"_Holmhurst, March 23, 1862._--In March last year dear Uncle
Penrhyn died. Aunt Kitty was with him, and felt it deeply. Now she
also, on the same day of the same week, the first anniversary of
his death, has passed away from us--and oh! what a blank she has
left! She was long our chief link with all the interest of the
outside world, writing almost daily, and for years keeping a little
slate always hanging to her davenport, on which, as each visitor
went out, she noted down, from their conversation, anything she
thought my mother might like to hear.
"Five weeks ago Arthur went to join the Prince of Wales at
Alexandria. He was very unwilling to leave his mother, but he took
the appointment by her especial request, and she was delighted with
it. He took leave of her in the early morning, receiving farewells
and blessings as she lay on the same bed, from whence she was
unable afterwards to speak one word to her other children. When he
went, my mother was very ill with bronchitis. Aunt Kitty also
caught it, but wrote frequently, saying that 'her illness did not
signify, she was only anxious about my mother.' It did signify,
however. She became rapidly weaker. Congestion of the lungs
followed, and she gradually sank. The Vaughans were sent for, and
Mary was with her. We were ready to have gone at any moment, if she
had been the least bit better, but she would not have been able to
have spoken to the mother, perhaps not have known her, so that I am
thankful for my sweet mother's sake that she should have been here
in her quiet peaceful home.
"There were none of the ordinary features of an illness. Aunt Kitty
suffered no pain at all: it was a mere passing out of one gentle
sleep into another, till the end.
"Kate wrote--'What a solemn hour was that when we were sitting in
silence round her bed, watching the gradual cessation of
breathing--the gradual but sure approach of the end! Not a sound
was heard but the sad wailing of the wind as her soul was passing
away. She lay quite still: you would hardly have known who it was,
the expression was so changed--Oh no, you would never have known it
was the dear, dear face we had loved so fondly. And then, when all
ceased, and there was stillness, and we thought it had been the
last breath, came a deep sigh, then a pause--then a succession of
deep sighs at long intervals, and it was only when no more came
that we knew she was gone. Charles then knelt down and prayed for
us, "especially for our dear absent brother, that he might be
comforted"--and then we rose up and took our last look of that
revered countenance.'
"When people are dead, how they are glorified in one's mind! I was
almost as much grieved as my mother herself, and I also felt a
desolation. Yet, on looking back, how few words of tenderness can I
remember receiving from Aunt Kitty--some marigolds picked for me in
the palace garden when I was ill at Norwich--a few acknowledgments
of my later devotion to my mother in illness--an occasional
interest in my drawing: this is almost all. What really makes it a
personal sorrow is, that in the recollection of my oppressed and
desolate boyhood, the figure of Aunt Kitty always looms forth as
that of _Justice_. She was invariably just. Whatever others might
say, she never allowed herself to be biassed against me, or indeed
against any one else, contrary to her own convictions.
"I went with Mary and Kate to the funeral in Alderley churchyard.
We all assembled there in the inner school-room, close to the
Rectory, which had been the home of my aunt's happiest days, in the
centre of which lay the coffin covered with a pall, but garlanded
with long green wreaths, while bunches of snowdrops and white
crocuses fell tenderly over the sides. 'I know that my Redeemer
liveth' was sung as we passed out of the church to the churchyard,
where it poured with rain. The crowds of poor people present,
however, liked this, for 'blessed,' they said, 'is the corpse that
the rain falls on.'"
[Illustration: ALDERLEY CHURCH AND RECTORY.]
During this sad winter it was a great pleasure to us to have our
faithful old friend the Baroness von Bunsen at St. Leonards, with two of
her daughters--Frances and Matilda. She had been near my mother at the
time of her greatest sorrow at Rome, and her society was very congenial
at this time. We were quite hoping that she would have made St.
Leonards her permanent winter-home, when she was recalled to live in
Germany by the death of the darling daughter of her heart--Theodora von
Ungern-Sternberg--soon after giving birth, at Carlsruhe, to her fifth
child.
In this winter I went to stay at Hurstmonceaux Rectory with Dr.
Wellesley, who was never fitted to be a country clergyman, but who never
failed to be the most agreeable of hosts and of men. In person he was
very like the Duke of Wellington, with black eyes, shaggy eyebrows, and
snow-white hair. His courtesy and kindness were unfailing, especially to
women, be their rank what it might. A perfect linguist, he had the most
extraordinary power of imitating Italians in their own peculiar
dialects. Most diverting was his account of a sermon which he heard
preached in the Coliseum. I can only give the words--the tone, the
gestures are required to give it life. It was on the day on which the
old Duke of Torlonia died. He had been the great enemy of the monks and
nuns, and of course they hated him. On that day, being a Friday, the
Confraternità della Misericordia met, as usual, at four o'clock, in SS.
Cosmo and Damiano in the Forum, and went chanting in procession to the
Coliseum. Those who remember those days will recall in imagination the
strong nasal twang of "Sant' Bartolome, ora pro nobis; Santa Agata, ora
pro nobis; Sant' Silvestro, ora pro nobis," &c. Arrived at the Coliseum,
the monk ascended the pulpit, and began in the familiar style of those
days, in which sermons were usually opened with "How do you do?" and
some remarks about the weather.
"Buon giorno, cari fratelli miei. Buon giorno, care sorelle--come
state tutti? State bene? Oh, mi fa piacere, mi fa molto piacere! Fa
bell' tempo stasera, non e vero? un tempo piacevole--cielo sereno.
Oh ma piacevole di molto!
"Ebbene, cari fratelli miei--Ebbene, care sorelle--sapete cosa c' è
di nuovo--sapete che cos' è successo stammattina in città? Non lo
sapete--maraviglia! Oh, non vi disturbate--nò--nò--nò--non vi
disturbate affatto--ve lo dirò, io ve lo spieghierò tutto.
"Stammattina stessa in città è morto qualcheduno. Fu un uomo--un
uomo ben inteso--ma che specie d' uomo? Fu un uomo grande--fu un
uomo ricco--fu un uomo potente--fu un uomo grandissimo,
ricchissimo, potentissimo, magnificentissimo, ma morì!--morì, cari
fratelli miei, quell' uomo così grande, così ricco, così
potente--morì!--così passiamo tutti--così finisce il
mondo--moriamo.
"E che fu quell' uomo così importante che è morto? Fu un Duca! un
Duca, cari fratelli miei! E, quando morì, cosa fece? È montato
sopra, montato sopra su alla porta del Paradiso, dove sta San
Pietro, colle sue sante chiavi. Picchia il Duca.... 'Chi è là,'
disse San Pietro. 'Il Duca di Torlonia!'--'Ah, il Duca di
Torlonia,' disse San Pietro, 'quel nome è ben conosciuto, ben
conosciuto davvero.' Quindi si voltò San Pietro all' angelo custode
che teneva il libro della vita, e disse, 'Angelo mio, cercate un pò
se trovate quel nome del Duca di Torlonia.' Dunque l'angelo cercò,
cercò con tanta pena, con tanta inquietudine, voltò tante pagine in
quel libro così grande della vita, ma disse infine, 'Caro Signor
San Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto, ma quel nome lì non mi riesce
di trovarlo.'
"Allora si voltò San Pietro, e disse, 'Caro Signor Duca mio, mi
rincresce tanto, ma il suo nome non si trova nel libro della vita.'
Rise il Duca, e disse, 'Ma che sciocchezza! cercate poi il titolo
minore, cercate pure il titolo maggiore della famiglia, cercate il
Principe di Bracciano, e lo troverete sicuramente.' Dunque l'angelo
cercò di nuovo, cercò con sollecitudine, voltò tante tante pagine
in quel libro così immenso--ma alla fine disse, 'Caro Signor San
Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto--ma quei nomi non si trovan qui, nè
l'uno, nè l'altro.' Allora disse San Pietro, 'Mi dispiace tanto,
Signor Duca mio--ma bisogna scendere più giù--bisogna scendere più
giù.'
"Scese dunque il Duca--poco contento--anzi mortificato di
molto--scese giù alla porta del Purgatorio. Picchia il Duca. 'Chi è
là,' disse il guardiano. 'Il Duca di Torlonia' (_piano_). 'Ah, il
Duca di Torlonia,' disse il guardiano. 'Anche qui, quel nome è ben
conosciuto, molto ben conosciuto--ma bisogna scendere più
giù--bisogna scendere più giù.'
"Scese dunque il Duca. Ahimè! quant' era miserabile! come gridava,
quanto piangeva, ma--gridando, piangendo--scendeva--scendeva
giù--alla porta dell' Inferno, dove sta il Diavolo. Picchia il
Duca. 'Chi è là,' disse il Diavolo. 'Il Duca di Torlonia'
(_pianissimo_). 'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse il Diavolo, 'oh
siete il benvenuto, entrate qui, caro amico mio, oh quanto tempo
siete aspettato, entrate qui, e restate per sempre.' Ecco cari
fratelli miei, ecco care sorelle, quel ch' è successò quest' oggi,
stammattina, in città, a quel povero Duca di Torloni-a!" &c.
I narrated this story afterwards to Mrs. F. Dawkins and her daughters,
and they told me that some friends of theirs were at Rome on August 10,
St. Laurence's Day--which fell on a Friday that year--and St. Laurence,
as all know, was roasted on a gridiron. That day, the monk began as
usual--
"Buon giorno, cari fratelli miei--buon giorno, care sorelle (sniff,
sniff, sniff)--ma sento qualche cosa (sniff, sniff)--che cosa sento
io (sniff)--sento un odore. E l'odore de che? (sniff, sniff,
sniff)--è l'odore di carne (sniff). Chi specie di carne può essere?
E l'odore di carne bollito? (sniff). Nò, nò, nò, non e bollito
(sniff, sniff, sniff). Ah, lo vedo, è l'odore di carne arrosto, è
l'odore di carne arrostito--è l'odore d'un santo arrostito--è
l'odore di San Lorenzo."
Lady Marian Alford used to tell a similar story. Lord Brownlow was at S.
Agostino, when a monk, who was walking about, preaching, in the great
pulpit there, said, "Che odore sento io? E l'odore di montone?--nò! È
l'odore di presciutto?--nò! È l'odore delle anime che friggono nell'
inferno."
I cannot remember whether it was in this or the preceding winter that I
spent an evening with Dr. Lushington, the famous judge, who, having been
born in the beginning of 1782, and preserving evergreen all the
recollections of his long life, was one of the most delightful of men. I
remember his describing how all the places ending in _s_ in England take
their names from people who have lived there. Leeds is so called from an
old person called Leed or Lloyd, of whom the great city is now the only
memorial. Levens is from Leofwin.
He said that "the Duchesse d'Angoulême never forgave the Court of Rome
for not canonising her father." She always regarded Louis XVI. as a
saint. Of her mother she spoke with less confidence--"she had faults,"
she said, "but they were terribly expiated."
Dr. Lushington said that when he was a very little child travelling
alone with his father, the carriage stopped near a public-house, and
the footman and coachman, with the license of those times, went in to
drink. He was himself asleep in the corner of the carriage, when a
pistol, directed at his father, came crashing in at the window, with a
demand for money. Dr. Lushington distinctly remembered his father
drawing out a long green silk purse, in which were one hundred guineas,
and deliberately counting out twelve guineas into the man's hand, and
saying, "There, take that, that is enough." "Well," said the man, "but I
must have your watch."--"No," said his father, "it is an old family
watch, and I cannot give it to you." Upon this the man said, "Well, God
bless you," and went away. Immediately after the servants came out of
the inn, and hearing what had happened, said they were armed, they could
pursue the highwayman, and they could easily take him. "No," said Dr.
Lushington's father, "let him go. The man God-blessed _me_, and I'll be
damned if I hang _him_."
At this time I took the opportunity of persuading Dr. Lushington to tell
me himself the most celebrated of his stories, which I had already heard
from his son Godfrey and from Arthur Stanley. I wrote it down at the
time, and here it is, in the very words of the old judge.
"There was once, within my memory, an old gentleman who lived in
Kent, and whose name, for very obvious reasons, I cannot mention,
but he lived in _Kent_. He was a very remarkable old man, and
chiefly because in the whole course of his very, very long
life--for he was extremely old--he had never been known on any
single occasion to want presence of mind; he had always done
exactly the right thing, and he had always said exactly the right
word, at exactly the right moment. The old gentleman lived alone.
That is to say, he had never married, and he had no brother or
sister or other relation living with him, but he had a very old
housekeeper, a very old butler, a very old gardener--in fact, all
the old-fashioned retinue of a very old-fashioned household, and,
bound together by mutual respect and affection, the household was a
very harmonious one.
"Now I must describe what the old gentleman's house was like.
Upstairs, there was a very long passage, which ended in a blank
wall. At the end of the passage, on the left, was a dressing-room,
and on the right was a bedroom, the room in which the old gentleman
himself slept. The bedroom was entered by a very heavy swing-door,
which could only be opened from the inside--that is to say, the old
gentleman carried the key upon his watch-chain, and let himself in
and out. When he wished housemaids or other persons to go in or
out, he left the door open; but when he was inside and shut the
door, no one could come in unless he opened the door to them.
People may say 'it was very eccentric;' it _was_ very eccentric:
but the old gentleman was very peculiar; it was the way he chose
to live: at any rate, it was a fact. Through the bedroom, opposite
the door into the passage, was another door which led into the
plate-room. This was also a very heavy swing-door, which could only
be opened from the _outside_, and very often in summer the old
gentleman would set it open at night, because he thought it gave
more air to the bedroom. Everything depends upon your attending to
and understanding the geography of these rooms. You see they were
all _en suite_ cross-wise. If you stood in the plate-room, and all
the doors were open, you would see the dressing-room, and _vice
versâ_.
"One morning when the old gentleman came down to breakfast, he
found upon his plate a note. He opened it, and it contained these
words--'Beware, you are in the hands of thieves and robbers.' He
was very much surprised, but he had such presence of mind that he
threw the note into the fire and went on buttering his toast,
having his breakfast. Inwardly he kept a sharp look-out upon all
that was going on. But there was nothing special going on whatever.
It was very hot summer weather; the old gardener was mowing the
lawn, the old housekeeper cooked the dinner, the old butler brought
it in: no, there was nothing whatever especial going on.
"That night, when the old gentleman went to bed, he took particular
care to examine his room, and to see that his heavy swing-door was
well fastened, so that no one could come in to disturb him. And
when he had done this, he went to bed and fell asleep, and slept
very well till the next morning, for nothing happened, nothing
whatever.
"When the next morning came, he rang his bell for his hot water as
usual, but nobody came. He rang, and rang, and rang again, but
still nobody came. At last he opened his bedroom door, and went out
down the passage to the head of the staircase, and called to the
butler over the banisters. The butler answered. 'Why did you not
attend to my bell?' said the old gentleman. 'Because no bell rang,'
answered the butler. 'Oh, but I have rung very often,' said the old
gentleman; 'go downstairs again, and I will pull the bell again;
watch if it rings.' So the butler went downstairs, and the old man
pulled the bell, but no bell rang. 'Then,' said the old gentleman,
'you must send for the bell-hanger at once; one cannot live with
broken bells; that sort of thing cannot be allowed to go on in the
house,'--and he dressed and went down to breakfast.
"While he was eating his breakfast, the old gentleman found he had
forgotten his pocket-handkerchief, and went up to his room to get
it. And such was the promptitude of that old-fashioned household,
that the village being close to the house, and the bell-hanger
living in the village, the master's orders had already been obeyed,
and the bell-hanger was already in the room, standing on a ladder,
arranging the new wire of the bell. In old-fashioned houses, you
know, the bell wires come through the wall and go round the top of
the room, so that you can see them, and so it was in this house in
Kent. You do not generally perhaps observe how many wires there are
in your room, but it so happened that, as he lay in bed, the old
gentleman had observed those in his, and there were three wires.
Now he looked, and there were four wires. Yes, there was no doubt
there were four wires going round his room. '_Now_,' he said,
'_now_ I know exactly what is going to happen,' but he gave no
outward sign of having discovered anything, and he went down and
finished his breakfast.
"All that day everything went on as usual. It was a dreadfully hot
day in July--very sultry indeed. The old gentleman was subject to
bad nervous headaches, and in the afternoon he pretended to be not
quite so well. When dinner-time came, he was very suffering indeed.
He spoke of it to the butler. He said, 'It is only one of my usual
attacks; I have no doubt it is the weather. I shall be better
to-morrow; but I will go to bed early.' And towards half-past nine
he went upstairs. He left the door of the bedroom ajar, so that any
one could come in; he set the door of the plate-room wide open, for
the sake of more air to the bedroom, and he went to bed. When he
was in bed, he rang the bell, the new bell that the bell-hanger had
put up that morning. The butler came. The old gentleman gave some
orders about horses for the next day, and then said, 'Do not
disturb me in the morning. I had better sleep off my headache; I
will ring when I want to get up. You can draw the curtains round
the bed, and then shut the door.' So the butler drew the curtains
round the bed, and went out, shutting the door after him.
"As soon as the old gentleman heard the footsteps of the butler die
away down the passage, he dressed himself completely from head to
foot; he took two loaded pistols and a blunderbuss. He stealthily
opened the heavy swing-door of the bedroom. He let himself out
into the dark passage. He shut to the bedroom door behind him. It
fastened with a click; he could not go in himself any more, and he
crossed the passage, and stood in the dark dressing-room with the
door open.
"It was still very early, and eleven o'clock came, and nothing
happened; and twelve came and nothing happened; and one o'clock
came and nothing happened. And the old gentleman--for he was
already very old--began to feel very much exhausted, and he began
to say to himself, 'Perhaps after all I was wrong! Perhaps after
all it is a hallucination; but I will wait till two o'clock.'
"At half-past one o'clock there was a sound of stealthy footsteps
down the passage, and three figures passed in front of him and
stood opposite the bedroom door. They were so near that he could
have shot them every one; but he said to himself, 'No, I'll wait,
I'll wait and see what is going to happen.' And as he waited, the
light from the dark lantern which the first man carried fell upon
their faces, and he recognised them. And the first figure was the
butler, and the second figure was the bell-hanger, and the third
figure, from having been long a magistrate on a London bench, he
recognised as the most notorious ruffian of a well-known London
gang. He heard the ruffian say to the butler, 'I say, it's no use
mincing this kind of thing: no use doing this kind of thing by
halves: better put him out of the way at once, and go on to the
plate afterwards.'--'Oh no,' said the butler, 'he has been a good
master to me; I'll never consent to that. Take all he has; he'll
never wake, not he; but you can't do him any harm; I'll never
consent to that.' And they wrangled about it for some time, but at
last the butler seemed to get the better, and the ruffian had to
consent to his terms.
"Then exactly what the old gentleman had expected happened. The
butler, standing on tiptoe, could just reach the four wires of the
bells, which came through into the low passage above the bedroom
door. As the butler reached the lowest of the wires, and by leaning
his weight upon it, pulled it downwards, it was seen that the wire
was connected with the bolt of the door on the inside; the bolt
rolled up, and the heavy swing-door of the bedroom, of which the
hinges were well oiled for the occasion, rolled open. 'There,' said
the butler, as they passed into the room, 'master always sleeps
like that. Curtains drawn all round the bed. He'll not hear
anything, not he.' And they all passed in through the open door of
the plate-room. The old man waited till they were entirely occupied
with the plate-chest, and then he slipped off his slippers, and,
with a hop, skip, and a jump, he darted across the room, and--bang!
they were all caught in a trap. He banged to the heavy swing-door
of the plate-room, which could only be opened from the outside.
"Having done that--people may believe it or not, but I maintain
that it is true--the old man had such presence of mind, that he
undressed, went to bed, and slept soundly till the next morning.
Even if this were not so, till the next morning he did not send for
the police, and the consequence was that when he did send for the
police, and the door was opened, the following horrible scene
revealed itself: The ruffian had tried to make a way of escape
through the roof, had stuck fast, and was dreadfully mangled in the
attempt: the bell-hanger had hung himself from the ceiling: and the
butler was a drivelling idiot in the corner, from the horror of the
night he had gone through."
Dr. Lushington had been employed in the inquiry which ensued, and had
personal knowledge of all he narrated. I must record one more story
which he told me--in his words:--
"I had a great-uncle, and as I am a very old man, you may imagine
that my great-uncle was alive a very long time ago. He was a very
eccentric man, and his peculiar hobby when in London was to go
about to dine at all sorts of odd places of entertainment, to amuse
himself with the odd characters he fell in with. One day he was
dining at a tavern near St. Bride's in Fleet Street, and at the
table opposite to him sat a man who interested him exceedingly, who
was unusually amusing, and quaint, and agreeable. At the end of
dinner the stranger said, 'Perhaps, sir, you are not aware that you
have been dining with a notorious highwayman?'--'No, indeed,' said
my great-uncle, not the least discomposed. 'What an unexpected
pleasure! But I am quite sure, sir, that you cannot always have
been a highwayman, and that your story must be a very remarkable
one. Can I not persuade you to do me the honour of telling it to
me?'--'Well,' said the stranger, 'we have had a very pleasant
dinner, and I like your acquaintance, and I don't mind if I do
tell you my story. You are quite right in thinking that I was in
early life as free as you are, or indeed, for that matter, as I
myself am now. But one day, as I was riding over Hounslow Heath, I
was surrounded by highwaymen. They dragged me from my horse, and
then said, "We don't want your money, and we don't want your life,
but we want _you_, and you we must have. A great many of us have
been taken, and we want recruits; you must go with us." I protested
in vain; I said it was impossible I could go with them; I was a
respectable member of society, it was quite impossible that I could
become a highwayman. "Then," they said, "you must die; you cannot
be allowed to live, to go out into the world, and tell what has
been proposed to you." I was in a terrible strait, and eventually I
was obliged to promise to go with them. I was obliged to promise,
but I made such difficulties that I was able to exact two
conditions. One was that at the end of seven years I should be
allowed to go free, and that I should never be recognised or taken
by them again. The other was that in the seven years I was with
them, no deed of actual cruelty should ever be committed in my
presence.
"'So I rode with the highwaymen, and many strange things happened.
I saw many people robbed and pillaged, and I helped to rob and
pillage them, but no deed of actual cruelty was ever committed in
my presence. One day, after I had been with the band four years, we
were riding in Windsor Forest. I saw a carriage approaching down
the long avenue. It was sure to have ladies in it; there was likely
to be a disagreeable scene; it was not necessary that I should be
present, so I lingered behind in the forest. Presently, however, I
was roused by so dreadful a scream from the carriage that I could
no longer resist riding forward, and I spurred on my horse. In the
carriage sat a lady, magnificently dressed, evidently just come
from Windsor Castle, and the highwaymen had torn the bracelets from
her arms and the necklace from her neck, and were just about to cut
off her little finger, because there was a very valuable diamond
ring upon it, which they could not otherwise get off. The lady
implored me to have pity upon her, to intercede for her, and I did.
I represented that the highwaymen had made me a solemn promise that
no deed of personal cruelty should ever be committed in my
presence, that on that condition only I was with them, and I called
upon them to keep their promise. They disputed and were very angry,
but eventually they gave in, and rode off with the rest of their
booty, leaving me alone with the lady.
"'The lady then said she owed me everything. She certainly owed me
her life, for she was quite sure that she should never, never, have
survived the loss of her little finger. She was quite sure, she
said, that I could not like being a highwayman, and she entreated
me to abandon the road and reform my life. "I can get you a
pardon," she said, "I can set you up in life--in fact, I can do
anything for you." Then I told her my story. I told her how the
highwaymen had made a promise to me, and they had kept it; and I
told her how I had made a promise to them, and I must keep it also.
I had promised to go with them for seven years, and I had only been
with them four; I must go with them for three years more. "Then,"
said the lady, "I know what will happen; I know what stringent
measures are going to be enforced for the suppression of
highwaymen. I am certain you cannot escape for three years: you
will be taken, and you will be condemned to death. When this
happens, send for me, and I will save your life. I am Mrs. Masham."
"'It was indeed Mrs. Masham, the great favourite of Queen Anne.
"'Before the expiration of the three years I was taken, I was
tried, and I was condemned to death. While I was lying in Newgate
under sentence of death, I sent to Mrs. Masham, and Mrs. Masham
flung herself at the feet of Queen Anne, and the Queen spared my
life.'"
This was the story of Dr. Lushington's great-uncle's friend.
* * * * *
In April I returned to my work in the North. My first visit worth
recording was one to the old house of Mainsforth in Durham, the home of
Mrs. Surtees, widow of the genial and delightful historian, who was the
intimate friend of Sir Walter Scott, though he offended him when it was
discovered that he had himself written the glorious ballads which he had
imposed upon Sir Walter as originals.[205] He was also the author of
many ballads of a simpler and more touching character, which have never
attained to the position in English poetry which they surely deserve.
* * * * *
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Mainsforth, April 26, 1862._--This has been a most interesting
visit, both the old ladies of the house so amusing, and so full of
stories of the past, in which they are still living, having shut
out the present ever since the death of Mr. Surtees, twenty years
ago. Miss Robinson has lived with 'my Sister Surtees' for the last
fifteen years, and thinks there is no place in the world like
Mainsforth: and indeed it is a most pleasant old house, thoroughly
unpretending, but roomy and comfortable, close to the road on one
side, but a very quiet road, with a fringe of ancient trees and a
rookery, and on the other looking out on the wide green lawn and
broad terrace-walk, bordered by clumps of hyacinths and tall
turncap lilies. My room has two low windows, which slide back like
doors, and look down through glades of hollies, like a picture, to
the silvery windings of the Skene. It is quiet, and stillness
itself; no sound but the cawing of the rooks, and the ticking of
the clock on the broad old staircase.
"Ever since an accident five years ago, 'my Sister Surtees' has sat
on a sofa in a sitting-room covered with fine old prints pasted on
the walls, with a large tapestry screen on one side of her, and
during the three days I have been here, I have never seen her move
from this place, to which she appears to be glued. 'My Sister Mary'
does all the hospitalities of the house, in the heartiest, most
cordial way, and both always keep open house at Mainsforth for
every one who likes to come. University students from Durham are
constantly here, and the house is a second home to all the poor
clergy of the neighbourhood, who come whenever they want a good
dinner, or ready interest and kindly sympathy. A new curate was
appointed to the neighbouring church of Bishop Middleham, and was
asked to stay here while he looked out for lodgings: he stayed on
and on, till he never went away again: he stayed here three years!
The students of Durham University have just put up two stained
glass windows in the church here, in token of gratitude for the
kindness they have received at Mainsforth. Imagine the students of
Oxford doing such a thing!
"On Thursday I went by the early train to Darlington, and, after
seeing the town, set off in a gig on a long round of country
villages. I saw the 'Hell Kettles,' three pools which are supposed
to be fathomless, and into which, if a sheep falls, it is believed
to be always 'a going' to the end of all time: and at one o'clock
came to Sockburne, a lovely peninsula on the Tees, where an old
ruined chapel stands on the edge of the green lawn above the
rushing river, and beside it 'the Wishing-Tree,' a chestnut 1100
years old, where everything wished for comes true. I had an
introduction to Mrs. Blackett, the owner, who lives in a beautiful
modern house with terraces above the river, and when I was shown
in, I found with her, in three young ladies spinning, three
friends of last year, daughters of Sir Edward Blackett of Matfen.
After luncheon, though it rained, they all walked with me three
miles along the lovely hanging woods by the Tees to 'the Leper's
Bath.'
"Yesterday I went off again, before the family breakfast, to
Stockton-on-Tees, a manufacturing town, celebrated for possessing
the widest street in England. I dined at Greatham Hospital with Mr.
Tristram, the Master. It seemed a most melancholy place morally, no
one speaking to anybody else, every one quarrelling about their
rights of way, the keys of their church, even about their interest
in the poor old men of the Hospital. The country is now all
blackened with coal-pits, and it is curious to hear my present
hostesses describe it all trees and verdure, as it was in their
youth. But the natives are still wonderfully simple and full of
kind-heartedness. At Billingham a poor woman having spent
half-an-hour in trying to find the keys of the church for me, said,
when I begged her to give it up, 'Na, na, I'll try once again, if
only to show a willin'.'"