--"Kyrie." Fritwell is a
haunted house, and was inhabited by two families. When the Edwardes
lived there in the summer, no figure was seen, but stains of fresh blood
were constantly found on the staircase. When the Grants lived there, for
hunting, in the winter, there was no blood, but the servants who went
down first in the morning would meet on the staircase an old man in a
grey dressing-gown, bleeding from an open wound in the throat. It is
said that Sir Baldwin Wake, a former proprietor, quarrelled with his
brother about a lady of whom they were both enamoured, and, giving out
that he was insane, imprisoned him till real madness ensued. His prison
was at the top of the house, where a sort of large human dog-kennel
still exists, to which the unfortunate man is said to have been
chained.
I made a delightful excursion with "Kyrie" to Wroxton Abbey and
Broughton Castle--Lord Saye and Sele's--where we were invited to
luncheon by Mr. Fiennes and Lady Augusta, in the former of whom I most
unexpectedly found 'Twisleton'[161]--an old hero boy-friend of my Harrow
school-days, whom I regarded then much as David Copperfield did
Steerforth. The old castle is very picturesque, and the church full of
curious monuments.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Christ Church, Oxford, April 25, 1859._--Arthur and I dined last
night at Canon Jelf's. He was for thirteen years tutor to the King
of Hanover, and while at the court fell in love with Countess
Schlippenbach, the Queen's lady-in-waiting, who married him.... Dr.
Jelf told a great deal that was interesting about the King: how, as
Prince George, he would insist upon playing at being his Eton fag,
brush his clothes, make his toast, &c.: that he was with the Prince
at the time of the fatal accident which caused his blindness, when,
in the garden at Kew, having just given half-a-crown to a beggar,
he was whisking his purse round and round, when the ring at the end
went into his eye. A fortnight's anxiety followed, and then came
the great grief of his dear Prince one day saying to him when out
shooting, 'Will you give me your arm, sir? I don't see quite so
well as I ought to do. I think we had better go home.' Afterwards,
instead of murmuring, the Prince only said, 'Those who will not
obey must suffer: you told me not to whisk my things about in that
way, and I disobeyed: it is right that I should suffer for it.'
"He gave many beautiful pictures of the King's after life: how the
dear blind King, who bears no outward mark of his misfortune,
always turns to the sun, as if seeking the light: of his marriage
with his cousin of Saxe-Altenbourg, a true love-match: that he, the
old tutor, was never forgotten, and that on his last birthday, when
he least expected it, a royal telegram announced--'The King, the
Queen, and the royal children of Hanover wish Dr. Jelf many happy
new years.' The King always writes to Dr. and Mrs. Jelf on their
wedding-day, which even their own family do not always remember,
and on their silver-wedding he sent them a beautiful portrait of
himself.
"Arthur, I imagine, rather likes having me here, though no
outsiders would imagine so; but he finds me useful after a fashion,
and is much annoyed if I allude to ever going into lodgings. He
certainly does _exactly_ what he likes when I am there, and is
quite as unreserved in his ways as if nobody whatever was present.
I am generally down first. He comes in pre-engrossed, and there is
seldom any morning salutation. At breakfast I sit (he wills it so)
at the end of the table, pour out his excessively weak tea, and put
the heavy buttered buns which he loves within his easy reach. When
we are alone, I eat my own bread and butter in silence; but if
undergraduates breakfast with us, it is my duty, if I know
anything about it, so to turn the conversation that he may learn
what their 'lines' are, and converse accordingly. Certainly the
merry nonsense and childlike buoyancy which cause his breakfast
parties to be so delightful, make the contrast of his silent
irresponsiveness rather trying when we are alone--it is such a
complete 'you are not worth talking to.' However, I have learnt to
enjoy the first, and to take no notice of the other; indeed, if I
can do so quite effectually, it generally ends in his becoming
pleasanter. In amiable moments he will sometimes glance at my MSS.,
and give them a sanction like that of Cardinal Richelieu--'Accepi,
legi, probavi.' After breakfast, he often has something for me to
do for him, great plans, maps, or drawings for his lectures, on
huge sheets of paper, which take a good deal of time, but which he
never notices except when the moment comes for using them. All
morning he stands at his desk by the study window (where I see him
sometimes from the garden, which he expects me to look after), and
he writes sheet after sheet, which he sometimes tears up and flings
to rejoin the letters of the morning, which cover the carpet in all
directions.[162] It would never do for him to marry, a wife would
be so annoyed at his hopelessly untidy ways; at his tearing every
new book to pieces, for instance, because he is too impatient to
cut it open (though I now do a good deal in this way). Meantime, as
Goethe says, 'it is the errors of men that make them amiable,' and
I believe he is all the better loved for his peculiarities.
Towards the middle of the day, I sometimes have an indication that
he has no one to walk with him, and would wish me to go, and he
likes me to be in the way then, in case I am wanted, but I am never
to expect to be talked to during the walk. If not required, I amuse
myself, or go on with my own work, and indeed I seldom see Arthur
till the evening, when, if any one dines for whom he thinks it
worth while to come out of himself, he is very pleasant, and
sometimes very entertaining."
My mother spent a great part of the spring of 1859 at Clifton, whither I
went to visit her, afterwards making a _tourette_ by myself to
Salisbury, Southampton, Beaulieu, and Winchester.
"_Salisbury, April 12, 1859._--At 8-1/2 I was out on bleak
Salisbury Plain, where, as the driver of my gig observed, 'it is a
whole coat colder than in the valley.' What an immense desert it
is! The day, so intensely grey, with great black clouds sweeping
across the sky, was quite in character with the long lines of
desolate country. At last we turned off the road over the turf, and
in the distance rose the gigantic temple, with the sun shining
through the apertures in the stones. It was most majestic and
impressive, not a creature in sight, except a quantity of rabbits
scampering about, and a distant shepherd."
The latter part of June 1859 I spent most happily in a pony-carriage
tour in Buckinghamshire and Berkshire with my friend George Sheffield,
who had just passed his examination at the Foreign Office. It was on
this occasion that, as we were driving under a park wall in
Buckinghamshire, I said to George, "Inside that park is a very fine old
house, and inside the house is a very fine old sundial. We will go to
see the house, and we will take away the sundial;" and we _did_, though
at that moment I did not even know the name of the people who lived
there. The old house was the Vatche, which had belonged to my
great-great-grandfather, Bishop Hare, who married its heiress in the
reign of George II., and I had heard of the sundial from the
churchwarden of Chalfont, with whom I had had some correspondence about
my ancestor's tomb. It was made on the marriage of Bishop Hare with Miss
Alston and bore his arms. The family of Allen, then living at the
Vatche, allowed us to see the house, and my enthusiasm at sight of the
sundial, which was lying neglected in a corner, so worked upon the
feelings of Mrs. Allen, that she gave it me. It is now in the garden at
Holmhurst.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_June 16._--I have enjoyed a visit to the Henry Leycesters at
White Place, which lies low in the meadows, but has the charm of a
little creek full of luxuriant water-plants, down which Henry
Leycester punts his guests into the Thames opposite Clifden; and
how picturesque are the old yew-trees and winding walks of that
beautiful place. Henry Leycester, to look upon, is like one of the
magnificent Vandykes in the Brignole Palace at Genoa. Little Mrs.
Leycester is a timid shrinking creature, who daily becomes terribly
afraid of the domestic ghost (a lady carrying her head) as evening
comes on. 'Imagine my feelings, Mr. Hare,' she says, 'my awful
position as a wife and a mother, when my husband is away, and I am
left alone in the long evenings with _her_.'"
"_June 17, Christ Church._--Last week the Dean, with much
imprudence, punished two Christ Church men most severely for the
same offence, but _one more than the other_. The next night the
Deanery garden was broken into, the rose-trees torn up and
flower-beds destroyed, the children's swing cut down, and the name
of the injured man cut in large letters in the turf. It has created
great indignation.
"My chief work, now I am at Oxford, is in the Bodleian, where I
have much to look out and refer to, and where everything is made
delightful by Mr. Coxe, the librarian,[163] who is not only the
most accurate and learned person in the world, but also the most
sympathetic, lively, and lovable. 'Never mind, dear boy,' he
always says, the more trouble I give him. Anything more unlike the
cut-and-dried type of Oxford Dons cannot be imagined. He has given
me a plant (Linaria purpurea) from the tomb of Cicero.
"I should like to take my Master's degree, but the fees will be
about £20. I could then vote at the election. I should certainly
vote against Gladstone, though Arthur says he should vote for him
'with both hands and both feet.' ... I have great satisfaction in
being here now, in feeling that I can be useful to Arthur, in
preparing drawings for his lectures, &c., also that he really
prefers my presence to my absence."
"_July 4._--I sate up till twelve last night preparing 'the bidding
prayer' for Arthur (who was to preach the 'Act Sermon to-day at St.
Mary's)--immensely long, as the _whole_ of the founders and
benefactors have to be mentioned. Imagine my horror when, after the
service, the Vice-Chancellor came up to Arthur and demanded to know
why _he_ had not been prayed for! I had actually omitted his name
of all others! Arthur said it was all the fault of 'Silvanus.' In
his sermon on Deborah, Arthur described how the long vacation,
'like the ancient river, the river Kishon,' was about to form a
barrier, and might wash away all the past and supply a
halting-place from which to begin a new life: that the bondage
caused by concealment of faults or debts might now be broken: that
now, when undergraduates were literally 'going to their father,'
they might apply the story of the Prodigal Son, and obtain that
freedom which is truth."
[Illustration: HODNET CHURCH.]
In July I paid a first visit to my cousins, the Heber Percys, at Hodnet
Hall, in order to meet Countess Valsamachi (Mrs. Heber Percy's
mother).[164] The old Hodnet Hall was a long low two-storied house, like
an immense cottage, or rather like a beehive, from the abundant family
life which overcrowded it. The low dining-room was full of curious
pictures of the Vernons, whose heiress married one of the Hebers, but
when the pictures had been sent up to London to be cleaned, the cleaner
had cut all their legs off. At this time a debt of £40,000 existed upon
the Hodnet estate. Mr. Percy's father, the Bishop of Carlisle, had
promised to pay it off when certain fees came in. At last the fees were
paid, and the papers were in the house, only awaiting the signature of
the Bishop. That day he fell down dead. When it was told to his
children, they only said, "It is the will of God; we must not complain."
I had much conversation with Lady Valsamachi. Talking of religion, she
spoke of an atheist who once grumbled at the dispensation of a gourd
having such a slender stem, while an acorn was supported by an oak.
"When he had done speaking, the acorn fell upon his nose; had it been
the gourd, his nose would have been no more!"
We walked to where Stoke had been, so tenderly connected with past days.
All was altered, except the Terne flowing through reedy meadows. It was
less painful to me to see it than on my last visit, but cost me many
pangs.
I joined my mother at Toft, where our dear cousin Charlotte Leycester
was acting as mistress of the house, and gave us a cordial welcome to
the old family home. Greatly did my mother enjoy being there, and the
sight of familiar things and people. Especially was she welcomed by an
old woman named Betty Strongitharm; I remember how this old woman said,
"When I am alone, I think, and think, and think, and the end of all my
thinking is that Christ is all in all ... but I do not want to go to
heaven alone; I want to take a many others along with me."