"Al ogni uccello suo nido par bello."
--_Italian Proverb._
"O my life! have we not had seasons
That only said, Live and rejoice?
That asked not for causes or reasons,
But made us all feeling and voice."
--LOWELL.
On our arrival in England, we were delighted with our little Holmhurst,
which we arranged to be as much like Lime as possible, while many of the
plants and shrubs we had brought with us, were, in the garden, a
perpetual reminder of our old home. To my mother, however, our return
was greatly clouded by the loss of her only brother, my Uncle Penrhyn,
who died at Sheen while we were at Mentone, passing away most
peacefully, surrounded by his family. This uncle is one of the few
figures connected with my childhood with whom I have no associations but
those of unvarying kindness, and in later years we had been brought
nearer to him in our long winter visits at Sheen, and we missed him
greatly.
My Handbook (nominally Murray's) of Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and
Berkshire had been published during our winter absence: my little book
"A Winter at Mentone" appeared soon after our return. With Murray's
Handbook I had taken as much pains as if it were to appear in my own
name, and felt as strongly the responsibility of what Miss Edgeworth
calls "irremediable words," once past the press. The "Winter at Mentone"
fell perfectly flat, but Murray was so pleased with the laudatory
notices which followed the appearance of the Handbook, that he asked me
to select any other counties I liked. I chose Durham and Northumberland,
and after the middle of July went there for three months. In undertaking
these counties, I again assented to an arrangement by which I was never
repaid for my work; but the work was one which I liked extremely,
bringing me in contact with endless interesting persons, enabling me to
be much with "Cousin Susan," who gave me a second home at Ridley Hall,
and opening a field of historic study of the most interesting kind. On
the way north I went to the Vaughans at Doncaster, of which Dr. Vaughan
had lately become Vicar.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Doncaster, July 24, 1861._--The people here are a perpetual
amusement to Kate, they are so quaint and original. She spoke to
one old woman the other day about her sinful ways and the necessity
for amendment. 'Na, na, Mrs. Vaughan,' she replied, 'I be got too
old for Mr. Satan noo; he canna hurt I noo.' Another old woman who
was brought into the hospital swore dreadfully all night long, to
the great annoyance of her neighbours; but when they complained she
said, 'Wal, I niver did it afore I coomed here, but I be gettin'
old, and I canna help it--and it's the will o' God, and I canna
help it.'
"Kate said to an old man, 'What are you so low about, my man?'
'Why,' he said, 'what wi' faith, and gas, and balloons, and
steam-ingines a-booming and a-fizzling through t' warld, and what
wi't' arth a going round once in twenty-four hours, I'm fairly
muzzled and stagnated.'
"I have been to call on the daughters of 'Presence-of-mind Smith,'
who was Dean of Christ Church, and to the close of his life used to
tell this story of himself. 'In my life,' he said, 'there has been
one most fortunate incident. A friend of mine persuaded me to go
out with him in a boat upon a lake. I did not wish to go, but he
persuaded me, and I went. By the intervention of Providence, I took
my umbrella with me. We had not been long on the lake when the
violence of the waves threw my friend out of the boat drowning, and
he sank. Soon, as is the case with drowning persons, he came up
again, and clutched hold of the side of the boat. Then such,
providentially, was my presence of mind, that I seized my umbrella
and rapped him violently on the knuckles till he let go. He sank,
and I was saved.'"
[Illustration: AT DURHAM.]
When I arrived at Durham, I presented myself at once to my cousins the
George Liddells, who lived at a dingy brick house in the suburb called
Old Elvet. They had never seen me before, but welcomed me with the
utmost kindness and hospitality, making me quite at home with them. I
took a little lodging close by, but they made me dine with them almost
every day, and I went constant expeditions with them, staying to dinner
at the neighbouring houses, Elemore, Aldin Grange, &c. Durham itself I
always found charming. The smoke only gave a picturesqueness of its own,
and on Sunday there was a Sabbath of nature, for when the chimneys
ceased smoking, the birds began to sing, the flowers to bloom, and the
sky to be blue. Sunday, however, was a severe day with the George
Liddells, almost entirely spent in going to church, reading prayers, and
listening to long sermons at home. Even on ordinary days, _after_ long
morning prayers, we were expected to read all the Psalms and Lessons for
the day, verse by verse, before we went out. But with all this, George
Liddell was the very dearest and kindest of old men, and I was very fond
too of his wife--"Cousin Louise"--who was most amusing and original.
Other cousins, who were intensely good to me at this time, were old
Henry Liddell, brother of my great-uncle Lord Ravensworth, and his wife,
who was daughter of Thomas Lyon of Hetton, my great-grandmother's
youngest brother. I had known them first at Bath many years before,
where they were kind to me when I had very few friends. With them lived
their daughters Charlotte and Amelia, and their youngest son William, a
very tall, very excellent, and very shy clergyman, who was his father's
curate at Easington. Here I paid my first visit to them. It is an ugly
village in the Black Country, but the Liddells' house was most
comfortable, having the sea close by, with delightful sands and rocks,
and many wooded "denes" running down to it, of which Castle Eden is
especially beautiful.
I remember one day, after returning from Easington, dining with Dr.
Phillpotts, the celebrated Bishop of Exeter, who had a Canonry at
Durham. He was very old, and was obliged to have a glass of wine given
to him to obtain strength to go in to dinner, and every one wished him
good-night when he left the dinner-table. He was good enough also to
send for me alone to wish success to my book, &c. It was my only sight
of this kindly old man, though I knew his daughter well, and valued her
many good qualities. They both died shortly afterwards. Amongst the
company at the Bishop's were Mr. and Mrs. Johnson of Akeley Heads, whom
I also visited at their own beautiful place, which is on a high terrace
overlooking Durham. It came to them in a curious way. Mr. Johnson was
at school at Durham, and went out with his two elder brothers to spend
the day with a rich old uncle who lived there. The eldest brother was
his uncle's heir. They were sent to play in the garden, and seeing there
a beautiful ripe peach upon the wall, they were unable to resist it, and
ate it up. Soon the uncle came into the garden to look for that
identical peach. "Where is my peach gone?" he said. The three boys were
dreadfully frightened, and the two eldest denied knowing anything about
it, but the youngest said, "We picked it and ate it up." The old man
said nothing, but went home and altered his will that very afternoon,
and when he was killed by an accident three weeks afterwards, his
youngest nephew was found to be the heir of Akeley Heads.
I was frequently invited by Dean Waddington, who was a man of stately
presence, "grand seigneur, fastueux, homme du monde," and had a great
reputation for learning and cleverness; but in my acquaintance with him
he seemed to care for nothing but his dinner, and his chief topic of
conversation was his sherry of 1815, for which he gave £12 a dozen.
"What with _diner à la Russe_, crinoline, and pale sherry," he said one
day, "England is fast going to the dogs."
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Dilston, August 28._--The Greys gave me a warm welcome to
Dilston--Mr. Grey being agent for the Greenwich Hospital Estates
there, and a great agriculturist. Dilston is lovely. The house
stands on a terraced height, covered with hanging woods, beneath
which flows the Devil's Water, the most beautiful of Northumbrian
rivers, with trout dancing about in its transparent brown currents,
and floating away over its crumpled-looking rocks. On the hilltop
is the ruined castle of the Earl of Derwentwater, with his nursery,
now overgrown by huge elder-trees, and the little chapel beneath
which he was buried at night beside his ancestors. Below is the old
grey pointed bridge, upon which, as he rode over, he repented of
his rebellion and turned back to the castle, when his wife threw
her fan at him, and calling him a coward, drove him forth to his
destruction."
"_Ridley Hall, Sept. 1._--'How happily the days of Thalaba roll by'
might be applied to all the dwellers at Ridley Hall; for 'Cousin
Susan' is so truly genial to her many guests, that they cannot fail
to enjoy being with her."
"_Chillingham Castle, Sept. 6._--I went with Cousin Susan to spend
two days at Matfen, Sir Edward Blackett's, a large modern Tudor
house with a church beside it, looking into a great park, and
entered through a stately gothic hall. Sir Edward and Lady
Blackett have not been married many years, but four of his
daughters by his first wife are now out. Lady Blackett also had
another Northumbrian husband, Mr. Orde of Whitfield, and, as
daughter of Sir Charles Lorraine, was once thought a great beauty.
Sir Edward drove me to see Aydon, a curious old castle which
belongs to him.
"Yesterday I came to Chillingham from Belford, a beautiful drive,
over hills first, and then descending into moorland, purple with
heather, and bounded by the Cheviots, which rose deep blue against
the sunset sky. The castle, which is partly as old as King John, is
built round a great courtyard, from which flights of stone steps go
up to the principal apartments. On the stairs I found Lord
Tankerville, a handsome middle-aged man, with grey hair, romping
with his children. He is quite charming, so merry and so courteous.
He took me at once to my room, which is high up in one of the old
towers, and at eight we dined. Lady Tankerville is sister of the
Duke of Manchester, very pretty, and looks quite a girl, though her
three boys must be eight, nine, and ten years old."
"_Chillingham, Sept. 8._--This park is quite as beautiful in its
way as any scenery abroad, and much more so, I think, than any in
Scotland. It is backed by the Cheviot Hills, and often broken into
deep dells, with little streamlets rushing down them, and weird old
oaks whose withered branches are never cut off, sheltering herds of
deer. Great herds too of wild cattle, which are milk-white, and
have lived here undisturbed from time immemorial, come rushing
every now and then down the hillsides like an army, to seek better
pasture in the valley. Deer of every kind are to be seen upon the
hills, and Lady Tankerville hunts them furiously, tiring out twelve
horses in succession, placed to await her at different points in
the park. Nothing can be more lovely than the evening effects each
day I have been here, the setting sun pouring streams of golden
light into the great grey mysterious basins of the Cheviots, amid
which Marmion died and Paulinus baptized the ancient Northumbrians.
"If the place is charming, the people are even more so. The family
is the happiest and most united I have ever seen. Lord Tankerville
is the best and kindest of human beings. Lady Tankerville, whose
spirits are so exuberant she scarcely knows how to get rid of them,
dotes on her 'Hossinun,' plays with her children, gallops on her
horses, hunts her deer, and manages her household, with equal
vivacity. She is the most amusing person possible, is never ill,
laughs fine-ladyism to scorn, and scrambles about the park,
regardless of colds and crinolines, in all states of the weather.
The three little boys, Charlie, Georgie, and Peddie, are all quite
as engaging in their different ways, and the two little girls are
lovely little creatures.
"The prettiest story of an acceptance I ever heard of is that of
Lord Tankerville. He was playing at billiards with Lady Olivia
Montagu when he proposed, but she gave no definite answer. At last
she said, 'I think we must go into the drawing-room now; we have
been away long enough.'--'But what may I think, what may I say?' he
asked in agitation. 'Say that we have played our game, and that
you have won,' she answered.
"Yesterday, as soon as luncheon was over, Lady Tankerville and I
set off for a regular good sketching, in which she soon outstripped
me, for her drawings are first-rate. In some she has been helped by
Landseer, who is often here, and who has added beautiful misty
backgrounds, and put herds of deer into her fern.
"In the park is a beautiful old Peel tower, the home of the
Hepburns."
"_Chillingham, Sept. 10._--Lord Tankerville says, 'I do not see why
any one should ever go away from a place as long as he can make
himself happy there.' On that principle I should certainly never
leave Chillingham, which is the pleasantest place I ever was at. I
feel as if I had known Lord and Lady Tankerville all my life, his
kindness and her fun make one so entirely at home; and as for
Charlie, Georgie, and Peddie, there never were such little boys.
"Yesterday I was awakened by the servant saying that an order had
just come out to have breakfast ready in twenty minutes, as we were
all going to Dunstanborough for the day. So we hurried down, and as
soon as we had eaten our breakfast, set off in two little
basket-carriages across the park and up the steep hills to the
moors. At the top we found a larger carriage, packed with luncheon,
and with plenty of wraps, for the day was most unpromising; but
Lady Tankerville had quite made up her mind that it _should_ be
fine, and that we _would_ enjoy ourselves; and so we most
certainly did. The drive across the moorlands was charming, such
sweeps of purple heather, with blue mountain distance. Then, after
twelve miles, we descended through the cornland to Dunstanborough,
and walked through the sandhills covered with rye-grass and bloody
cranesbill to the castle, on a reef of basaltic rocks overhanging
the sea, which in one place roars up beneath in a strange cavern,
known as the Rumbling Churn. Lady Tankerville and I drew Queen
Margaret's Tower, where she was concealed after the battle of
Hexham, and then we picnicked and rambled about. Coming home we
told stories. A tremendous shower came on, and then the sky cleared
for a golden sunset over the mountains, and a splendid descent into
the old deer-park."
"_Bamborough Castle, Sept. 12._--Yesterday, at four, we set off on
a gipsy picnic from Chillingham--little 'Co' (Corisande) on a pony,
with the tea-things in panniers; Lady Tankerville, a fat Mr.
Athelstane from Portugal, Charlie, Georgie, Peddie, and I walking.
The pouring morning turned into a beautiful afternoon, and we had a
delightful scramble through the ferny glades of the park, and up
the steep craggy hills to the moorlands. Here Lady Tankerville went
off through the heather to look after her little girl, and I told
the three boys the story of Littlecot Hall, till the Shetland pony,
'Piccolomini,' arrived by the longer path. Then we lighted a fire
between two rocks, and Lady Tankerville and her children boiled a
kettle and cooked omelets over a fire of heather and fern, and
beautiful grapes, greengages, jam, and cakes unfitted us for the
eight-o'clock dinner. Then we came down like bushrangers, breaking
a path through the bracken, a great deal taller than ourselves, and
seeing in the distance the herds of wild white bulls. One or two
people came to dinner, but it was just the same simple merry meal
as usual.
"The Tankervilles sent me here to-day--twelve miles--in their
carriage."
"_Bamborough Castle, Sept._ 13.--It is very pleasant, as you will
imagine, to be here again, and I have much enjoyed the delightful
sands and the splendid green waves which came rolling in all
yesterday afternoon. It was a lovely evening, warm enough to enjoy
sitting out on the seat amongst the tall bent-grass, and to watch
Holy Island quite distinct in the sunset, with all the little fleet
of red-sailed herring-boats coming round from North Sunderland. Old
Mrs. Liddell sits as usual in her deep window and looks through the
telescope. Amelia wanders about with her black spaniel, and
Charlotte rides furiously on the sands when out, and talks
incessantly, though pleasantly, when in."
"_Bamborough, Sept. 16._--Yesterday I set off at 8 A.M. in a
dogcart for Holy Island, one of the castle cart-horses being
harnessed for the purpose, and the castle joiner going with me to
find old wood for repairs. It was a wild morning, but gleams of
light made the country picturesque, and Waren Bay looked very
striking, backed by its angular purple hills, and strewn with
pieces of wreck, over which sea-birds were swooping. Only one bit
of sand was visible when we reached the ford, but the horse plunged
gallantly in. Then we had a very rough crossing of a quarter of an
hour in a boat through the great green waves to the island, where
we landed on the yellow rocks. Close by, on the green hill, stand
the ruins, so well described in 'Marmion,' of St. Cuthbert's Abbey,
the old cathedral of Lindisfarne--rather small after descriptions,
but beautiful in colour, and its massive round pillars, with
patterns upon them, almost unique in England. Beyond, was the still
blue harbour filled with fishing-boats, and the shore was lined
with men and women packing herrings in barrels of salt. At one
corner of the bay rises the castle on a conical hill like a
miniature Mont St. Michel, and Bamborough and Dunstanborough are
blue in the hazy distance."
"_Sept. 17._--Stephen Denison is here (my cousin by his marriage
with Miss Fellowes[196]), and I have been with him to pay a long
visit to Grace Darling's[197] old father, an interesting man, with
as much information as it is possible for any one to have who has
lived since he was one year old on a desolate island rock tending a
lighthouse. He lent us his diary to read, which is very curious,
and an awful record of wrecks and misery."
[Illustration: ON ALLEN WATER, RIDLEY HALL.]
"_Ridley Hall, Sept. 19._--Cousin Susan and her old friend Miss
Coulson, with 'the boys' (the dogs), were waiting to welcome me in
the avenue, when I got out at the private station here. The house
is quite full of people, to whom it is amusing to help to do the
honours. Great is the autumnal beauty of the place. I have been
with Cousin Susan up the Birky Brae, and down by the Craggy Pass
and the Hawk's Nest--streams of sunlight falling upon the rocks and
river, and lighting up the yellow and red leaves which now mingle
with the green. The dogs walked with us to church to-day--Tarlie
was allowed to enter with the family, and Bloomer with the maids,
but Perette, Bianca, Fritz, and the Chowdy-Tow were sent back from
the door!
"We have had a remarkable visit from an old Miss Clayton, an
eccentric, strangely-attired, old, very old lady, who had travelled
all the way from Chesters, on North Tyne, to see Staward Peel, and
then had rambled on foot hither down the rocks by the Allen. Both
she and her friend had fallen into the river in crossing the
stepping-stones above the wood, and arrived, carrying a large
reticule basket, and dripping with wet and mud, about five o'clock;
yet, as soon as she had been dried and fed, she insisted on setting
off again on foot to visit Haltwhistle and Bellister Castle before
going home at night!"
"_Streatlam Castle, Sept. 25._--I came with Cousin Susan to this
curious place, to which our cousin Mr. Bowes[198] has welcomed us
very cordially. The house is in a hollow--an enormous building of
the last century, enclosing a mediæval castle. I sleep in the
ghost-room, looking most grim and weird from its black oak with red
hangings, and containing a tall bed with a red canopy. Here the
only existing local Handbook says that 'the unfortunate Mary Queen
of Scots expired in captivity.' I am afraid the next Handbook will
be obliged to confess that she was beheaded at Fotheringay.
"The long galleries are full of family portraits--Hyltons,
Blakistons, and Bowes's--one of whom, Miss Bowes of Streatlam, was
Mrs. John Knox! More interesting to me is the great picture of
Mary Eleanor, the unhappy Countess of Strathmore,[199] walking in
the gardens of Pauls-Walden. This house was the scene of her most
terrible sufferings."
"_Streatlam Castle, Sept. 27._--This is the oddest house I ever was
in! Everything is arranged for you, from the moment you get up till
the moment you go to bed, and you are never allowed to deviate from
the rules laid down: I even write this in time stolen from the
half-hour for dressing. We are called at eight, and at ten march in
to breakfast with the same procession as at dinner, only at this
meal 'Madame Bowes' does not appear, for she is then reclining in a
bath of coal-black acid, which 'refreshes her system,' but leaves
her nails _black_. After breakfast we are all set down to
employments appointed for the morning. At twelve Madame appears,
having painted the under-lids of her jet-black eyes with
belladonna. At two the bell rings for luncheon, and we are fetched
if not punctual to an instant. At three we are all sent out driving
(the coachman having exact orders where to take us) immense drives
(twenty-four miles to-day) in an open barouche and pair. At seven
we dine in great splendour, and afterwards we sit in the oak
drawing-room and talk about our ancestors!
"The town of Barnard Castle is most picturesque, with a ruined
castle of the Baliols. Dickens, in early life, used frequently to
come down and stay there with some young artist friends of his. The
idea of 'Humphrey's Clock' first sprung from Humphrey, the
watchmaker in the town, and the picture in the beginning of the
book is of the clock over the door of his shop. While at Barnard
Castle, Dickens heard of the school at Bowes which he afterwards
worked up as Dotheboys Hall. Many of these schools, at £15 and £20
a year, existed at that time in the neighbourhood, and were
principally used for the sons of London tradesmen, who, provided
their sons got a moderate education, cared little or nothing what
became of them in the meantime. Dickens went over to see the school
at Bowes, and was carefully shown over it, for they mistook him for
a parent coming to survey it, with a view of sending his son there.
Afterwards the school was totally ruined. At one of Mr. Bowes's
elections, the Nicholas Nickleby or former usher of the school, who
was then in want of a place, wrote to him to say in what poverty he
was. He 'had formerly been living with Mr. Shawe at Bowes, and they
had been happy and prosperous, when Mr. Dickens's misguided volume,
sweeping like a whirlwind over the schools of the North, caused Mr.
Shawe to become a victim to paralysis, and brought Mrs. Shawe to an
untimely grave.'"
_"Morpeth Rectory, Oct. 8._--My present host is Mr. Francis Grey,
an old likeness of his nephew, Charlie Wood: his wife, _née_ Lady
Elizabeth Howard, is as sweet-looking as she is charming.
"Friday morning was pouring, with a thick sea-fog hiding the
country. Nevertheless Mr. Grey did not think it too bad for a long
expedition, and drove me in his little pony-carriage a dreary
twelve miles to Wallington, where we arrived about half-past
twelve. Wallington is a huge house of the elder branch of the
Trevelyans, represented in the North by Sir Walter, who is at the
head of teetotallers and Low Churchmen, while his wife is a great
friend of Ruskin, Rossetti, and all the Pre-Raphaelites. It is like
a French château, with tall roofs and chimneys, enclosing a hall,
once a court, which Lady Trevelyan and her artists have covered in
and painted with beautiful fresco studies of Northumbrian birds,
flowers, and insects, while the intervening spaces are filled with
a series of large pictures of the chief events in Northumbrian
history--very curious indeed.
"Lady Trevelyan[200] is a little, bright, black-eyed woman, who was
charmed to see us, and more to see my drawings, which Mr. Grey had
brought. Any good opinion of me, however, which they led her to
entertain was quelched by my want of admiration for some wretched
little scraps by Ruskin--very scratchy sketches, after his manner.
After luncheon, which was as peculiar as everything else (Lady
Trevelyan and her artists feeding solely on artichokes and
cauliflowers), we went to the upper galleries to look at more
pictures.
"Yesterday morning we went to the fine old Morpeth Church, which
has been 'restored,' one of the stained windows having been put in
by a poor old woman in the village. We saw her afterwards in her
garden gathering cabbages, and I told her I had seen the window.
'Eh, hinnie,' she said, 'and ain't it bonnie? and I be going to
case it i' marble afore I dee, to mak it bonnier.' And then she
said, 'And noo come ben, hinnie, my dear, and see me hoose;' and
she showed me her cottage.
"The Greys are one of the families who have a sort of language of
their own. A bad cold the Greys always call a _Shelley_, because of
a famous cold old Lady Shelley had when she came to stay with them.
This was the Lady Shelley who, when her carriage, full of people,
upset, and there was a great entanglement of legs, called out to
the footman, who came to extricate them, 'John, the black ones are
mine--the black ones are mine.'"
"_Warkworth, Oct. 6._--It is very pleasant being here with my kind
Clutterbuck cousins,[201] and this old-fashioned house, though
small, is most refined and comfortable, with its pervading smell of
roseleaves and lavender."
"_The Rock, Alnwick, Oct. 10._--I am now staying with the father of
a college friend, Charles Bosanquet, in a pleasant old-fashioned
house, an enlarged 'Peel tower.' The family are very united, genial
and kind; are friends of the Arnolds, Gaskells, &c., and related to
Mr. Erskine of Linlathen. I like Charlie Bosanquet so much in his
own home, that I am quite ashamed of not having tried to cultivate
him more when at Oxford. Yesterday he drove me to Craster Tower,
the old castellated house of the Crasters, a very ancient
Northumbrian family, now well represented by the old Squire and his
wife, their three tall daughters, and seven stalwart sons, one of
whom was at college with me. After luncheon we went over the tower,
its vaulted cellars and thickly walled rooms, and then walked to
the wild heights of Dunstanborough, with its ruins overhanging the
waves, and large white gulls floating up from the 'caverned shore'
of 'Marmion.' Then we went to Embleton to see one of the curious
fortified rectories of the North--fortified against the Scots."
"_Ford Castle, Oct. 15._--I enjoyed my visit at Rock increasingly,
and we made interesting excursions to Falloden and Howick. At the
former we dined with Sir George and Lady Grey. On Sunday the
beautiful little Norman chapel at Rock was filled from end to end
with the whole population of the village, all responding, all
singing, and forty-three (in that tiny place) remaining to the
Sacrament. Mrs. Bosanquet says they are truly a God-fearing people.
They live (as all over Northumbria) bound by the year like serfs,
close around the large farms. At Rock the people seem perfectly
devoted to the Bosanquets, who are certainly quite devoted to them.
'My Missis herself can't feel it more than I do,' said the
gamekeeper when he heard the sailor son was coming home.
"Yesterday morning I set off directly after breakfast with Charles
Bosanquet, in the sociable, on a long expedition. It was a really
lovely day, and the drive over the wild moorlands, with the pink
and blue Cheviot distances, was quite beautiful. At one we reached
Hedgeley, where we had been asked to luncheon at the fine old house
of the Carrs, looking up a mountain ravine, but a soldier-son first
took us up to Crawley Tower, a neighbouring ruined Peel. At three
we came on to Roddam, where an uncle and aunt of Charlie
Bosanquet's live--a beautiful place, with a terraced garden almost
overhanging the moorlands, and a dene stretching up into the
Cheviots. I had ordered a gig to meet me and take me to Ford, where
I arrived about half-past six, seeming to be driving into a sort of
gothic castle of Otranto, as we passed under the portcullis in the
bright moonlight. I found Lady Waterford sitting with her charming
old mother, Lady Stuart de Rothesay.... Her drawings are
indescribably lovely, and her singing most beautiful and pathetic.
Several people appeared at dinner, amongst them Lord Waterford (the
brother-in-law), who sat at the end of the table, a jovial
white-headed young-old man."
"_Ford Castle, Oct. 17._--Being here has been most pleasant, there
is so much to do and see both indoors and out. Lady Waterford is
perfectly charming.... She is now occupied in putting the whole
architecture of the castle back two centuries. Painting is her
great employment, and all evening she makes studies for larger
drawings, which she works upon in the mornings. She is going to
make a 'Marmion gallery' in the castle to illustrate the poem.
[Illustration: FORD CASTLE, THE TERRACE.]
"Yesterday we went to Palinsburn, where Paulinus baptized, and on
to Branxton to see Mr. Jones, who is the great authority about the
battle of Flodden, which he described to us till all the dull
ploughed fields seemed alive with heroes and armies. He is coming
to-night to talk about it again, for Flodden seems to be the great
topic here, the windows of the castle looking out upon the
battle-field. The position of the different armies and the site of
Sybil's Well are discussed ten times a day, and Lady Waterford
herself is still sufficiently a stranger here to be full of her
first interest about it.
"To-day the pony-carriage took me part of the way to the Rowting
Lynn, a curious cleft and waterfall in the moorland, with a
'Written Rock,' supposed to have been the work of ancient Britons.
Thence I walked by a wild path along the hills to Nesbitt, where I
had heard that there was a chapel of St. Cuthbert, of which I found
no vestiges, and on to Doddington, where there is a Border castle.
If you look on the map, you will see that this was doing a great
deal, and I was very glad to get back at five to hot tea and a talk
with Lady Stuart."
"_Roddam, Oct. 20._--I had not promised to return here, and I was
received almost rapturously, so welcome is any stray guest in this
desolate place.... Sunday here was a curious contrast to that at
Rock, for though there is a population of nine hundred, the Rector
waited for us to begin afternoon service, as no one else came!"
"_Roddam, Oct. 22._--Yesterday was terribly dark and cold, but we
went a long expedition across the moorland to the Raven's Burn, a
wild tumbling rivulet in a chaos of grey rocks, and thence by the
farm of 'Blaw Weary'--picturesquely perched upon rocks which were
covered with white goats, like a bit of Roman Campagna--to the
'Raven's Rock' in a rugged cleft of the moorland. To-day I have
been to Linhope Spout, a waterfall at the end of a gorge, and
to-morrow we go to the Three Stone Burn, where there are Druidical
remains."
"_Ripley Castle, Yorkshire, Oct. 25._--Lady Ingilby (who is sister
of Mr. Bosanquet of Rock) kindly pressed my coming here on my way
south, and here I am. It is a fine old castle added to, about four
miles from Harrogate, with beautiful gardens and a lovely
neighbourhood. At the head of the stairs is the portrait of a Nun,
who is said to descend from her picture at night and tap at the
bedroom doors, when, if any one says, 'Come in'--in she comes.
Eugene Aram was the gardener here, and the Ingilbys have all his
letters. Cromwell insisted on taking the castle, but the then Lady
Ingilby, a staunch Royalist known as 'Trooper Jane,' would not let
him have either food or rest there, and sat opposite him all the
night through with two loaded pistols in her girdle."
"_Hickledon Hall, Yorkshire, Oct. 27._--Sir Charles Wood's carriage
was waiting at Doncaster for me and a very nice young Seymour.[202]
Charlie seems delighted to have me here, and I think Sir Charles
quite charming, not a bit as if he had the government of all India
upon his shoulders."
Many of the visits which I paid in 1861 laid the foundation of after
friendships, but chiefly that to Ford, whither I went again and again
afterwards, and where I have passed some of the happiest days of my
life. Lord and Lady Tankerville, after a few years, passed out of my
horizon--I never have quite known how or why. The Liddells, Mrs.
Clutterbuck and her daughters, and the saintly Lady Ingilby, added much
to my enjoyment for several years. This was especially happy for me, as
I see by my journals of the time how in the following winter I felt more
than ever depressed by the constant snubbing I received from different
members of my immediate family. Such snubs are trifling in themselves,
but, like constant dropping of water in one place, they wear away the
spirit at last. All this time my sister was bravely exerting herself in
cheering her mother and aunt, as well as in a clever (and eventually
successful) scheme for the improvement of their fortunes. Miss Hughan
(afterwards Lady John Manners) showed her at this time an unwearied
kindness which I can never forget.
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_Holmhurst, Dec. 18, 1861._--I went to-day to see three ladies
take the veil in the convent at Hastings. I had to get up in the
cold early morning and be in the chapel by half-past eight. At nine
the Bishop of Brighton arrived in a gold robe and mitre, and took
his place with his back to the altar, leaning against it. Then a
side door opened, and a procession came in singing--some nuns, and
the three brides of Christ dressed in white watered silk, lace
veils, and orange flowers. There were six little bridesmaids also
in white veils and wreaths. The brides looked ghastly livid, and
one of them would have fallen if a nun had not rushed forward to
support her. The Bishop then made them an address, the point of
which was that they were not going into a convent for their own
benefit or that of the world, but for 'the consolation of
Christ'--_that_ was to be their work and duty through life--'the
consolation of Christ for the sins of the world.' Then he fixed his
eyes upon them like a basilisk and cried, 'Venite.' They tottered,
quivered, but scarcely moved; again in a louder voice he called
'Venite;' they trembled and advanced a few steps. Once more
'VENITE,' and they all three fell down prostrate at his feet.
"Then the most solemn music was played, the most agonising wailing
dirges were sung, and the nuns coming behind with a great black
pall, spread it over the prostrate figures. It was as if they were
dead. The bridesmaids strewed flowers, rosemary and laurestinus, as
they sang out of their books: the spectators cried and sobbed till
they were almost hysterical; but nothing was to be seen but the
sunlight streaming in upon a great black pall.
"Then all the saints of the monastic orders were invoked and
responded to, and then the nuns closed in, so that no one could see
how the three novices were hurried away, only to reappear in their
nun's dress. Then they received the Sacrament.
"It is impossible to say how well this little Holmhurst seems
suited to the mother. There is still a lingering of autumnal leaves
and flowers, and the grey castle rises against a gleaming sea.
Thinking of her, and of our home view as it is now, one cannot help
recalling Keble's lines:--
'How quiet shows the woodland scene,
Each flower and tree, its duty done,
Reposing in decay serene,
Like weary men when age is won,
Such calm old age as conscience pure
And self-commanding heart ensure,
Waiting their summons to the sky,
Content to live, but not afraid to die.'"
[Illustration: VIEW FROM HOLMHURST.]
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO HOLMHURST: "HUZ AND BUZ."]