"_Mainsforth, April 24, 1862._--Sitting alone with Miss Robinson
just now, she talked much of Sir Walter Scott.
"'I knew Sir Walter Scott very well: to hear him talk was like
hearing history with all the disagreeable parts weeded out. I often
dined with him in Edinburgh. I went with my Sister Surtees to his
house just after his first paralytic seizure. We went to take him
a book, and, not knowing of his illness, my Sister Surtees asked if
he was at home. The servant said he did not know; so my sister told
him just to give Sir Walter the book and say it was left by Mrs.
Surtees of Mainsforth. But Sir Walter, who was sitting in his
study, heard my sister's voice, and said, "I am sure that is Mrs.
Surtees of Mainsforth," and sent to desire us to come in. We found
him dreadfully altered, and he described to us all that had
happened. "I was sitting with Sophy, when I was taken," he said
(she is dead--they are all dead now), "and I could not speak; so I
ran upstairs into the drawing-room, where there were several ladies
in the room, and there I soon became insensible and could not be
roused. I remember it as if it were to-day," he said; "they all
began to beel, and they made such a tiran, you can scarcely imagine
it. I did not wish to frighten them more, so I did not say what I
felt, but I'll tell you what it was, Mrs. Surtees--_I shook hands
with death_."
"'Lady Scott was brought up in France. She was a very frivolous
person--very exceedingly. The first time I dined with them, I sat
next to her, and she wore a brocaded silk gown which she told me
cost two hundred guineas. "Dear me, Lady Scott," I said, "but is
not that a very large price?"--"Yes," she replied, "but that's what
my dressmaker charges _me_." People never knew what present to give
to Sir Walter; so, when they wished to make a present, they gave
ornaments to Lady Scott, and she would come down to a common dinner
with her arm quite covered with bracelets. What more she could have
worn if she went to court, I cannot imagine. She never entered
into Sir Walter's pursuits at all.
"'Donald was the old piper, and a very fine-looking person he was.
He used to walk about the gallery outside playing the pibroch on
the bagpipes. He could not have done it in the room, it was so
deafening. Even from outside, the noise was tremendous, but Sir
Walter liked it because it was national.'"
"_April 25._--I have had a long talk with Mrs. Surtees. I wish I
could put down half she said about the Ettrick Shepherd.
"'Once we wanted to go to the Highlands. There were my sister and
two other ladies: we were a party of four. Surtees would not go
with us because he said we should be such a trouble to him; but he
said, "What I advise you to do is, to go to Mr. Blackwood when you
get to Edinburgh, and ask him to give you a tour." So when we got
to Edinburgh, we went to Mr. Blackwood, and told him what Surtees
said. "Oh dear, Mrs. Surtees," said Mr. Blackwood, "what a pity you
were not here a minute ago, for Mr. Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, has
only just gone out of the shop, and he would have been the very
person to have told you all you wanted to know." Now you must know
that Surtees had been very kind to Hogg, and I was very anxious to
see him, so I said, "Oh dear, but can we not still see
him?"--"Well," said Mr. Blackwood, "he is going out of town now,
but he will be back in a short time, and if you like to leave your
address, he will come and call upon you." So I was just going to
write my name on a card, when who should come in again but the
Ettrick Shepherd. "Oh, sir," said Mr. Blackwood, "I'm so glad to
see you back, for this is Mrs. Surtees, and she wants you to give
her a tour in the Highlands."--"Eh!" said the Shepherd, "coom awa
then wi' me into th' backshop, and I'll do't."
"'So we went into the backshop, and he told me where to go, and
showed me all the route on a large map that was there; and when he
had done he said, "Weel, Mrs. Surtees, an noo I've shown ye the
route, I'd jist like to go wi' ye."--"Well," I said, "Mr. Hogg, we
are only four ladies, but we would do all we could to make it
agreeable to you, if you liked to go."--"Eh," said the Shepherd,
"but I could'na just leave the lammies."
"'So then he said, "Eh, Mrs. Surtees, but my wife's here, and I'm
just a going to choose her a silk gown: will ye coom awa along wi'
us an' help to choose it?" So I went with them (a very nice-looking
woman too Mrs. Hogg was) and helped to choose the gown.
"'Once I met them at dinner at Sir Walter's. Sir Walter treated
Mrs. Hogg very well, and thought her (as the poet's wife, you know)
every bit as good as Lady Scott; but Lady Scott thought her very
different, and she did not carry it off very well.
"'We were at Abbotsford when Washington Irving was there. When
people went away, Sir Walter used to conduct all those he
especially liked over the hill as far as a particular little
wicket. When Mr. Irving went, he said, "Now I'll take you as far as
the wicket." I walked with them, and when they parted, I so well
remember Mr. Irving saying what a pleasant visit he had had, and
all that kind of thing--and then Sir Walter's hearty, earnest "Coom
again."'
"Mrs. Surtees had also much to say of Mrs. Siddons.
"'I used often to meet Mrs. Siddons at the house of the Barringtons
when they lived at Sedgefield. She was always acting. I remember as
if it were yesterday her sitting by me at dinner and asking George
Barrington how Chinamen eat their rice with chopsticks. "Well, but
I pray you, and how do they do it?" she said in a theatrical tone;
and then, turning to the footman, she said, "Give me a glass of
water, I pray you; I am athirst to-day." After dinner, Lord
Barrington would say, "Well now, Mrs. Siddons, will you give us
some reading?"
"'Her daughter was with her, who was miserably ill-educated. She
could not even sew. The Miss Barringtons took her in hand and tried
to teach her, but they could make nothing of her.'"
"_April 26._--Miss Robinson has been telling me, 'When we were in
London, we went to a chapel in Bedford Place where Sydney Smith
often used to preach, and we were shown into a pew; for, you know,
in London you do not sit where you like, but they show you into
pews--the women people that keep the church do. There was a strange
lady in the seat, and I have never seen her before or since. It was
not I that sat next to her--my Sister Surtees was the person. The
service was got through very well, and when the preacher got up, it
was Sydney Smith. I remember the sermon as if it were to-day. It
was from the 106th Psalm. He described the end of man--the "portals
of mortality." "Over those portals," he said, "are written Death!
Plague! Famine! Pestilence!" &c., and he was most violent. I am
sure the poor man that had read the service and was sitting
underneath would rather have been at the portals of mortality than
where he was just then, for Sydney Smith thumped the cushion till
it almost touched his head, and he must have thought the whole
thing was coming down upon him. The lady in the pew was quite
frightened, and she whispered to my Sister Surtees, "This is Sir
Sydney Smith, who has been so long in the wars, and that is what
makes him so violent."--"Oh dear, no," said my Sister Surtees, "you
are under a great mistake," &c.
"Miss Robinson described her youth at Houghton-le-Spring, now
almost the blackest place in Durham.
"'Houghton-le-Spring was a lovely rustic village. There was not a
pit in the neighbourhood, and the neighbourhood was the best that
was known in England. Sixteen or seventeen carriages waited at the
church-gate every Sunday. My father lived at Herrington Hall, and
our family were buried in Bernard Gilpin's tomb, because they were
related.
"'The Lyons[206] of Hetton were a beautiful family, but Mrs.
Fellowes was the loveliest. Jane and Elizabeth died each of a rapid
decline. Mrs. Lyon embarked £60,000 in the pit at Hetton, lost it,
and died of a broken heart. People used to say, 'Do you know where
Mrs. Lyon's heart is? At the bottom of Hetton coal-pit.'"
After a visit to the George Liddells at Durham, I went on to
Northumberland.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Westgate Street, Newcastle, May 6, 1862._--Yesterday afternoon I
came here, to the old square dark red brick house of the Claytons,
who are like merchant-princes in Newcastle, so enormous is their
wealth, but who still live in the utmost simplicity in the
old-fashioned family house in this retired shady street. The family
are all remarkable. First comes Mr. John Clayton of Chesters, the
well-known antiquary of North Tyne, a grand, sturdy old man, with a
head which might be studied for a bust of Jupiter;[207] then there
is his brother Matthew, a thin tall lawyer, full of jokes and queer
sayings; then the venerable and beautiful old sister, Mrs. Anne
Clayton (beloved far and wide by the poor, amongst whom she spends
her days, and who are all devoted to 'Mrs. Nancy Claytoun'), is the
gentlest and kindest of old ladies. And besides these, there is the
nephew, George Nathaniel, a college friend of mine, and his wife,
Isabel Ogle, whom we have often met abroad.
"Last night, Dr. Bruce[208] dined, the leader of the 'Romanist'
antiquarians in the county, in opposition to Dr. Charlton and the
'Mediævalists.'"
"_May 7._--How amused my mother would be with this quaintest of
families, who live here in the most primitive fashion, always
treating each other as if they were acquaintances of the day, and
addressing one another by their full titles, as 'Miss Anne Clayton,
will you have the goodness to make the tea?'--'Mr. Town-Clerk of
Newcastle, will you have the kindness to hand me the toast?' &c.
Miss Anne is a venerable lady with snow-white hair, but her brother
Matthew, who is rather older, is convinced that she is one of the
most harum-scarum young girls in the world, and is continually
pulling her up with 'Miss Anne Clayton, you are very
inaccurate,'--'Miss Anne Clayton, be careful what you say,'--'Miss
Anne Clayton, another inaccuracy,'--while the poor old sister goes
on her own way without minding a bit.
"This afternoon we have been to Tynemouth, and most refreshing was
the sea-air upon the cliffs, and the sight of that enchanting old
ruin standing on its rocky height. The journey was very curious
through the pit, glass, and alkali country.
"This evening old Mr. Matthew has been unusually extraordinary, and
very fatiguing--talking for exactly two hours about his bootmakers,
Messrs. Hoby & Humby, whence they came, what they had done, and how
utterly unrivalled they were. 'Miss Anne Clayton,' he said at the
end, 'I hope you understand all I've been saying. Now wait before
you give an opinion, but above all things, Miss Anne Clayton,
don't, don't be inaccurate.'"
"_Dilston Hall, May 8, 1862._--I left Westgate Street this morning
directly after breakfast, and getting out of the train at Blaydon,
walked by Stella and Ryton to Wylam. Ryton was very interesting to
me, because the church is full of monuments of my Simpson
relations, including that of old Mrs. Simpson, the mother-in-law of
Lady Anne, of whom we have a picture, and of her father, Mr.
Andersen,[209] from whom the property came. As I was going through
the churchyard, the sexton poked up his head from an open grave to
stare at me. 'Where can I get the church keys?' I said. 'Why, I'll
tell you wherefrom you'll get them; you'll just get them out of my
coat-pocket,' he answered, and so I did. It was a beautiful church,
with rich stained windows, oak stalls, and tombs, and outside it
lovely green haughs sloping down to the Tyne.
"Thence I walked on to see Bradley,[210] the home of my
great-grandmother Lady Anne Simpson. It is a charming place, with
deep wooded glens filled with what Northumbrians call rowan and
gane trees, and carpeted with primroses and cowslips.
"I arrived at Dilston by tea-time, and afterwards we went out along
the terraced heights, and I longed for you to see the view--the
rich hanging woods steeped in gold by the setting sun, while behind
rose the deep blue moorlands, and from below the splash of the
Devil's Water came through the gnarled oaks and yellow broom."
"_Old Elvet, Durham, May 4._--On Friday I drew in the lovely woods
by the Devil's Water, and then walked, overtaken by a dreadful
storm on the way, to Queen Margaret's cave in Deepden, where she
met the robber. Yesterday a wild moorland drive took me to
Blanchland,[211] a curious place, with a monastic church and
gateway, and a village surrounding a square, in the deep ravine of
the Derwent. Then a still wilder drive brought me to Stanhope,
whence I came here by rail to the kind Liddell cousins.
"George Liddell has been telling me how, when they lived out of the
town at Burnopside, a poor woman lived near them at a place called
'Standfast Hill,' who used to have periodical washings, and put out
all the things to dry afterwards on the bank by the side of the
road. One day a tramp came by and carried them all off: when the
daughter came out to take the things in, they were all gone, and
she rushed back to her mother in despair, saying that they were all
ruined, the things were all gone, &c.
"The Liddells went up to see that poor woman afterwards and to tell
her how sorry they were; but she said, 'Yes, there's my poor Mary,
she goes blearing about like a mad bull; but I say to her, "Dinna'
fash yersel, but pray to the Lord to have mercy on them that took
the things, for they've paid far dearer than I ever paid for
them."'"
In June I was at Chartwell in Kent, when Mr. Colquhoun (who was one of
the most perfect types of a truly Christian _gentleman_ I have ever
known), told me the following story, from personal knowledge both of the
facts and persons:--
"On awaking one morning, Mr. Rutherford of Egerton (in
Roxburghshire) found his wife dreadfully agitated, and asked her
what was the matter. 'Oh,' she said, 'it is something I really
cannot tell you, because you could not possibly sympathise with
it.'--'But I insist upon knowing,' he said. 'Well,' she answered,
'if you insist upon knowing, I am agitated because I have had a
dream which has distressed me very much. I dreamt that my aunt,
Lady Leslie, who brought me up, is going to be murdered; and not
only that, but in my dream I have seen the person who is going to
murder her:--I have seen him so distinctly, that if I met him in
any town of Europe, I should know him again.'--'What bombastical
nonsense!' said Mr. Rutherford; 'you really become more and more
foolish every day.'--'Well, my dear,' said his wife, 'I told you
that it was a thing in which you could not sympathise, and I did
not wish to tell you my dream.'
"Coming suddenly into her sitting-room during the morning, Mr.
Rutherford found his wife still very much agitated and distressed,
and being of choleric disposition, he said sharply, 'Now do let us
have an end once for all of this nonsense. Go down into Fife and
see your aunt, Lady Leslie, and then, when you have found her
alive and quite well, perhaps you will give up having these foolish
imaginations for the future.' Mrs. Rutherford wished no better; she
put a few things into a hand-bag, she went to Edinburgh, she
crossed the Firth of Forth, and that afternoon at four o'clock she
drove up to Lady Leslie's door. The door was opened by a strange
servant. It was the man she had seen in her dream.
"She found Lady Leslie well, sitting with her two grown-up sons.
She was exceedingly surprised to see her niece, but Mrs. Rutherford
said that having that one day free, and not being able to come
again for some time, she had seized the opportunity of coming for
one night; and her aunt was too glad to see her to ask many
questions. In the course of the evening Mrs. Rutherford said,
'Aunt, when I lived at home with you, whenever I was to have an
especial treat, it was that I might sleep in your room. Now I am
only here for one night; do let me have my old child's treat over
again: I have a special fancy for it;' and Lady Leslie was rather
pleased than otherwise. Before they went to bed, Mrs. Rutherford
had an opportunity of speaking to her two cousins alone. She said,
'You will be excessively surprised at what I ask, but I shall
measure your affection for me entirely by whether you grant it: it
is that you will sit up to-night in the room next to your mother's,
and that you will tell no one.' They promised, but they were very
much surprised.
"As they were going to bed, Mrs. Rutherford said to Lady Leslie,
'Aunt, shall I lock the door?' and Lady Leslie laughed at her and
said, 'No, my dear; I am much too old-fashioned a person for
that,' and forbade it. But as soon as Mrs. Rutherford saw that Lady
Leslie was asleep, she slipped out of bed and turned the lock of
the door. Then, leaning against the pillow, she watched, and
watched the handle of the door.
"The reflection of the fire scintillated on the round brass handle
of the door, and, as she watched, it almost seemed to mesmerise
her, but she watched still. Suddenly the speck of light seemed to
appear on the _other_ side; some one was evidently turning the
handle of the door. Mrs. Rutherford rang the bell violently, her
cousins rushed out of the next room, and she herself threw the door
wide open, and there, at the door, stood the strange servant, the
man she had seen in her dream, with a covered coal-scuttle in his
hand. The cousins demanded why he was there. He said he thought he
heard Lady Leslie's bell ring. They said, 'But you do not answer
Lady Leslie's bell at this time in the night,' and they insisted
upon opening the coal-scuttle. In it was a large knife.
"Then, as by sudden impulse, the man confessed. He knew Lady Leslie
had received a large sum for her rents the day before, that she
kept it in her room, and that it could not be sent away till the
next day. 'The devil tempted me,' he said, 'the devil walked with
me down the passage, and unless God had intervened, the devil would
have forced me to cut Lady Leslie's throat.'
"The man was partially mad--but God had intervened."
JOURNAL (The Green Book).
"_Holmhurst, July 27, 1862._--A gorgeous beautiful summer day at
length, and it is our last here. To-morrow we go north. It has been
a pleasant summer, and it will be a very bright one to look back
upon. I have had the great delight of having Charlie Wood here for
four days--days of endless conversations, outpourings of old griefs
and joys, of little present thoughts and anxieties, of hopes and
aspirations for the future, which I should not venture upon with
any one else. And besides, we have had a succession of visitors,
each of whom has enjoyed our home, whilst our little Holmhurst
daily twines itself more and more round our own hearts. Sometimes I
have a sort of inward trembling in thinking that I trace an
additional or increasing degree of feebleness or age in my sweetest
mother, but I do not think her ill now, and may go to the North
with a confident feeling that it will be at the time which will
suit her best, as she will have other friends with her with whom
she would rather be alone. My sweet darling! what should I do
without her? and how blank and black the whole world would seem!
Yet even then I should bless God that this place, now consecrated
by memories of her, would still be my home, and, in fulfilling her
wishes, her designs, I should try to link the desolate present to
the sunny past. I cannot be grateful enough for her power of
bearing and rallying from great blows. The loss of Aunt Kitty in
the spring, the impending loss of Aunt Esther, are furrows which
God permits, but which He too smooths over. I have even the comfort
of feeling that it would be thus in case of my own death, dreadful
as that would be to her at the time."
Early in August I went with my mother for a long visit to Buntingsdale
in Shropshire, the old pleasant friendly home of the Tayleurs. The
master of the house, William Tayleur, had come very late into his
property, after a long period of almost cruel repression during the life
of his eccentric father; but, unlike most people, the late attainment of
great wealth only made him full of anxiety that as many as possible
should benefit by it, and he was the very soul of courtesy, hospitality,
and generosity. With him lived his two delightful old sisters (already
mentioned in the account of my childhood), emancipated when past fifty
from a thraldom like that of the schoolroom. Of these, my mother's great
friend, Harriet, was the younger--a most bright, animated, clever, and
thoroughly excellent person, exceedingly popular in Shropshire society.
The elder, Mary, was very delicate in health, but a very pretty, gentle
old lady, who always wore an immense bonnet, ending in a long shade of
the kind called "an ugly," so that people used to call her "the old lady
down the telescope." Buntingsdale is one of the finest houses in
Shropshire, a large red brick mansion, with very handsome stone
mouldings and pillars, and a most splendid flower-garden, bordered by a
high terrace overlooking the little shining river Terne and its pretty
watermeadows. I have seldom known my mother happier than during this
visit. It touched her so much to find how she was considered by these
faithful old friends--how, after many years' absence, all the people she
wished to see were asked to meet her, yet all arranged with thoughtful
care, so as to cause her the least possible amount of fatigue and
emotion.
We went to Stoke to visit my grandfather's grave, and any of his old
parishioners who wished to see my mother were bidden to meet her in the
churchyard. There we found fourteen poor women and three old men
waiting. To the changed Rectory she never looked. Then we were for some
days at Hodnet, where Lady Valsamachi[212] was staying, and both at
Hodnet and Hawkestone my mother was warmly welcomed by old friends. I
was glad to have the opportunity of walking with her in the beautiful
fields consecrated to her by recollections of her happy life long ago in
intimacy with the Hebers. From Hodnet we went to spend a few days with
Henry de Bunsen at Lilleshall Rectory, which had a charming garden,
where all his parishioners were invited to walk on Sunday afternoons.
Thence my mother returned home, and I went towards my northern work.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Weeping Cross, Stafford, August 21, 1862._--Miss Sarah Salt met
me at the Stafford station, and drove me here--a moderate-sized
house, simply furnished, but with the luxury of a cedar-wood
ceiling, which smells delicious. Out of a window-seat in the low
comfortable library rose the thin angular figure of Harriet Salt,
speaking in the subdued powerless way of old. She had a huge cat
with her, and an aunt--rather a pretty old lady. 'What is your
aunt's name?' I said afterwards to Miss Sarah. 'Oh, Aunt
Emma.'--'Yes, but what is her other name? what am I to call
her?'--'Oh, call her Aunt Emma; she would never know herself by any
other name.'--'And what do you do when your Aunt Emma Petit is here
too?'-'Oh, she is only Aunt Emma, and this is the other Aunt Emma;
so when Aunt Emma from Lichfield is here, and we want this one, we
say, "Other Aunt Emma, will you come here?"'
"After luncheon, we went out round the domain--paddocks with round
plantations, and a good deal of garden. Miss Salt rode a white
pony, we walked. Then the aunt mounted the pony, and she and Miss
Sarah and I went a longer round, Miss Sarah breaking down the
fences and pulling the pony through after her. 'Will not the
farmers be angry?' I said. 'Oh, no; I threatened to have them up
before the magistrates for stopping up a road, so we compromised;
they are to have their road, and I am to break down their fences
and go wherever I like, whether there is a road or not.'
"At seven the clergyman and his wife came to dinner. I took in the
aunt, a timid old lady, who seldom ventured a remark, and then in
the most diffident manner. This was her first--'I think I may say,
in fact I believe it has been often remarked, that Holland is a
very flat country. I went there once, and it struck me that the
observation was correct.' In the evening Miss Sarah looked at my
drawings, and said, 'Well, on the whole, considering that they are
totally unlike nature, I don't dislike them quite so much as I
expected.'
"We breakfasted this morning at half-past seven, summoned by a
gong; Miss Sarah having said, 'At whatever hour of the day or night
you hear that gong sound, you will know that you are expected to
appear _somewhere_.' She presided at the breakfast-table with a
huge tabby-cat seated on her shoulder. 'Does not that cat often
tear your dress?' I asked. 'No,' she replied, 'but it very often
tears my face,' and went on pouring out the tea."
"_August 22._--Yesterday was hot and steamy, without a breath of
air. Miss Sarah drove me and the clergyman's wife to Cannock Chase,
a wild heathy upland, with groups of old firs and oaks, extending
unenclosed for fifteen miles, and surrounded by noblemen's houses
and parks. Here we joined a picnic party of fifty people. English
fashion, scarcely anybody spoke to anybody else, and the families
sat together in groups. Afterwards the public played at 'Aunt
Sally,' and I walked with Miss Salt and her friends Misses
Anastasia and Theodosia Royd far over the moorlands. A ridiculous
old gentleman went with us, who talked of 'mists, while they
enhanced the merits of nature, obscuring the accuracy of vision.'
He also assured us that whenever he saw a snake, he shut his eyes
and cried 'Murder!' We mounted another hill for kettle-boiling and
tea, and then danced country-dances to the sound of a fiddle. It
was seven o'clock and the mists were rolling up from the hollows
when we turned to go home. Mr. Salt was heard blowing a horn in the
distance, which his daughter answered by a blast on her whistle,
and so we found the carriage."
I am sorry not to find any letters recording the visit I paid after this
to Mr. Petit, the ecclesiologist. He lived at Lichfield in a house built
by Miss Porter, Dr. Johnson's step-daughter. With him resided his three
sisters and seven cats, who appeared at all meals as part of the family,
and rejoiced in the names of "Bug, Woodlouse, Nebuchadnezzar, Ezekiel,
Bezor, Rabshakeh, and Eva--'the mother of all the cats.'" Mr. Petit was
most extraordinary, but a very interesting companion. I had a capital
sight of the cathedral with him, beautiful still, though sadly
"jemmyfied" by Scott, who has added some immense statues in the choir
which put everything out of proportion, and has put up a bastard-gothic
metal screen. At the end of an aisle is Chantrey's monument of the two
Robinson children. One of them was burnt to death in reaching to get
from the chimney-piece the snowdrops represented in her hand; the other
died of consumption caused by too much rowing. When I was at Lichfield
their mother was still living there with her third husband.
We went up Borrow Copp, a charming mound near the town, crowned by a
chapel-like summer-house. Here the three Saxon kings are supposed to be
buried whose bodies are represented in the arms of Lichfield.
The Petits are Petits des Etampes, and were refugees from Caen. They had
a valuable miniature of Mary Queen of Scots by Bernard Lens, from their
family connection with the Guises. Far more extraordinary than any other
house I have ever seen was their country place of--"Bumblekite Hall!"
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Ripley Castle, August 28, 1862._--In coming down to dinner, I
found a tall distinguished-looking lady upon the staircase, with
whom I made friends at once as Charlie Wood's aunt, Lady Georgiana
Grey. This afternoon I went with her and Miss Ingilby to
Knaresborough, a town with stone roofs on a height above the Nid,
crowned by the ruins of the castle which contains the vaulted
dungeon where the murderers of Thomas à Becket were confined. Below
the castle is the public-house called 'Mother Shipton,' bearing her
picture and the inscription--
'Near to this petrifying well
I first drew breath, as records tell.'
Through the inn--kept "by one 'Almeda Burgess'--is a walk by the
wooded bank of the river to the petrifying well, which is highly
picturesque. The water falls from an overhanging umbrella-like
cliff into a deep basin. A chain of stuffed birds is hung up for
petrifaction, taking from twelve to fifteen months to turn into
stone: bird's-nests take twelve months.
"Also in the valley of the Nid, on the east of the town, is St.
Robert's Cave, excavated, as the guide told us, by St. Robert, 'a
gentleman who wished to live very retired.' This was the place
where the body of Clarke was discovered, which led to the execution
of Eugene Aram. It is a most curious story.
"Eugene was the son of Peter Aram, who was head-gardener at Ripley
Castle, and very respectable. But, together with two others,
Housman and Clarke, Eugene arranged a curious scheme of robbery.
They gave out that they were going to give a grand supper, and
borrowed a quantity of plate, which they made away with, and on the
night of the supposed supper Eugene and Housman murdered Clarke,
that it might be supposed, when he was not forthcoming, that he
alone was the robber. Afterwards Eugene went at night to Housman's
house and talked over what was to be done. Before they left he
said, 'If your wife is in bed upstairs, she must have heard us; we
must make this secure,' and they went up intending to murder her if
she was awake, but they passed the candle before her eyes, and she
bore it without flinching. Then they went down again and burnt the
clothes of the murdered man. Only the buttons fell uninjured
amongst the cinders, and were found next morning by the wife.
Afterwards, whenever she had a quarrel with her husband, she
frightened him by saying, 'How about those buttons?'
"Housman and Aram buried the body in St. Robert's Cave, which was
then filled with earth. Brushwood and briars grew over it, and no
trace was left; but the murderers had a perpetual dread that some
day the Nid would rise and lay the body bare, and whenever there
was a very high wind, Housman for years used to go to see that it
was not uncovered.
"Eugene Aram went away to Norfolk, where he prospered exceedingly,
and 'visited with the best families.' But fourteen years after the
murder, some workmen digging in St. Robert's Cave found a skeleton.
'I shouldn't wonder if this were Clarke,' said one of them. 'No, it
is not,' said one of his companions, and this led to his arrest.
It was Housman. He then confessed to the murder, and said that
Eugene Aram was his accomplice; but Eugene Aram was gone.
"It happened, however, that a Knaresborough pedlar, in his walks
through Norfolk, accidentally recognised Eugene Aram in a garden.
On his return home, he gave notice to the constables, who went to
Norfolk and fetched him away, and he was executed. The murder took
place in 1745, the execution in 1759. It is said that after the
murder Eugene never gave his right hand to any one. After he was
executed, the 'finger of scorn pointed at his family,' and they
went to America. The mother of the old woman who showed us the cave
knew Clarke's widow intimately.
"A letter of Eugene Aram is preserved at Ripley Castle.[213] There
were many letters there from Peter Aram, his father, but they were
destroyed by the late Lady Ingilby, because they were 'so wicked
and blasphemous.' The chief point against Eugene Aram was that,
when he was discovered, a defence was found which he had written
twelve years before: this is made use of in Bulwer's novel.
"In the evening something was said about many ghost-stories being
the result of a practical joke. Lady Georgiana Grey, who had been
sitting quietly, suddenly rose--awful almost with her white face
and long black velvet dress--and exclaimed, 'If any one ever
_dared_ to play a practical joke upon me, _all_ my fortune, _all_
my energies, my whole _life_ would be insufficient to work my
revenge.' And she swept out of the room. They say it is because of
the Grey story about a head. Lady Georgiana first saw the head,
when she was in bed in Hanover Square, in the autumn of 1823. She
rushed for refuge to her mother's room, where she remained all
night. Lady Grey desired her on no account to mention what she had
seen to her father. But a fortnight later Lord Grey came into the
room where Lady Georgiana was sitting with her mother and sister,
much agitated, saying that he had just seen a head roll towards
him."
"_Ripley Castle, August 30._--The old Ladies Ruthven and Belhaven
came to-day. They appear to have spent their lives in an atmosphere
of dukes, but are very simple great ladies, chiefly interested by
art and artists, and draw well themselves. Lady Belhaven is allowed
by her husband to be with her sister now because of the odd illness
of the latter, an invincible sleeplessness, which makes her very
peculiar, and gives her a habit of talking to herself in a low
murmur, however many people are around her. Rather to my alarm, I
had to take her in to dinner, and as she is very deaf, to talk to
her the whole time at the pitch of my voice; but we got on very
well notwithstanding, so well indeed, that before the fish had been
taken away she had asked me to come to stay with her at her castle
in Scotland. As soon as dinner was over she made me bring my
portfolio and sit the whole evening talking to her about my
drawings. However, I was very glad of it, as, when she went to
bed, she said, 'I have been so very happy this evening.'
"_September 1._--Saturday was a dismally wet day. We sat in the oak
parlour, drew, and told stories. Lady Ruthven has lived many years
at Athens, and four years--winter and summer--at Rome, and in
summer used to study 'Roma Adombrata,' which taught her how to walk
in the shade. On Sundays she invited all the artists, who never
went to church, to her house, and 'read them a sermon, poor things,
for the good of their souls.'
"She used when at Rome to go to 'La toilette des pieds' of Pauline
Borghese. Regular invitations were issued for it. When the guests
arrived, they found the Princess--supremely lovely--with her
beautiful little white feet exposed upon a velvet cushion. Then two
or three maids came in, and touched the feet with a sponge and
dusted them with a little powder--'ç'était la toilette des pieds.'
The Duke of Hamilton used to take up one of the little feet and put
it inside his waistcoat 'like a little bird.' ... Lady Ruthven and
all her household are still wearing mourning for Lord Ruthven, who
died seven years ago.
"The people here are full of quaint character, especially two
brothers 'Johnny and Jacky.' Said Johnny to Jacky the other day,
'I've found a saxpence.'--'That's moine,' said Jacky, 'for I've
lost un.'--'Had thoine a haule in it?' said Johnny.--'Ees,' said
Jacky.--'Then this ain't thoine,' said Johnny, 'for there's na
haule in't.'
"Mrs. Ingilby herself is perfection--so refined and agreeable. No
one would believe, when they see how admirably and unaffectedly she
manages the castle and £20,000 a year, that seven years ago she and
her husband lived in a Lincolnshire cottage with only £300 a year
of income.
"Lady Georgiana Grey told me a curious story of some friends of
hers.
"Lady Pennyman and her daughters took a house at Lille. The day
after they arrived they went to order some things from a warehouse
in the town, and gave their address. 'What,' said the man, 'are you
living there, ma'am? Did I not misunderstand you?'--'Yes,' said
Lady Pennyman, 'that is where I live. Is there anything against the
place?'
"'Oh dear, no, ma'am,' said the warehouseman; 'only the house has
been for a long time without being let, because they say it's
haunted.' Going home, Lady Pennyman laughed to her daughters, and
said, 'Well, we shall see if the ghost will frighten _us_ away.'
"But the next morning Lady Pennyman's maid came to her and said,
'If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Crowder and me must change our rooms.
We can't remain where we are, ma'am; it's quite impossible. The
ghost, he makes such a noise over our heads, we can get no sleep at
all.'--'Well, you can change your room,' said Lady Pennyman; 'but
what is there over your room where you sleep? I will go and see;'
and she found a very long gallery, quite empty except for a huge
iron cage, in which it was evident that a human being had been
confined.
"A few days after, a friend, a lady living in Lille, came to dine
with them. She was a very strong-minded person, and when she heard
of the servants' alarm, she said, 'Oh, Lady Pennyman, do let me
sleep in that room; I shall not be frightened, and if I sleep
there, perhaps the ghost will be laid.' So she sent away her
carriage and stayed; but the next morning she came down quite pale
and haggard, and said certainly she had seen the figure of a young
man in a dressing-gown standing opposite her bed, and yet the door
was locked, and there could have been no real person there. A few
days afterwards, towards evening, Lady Pennyman said to her
daughter, 'Bessie, just go up and fetch the shawl which I left in
my room.' Bessie went, and came down saying that as she went up she
saw the figure of a young man in a dressing-gown standing on the
flight of stairs opposite to her.
"One more attempt at explanation was made. A sailor son, just come
from sea, was put to sleep in the room. When he came down in the
morning, he was quite angry, and said, 'What did you think I was
going to be up to, mother, that you had me watched? Why did you
send that fellow in the dressing-gown to look after me?' The next
day the Pennymans left the house.
"Lady Georgiana also told me:--
"There was once a Bishop Thomas.[214] His mother one day awoke,
having dreamt that her husband had fought a duel and was killed.
She was much frightened by her dream, and, having great influence
over her husband, she persuaded him not to go out that day as
usual, but to stay at home with her. They lived in Spring Gardens,
and having stayed in all day, towards four o'clock Mr. Thomas began
to repine, and to wish to go out and walk in the Park. Mrs. Thomas
assented on condition of going with him, and they walked in the
Park and enjoyed it very much. While they were out, they met an old
Indian friend of Mr. Thomas, whom he had not seen for years, and
was delighted to meet. They talked over old times and scenes with
great avidity, and at last Mr. Thomas said that he would see his
old friend back to his hotel. Mrs. Thomas, being tired, begged to
be left at her own house on the way.
"Mrs. Thomas waited long for her husband's return. At last she
heard a sound of many footsteps coming down the street, and a voice
asking which was Mrs. Thomas's house. She rushed down saying, 'You
need not tell me; I know what has happened,' and she found her
dream realised. Mr. Thomas had gone back to the hotel with his
friend. According to the custom of that time, they drank a good
deal together: they quarrelled over their wine, they fought, and
Mr. Thomas was killed. The child that was born afterwards was
Bishop Thomas."
"_Middleton in Teesdale, Sept. 3._--Yesterday I went with the party
at Ripley to Brimham Rocks, a most curious place--the rocks
clustered in groups of enormous and fantastic forms on the very top
of the Yorkshire range, and with a splendid view over the country,
even York Minster appearing in the hazy distance.
"I slept at Barnard Castle last night, and set out at eight this
morning for the Fells. It was gloomy and dismal, with mists
gathering black over the distance, and constant rain falling; but
there was no alternative. The valley of Upper Teesdale is in some
ways like a valley in the Alps, the glaringly white farmhouses
scattered thinly over the brilliantly green meadows, the hedgerows
and trees replaced by low rugged stone walls, 'the Grass of
Parnassus' springing up by the side of all the clear streams. The
people are all 'kin' to one another, and are singularly honest and
truthful. 'They are all sincere men in these parts,' said the
guide, 'and if they tell you a tale, you may know it's because
they're deceived.' We met a man on a horse. 'What a long cloak that
man has,' I said. 'Yes,' answered the driver, 'but he's a good man
and a just, and he fears God rather than men.'
"The High Force is a truly grand waterfall, where the whole river
tosses over a huge precipice in the black basaltic cliff. We left
the gig at a little inn at Langdon Beck, whence we set out on a
weary foot-pilgrimage--a most fatiguing walk of ten miles, over
broken edges of scars, along the torrent-bed, through rushes and
bogs and heather, and across loose slippery shale--all this too in
ceaseless rain and wind, and with the burden of a thick Scotch
cloak. But Cauldron Snout is a very curious waterfall, quite out in
the desolate moorlands, with the Westmorland Fells looming behind
it. I was completely wet through before we got there, and came back
plunging from tuft to tuft of rushes in the boggy moorlands. At
one time we took refuge in a shepherd's hut, where an old shepherd,
with flowing white hair and horn spectacles, was reading the Bible
to his grandchildren--a group like many pictures one has seen. Here
my socks were dipped in hot water and put on again, the
mountaineer's remedy against cold."
"_Ridley Hall, Sept. 7._--Yesterday Cousin Susan sent me to
Bonnyrigg, Sir Edward Blackett's place in the moors--an enchanting
drive, out of the inhabited country into the purple heather-land,
where the desolate blue Northumbrian lakes lie at the foot of their
huge precipitous crags. Bonnyrigg itself is embosomed in woods, yet
surrounded on all sides by rock and moorland, and with a delightful
view of Greenlea Lough. The Scotts were staying there, and I walked
with the General[215] along the Roman Wall, high on the cliffs and
running from crag to crag, as perfect in its 1600th year as in its
first."
"_Chesters, Hexham, Sept. 10._--I came here yesterday. My aged
hostess, the eldest sister of the Newcastle Clayton family, is of a
most tall, weird figure, and speaks in an abrupt, energetic,
startling manner, but she is the most perfect _lady_ imaginable,
both in feeling and manners, and her kindness and thoughtfulness
and consideration for others make her beloved far and wide.
Chesters is famous for its liberal unostentatious hospitality, and
Miss Clayton always lives here, though it is her brother's place,
and he resides at Newcastle. She reads everything, and is ready to
talk on any subject, but her great hobby is Roman antiquities, and
she is one of the best antiquarians in the North, which is only as
it should be, as Cilurnum, one of the finest of the Roman stations,
is here in the garden, where there is also a museum of Roman
relics. This house is about the size of Hurstmonceaux Place,[216]
and most thoroughly comfortable, with wide well-lighted galleries
on each storey, filled with water-colour drawings by Richardson,
with Roman antiquities, and curiosities of all kinds.
"This morning we were called at six, breakfasted at seven, and at
half-past seven in the bright cold morning Miss Clayton herself
drove me down to the train at Chollerford. A delightful journey
brought me to Kielder, where, under the heather-clad hills, close
to the Scottish Border, is the Duke of Northumberland's favourite
castle and the scene of the beautiful ballad of the 'Cout of
Kielder.' I wandered through the valley:--
"Up to 'the bonny brae, the green,
Yet sacred to the brave;
Where still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Kielder's grave.
'Where weeps the birch with branches green
Without the holy ground,
Between two old grey stones is seen
The warrior's ridgy mound.'
Coming back, I left the train at Bellingham, and walked to
Hesleyside, the fine place of the Roman Catholic Charltons, where
the celebrated Charlton spur is preserved, which the lady of the
house, in time of Border raids, used to serve up at dinner whenever
she wished to indicate that her larder needed replenishing."
"_Chesters, Sept. 13._--On Thursday Miss Clayton drove me in her
Irish car up North Tyne to Chipchase Castle, a noble old Jacobean
house on a height, with a Norman tower, and afterwards to Simonburn
and Tecket Lynn--a most picturesque waterfall through fern-fringed
rocks; a very artistic 'subject,' too little known. Mr. John
Clayton and Dr. Bruce arrived in the evening, and Roman antiquities
became the order of the next day. We set off in a hurricane of cold
wind, in the Irish car, along the Roman Wall, and spent the whole
day amongst Roman remains, lunching at Hotbank Farm, where the
Armstrongs live--last relics of the great mosstrooping
family--inspiring a sort of clannish attachment still, as, when the
last farmer died in 1859, two hundred mounted Borderers escorted
him across the moorland to his grave.
"The great Roman station of Housesteads (Borcovicus) is a perfect
English Pompeii of excavated houses and streets. Hence we clambered
across stone walls and bogs for several miles to Sewing Shields,
where Arthur and Guinevere and all their knights lie asleep in a
basaltic cavern.... The Claytons are indescribably kind, and spare
no pains to amuse, interest, and instruct me, and their horses seem
as untirable."
"_Chesters, Sept. 15._--I am becoming increasingly attached to
'Aunt Saily,' who is always finding out all the good she can in her
neighbours and guests, and doing everything possible to make the
world bright and pleasant to them: being really so loving and
gentle herself, she influences all around her. On Saturday she took
me to Houghton Castle, one of the most perfect inhabited feudal
fortresses in the county; and to-day to Fallowfield, where there is
a Roman inscription on a grey rock--'the Written Rock'--in the
moorland."
"_Otterburn, Sept. 18._--I left the train at Bellingham, where I
found no further means of locomotion except a huge chariot with two
horses. So, after going on a vain search for a cart to all the
neighbouring farmhouses, I was obliged to engage it; but then there
was another difficulty, for the key of the coach-house was lost,
and I had to wait an hour till a smith could be brought to break it
open. At length I set off in the great lumbering vehicle across the
roughest moorland road imaginable--mere blocks of stone, scarcely
chipped at all, with gates at every turn, over hideous barren
moorland, no heather, only dead moss and blackened rushes and fern.
It was like the drive in 'Rob Roy.' At last, in the gloaming, we
drove over a rude bridge and up to this gothic castle, with
terraces in front sloping down to the sullen Reedwater and barren
deserted Fells. My host, Mr. James, has nine sons, of whom the two
youngest, Charlie and Christie, are here now, and scamper on two
little ponies all over the country. The whole family are inclined
to abundant rude hospitality, and delight to entice visitors into
these deserts. They have taken me to Elsdon, a curious desolate
village in the hills, where the Baillies are rectors, and live in a
dismal old castle, built to fortify the rector in mosstrooping
times. It is a place quite out of the world, so very high up, that
the coming of any chance stranger is quite an event: its people
live entirely by keeping sheep and rearing geese in large flocks."
"_Matfen, Sept. 20._--We had a very long excursion from Otterburn
on Thursday. In these high moorlands, thirty-five miles is thought
nothing extraordinary, and we drove in a brilliant morning all up
the course of the Reedwater, through rocky valleys and relics of
ancient forest, and by the Roman station of High Rochester to the
Scottish border, upon the famous Reedswire. Here we carried our
baskets up the hills and picnicked just inside Scotland, looking
over the Lammermoor Hills and the valley of Jedburgh to Edinburgh
far in the hazy distance. I long for my mother in all these
moorland scenes--such feasts of beauty to mind and eye. The next
morning we walked to Troughend, the grim haunted house of the
Border hero Percy Reed.[217] Then I went with 'Christie' to Percy's
Cross, where Percy fell in the battle of Chevy Chase, and
Witherington fought upon his stumps.[218] Altogether it is an
enchanting neighbourhood, full of ballads and traditions.... I much
enjoy, however, the comparative rest at Matfen, nine or ten hours
being the least time I was out any day at Chesters or Otterburn.
Lady Blackett has been telling me a very curious story--from her
personal knowledge.
"Mrs. Bulman went up from Northumberland to London, taking her
little child with her. The evening after she arrived at her London
house, she had occasion to go downstairs, and at the foot of the
stairs passed a man talking to her maid; at that time she happened
to have a bank-note in her hand. Afterwards she went upstairs
again, and put her child to bed. In a little while she went up to
see if it was comfortable. When she went into the room, the child
was in bed, but appeared to be in rather an excited state, and
said, 'Mama, I feel quite sure that there is somebody under the
bed.' Mrs. Bulman said, 'Nonsense, my dear; there is nothing of the
kind: only you are over-tired; so go to sleep, and do not think of
anything else foolish;' and she went downstairs.
"I don't know what the child did then, but when Mrs. Bulman went up
again, there was no one under the bed, but the window was open, and
the lock of the desk on the table had been tried.
"Many years afterwards, Mrs. Bulman had occasion to visit a London
prison. When she was going away, the governor came to her and said
that there was a man there who was under sentence of death, and
that he could not account for it, but, having seen Mrs. Bulman pass
as she went into the prison, he was exceedingly importunate to be
allowed to speak to her, if it were only for a moment. 'Well,' said
Mrs. Bulman, 'if it will be any comfort to the poor man, I am sure
I shall be very glad to speak to him,' and she went to his cell.
She did not recollect ever having seen the man before, but he said
that as he was so soon to go into another world, it could not
matter to him what he confessed now, and that he thought it might
be some satisfaction to her to know what a very narrow escape she
had once had of her life.
"He said he was in the house talking to her maid, having gone in to
visit one of her servants, when she came downstairs with the
bank-note in her hand, and that he could not say what tempted him,
but that he had seized a knife and hidden himself behind a door
till she passed on her way upstairs again. Then he found his way to
her room and concealed himself under her bed. There he had heard
her come in and put the child to bed and leave it, and then, amazed
at the strangeness of his situation, he turned round. She came
back, and he heard the child tell her that there was a man under
the bed, and if at that moment she had looked under, he should have
sprung out and murdered her. She did not, and afterwards hearing a
noise downstairs, he thought it was better to make his escape,
which he did by the window, leaving it open behind him."
"_Wallington, Sept. 24._--On the way here I stopped to see Belsay,
the finest of the Border fortresses, a grand old gothic tower,
standing in a beautiful garden and amongst fine trees.
"Opening from the enclosed courtyard, which now forms a great
frescoed hall in the centre of this house of Wallington, are
endless suites of huge rooms, only partly carpeted and thinly
furnished with ugly last-century furniture, partly covered with
faded tapestry. The last of these is 'the ghost-room,' and
Wallington is still a haunted house: awful noises are heard all
through the night; footsteps rush up and down the untrodden
passages; wings flap and beat against the windows; bodiless people
unpack and put away their things all night long, and invisible
beings are felt to breathe over you as you lie in bed. I think my
room quite horrid, and it opens into a long suite of desolate rooms
by a door which has no fastening, so I have pushed the heavy
dressing-table with its weighty mirror, &c., against it to keep out
all the nasty things that might try to come in. Old Lady Trevelyan
was a very wicked woman and a miser: she lived here for many years,
and is believed to wander here still: her son, Sir Walter, has
never been known to laugh.
"Sir Walter is a strange-looking being, with long hair and
moustache, and an odd careless dress. He also has the reputation of
being a miser.[219] He is a great teetotaller, and inveighs
everywhere against wine and beer: I trembled as I ran the gauntlet
of public opinion yesterday in accepting a glass of sherry. Lady
Trevelyan is a great artist. She is a pleasant, bright little
woman, with sparkling black eyes, who paints beautifully, is
intimately acquainted with all the principal artists, imports
baskets from Madeira and lace from Honiton, and sells them in
Northumberland, and always sits upon the rug by preference.
"There is another strange being in the house. It is Mr. Wooster,
who came to arrange the collection of shells four years ago, and
has never gone away. He looks like a church-brass incarnated, and
turns up his eyes when he speaks to you, till you see nothing but
the whites. He also has a long trailing moustache, and in all
things imitates, but caricatures, Sir Walter. What he does here
nobody seems to know; the Trevelyans say he puts the shells to
rights, but the shells cannot take four years to dust."
"_Sept. 26._--Such a curious place this is! and such curious
people! I get on better with them now, and even Sir Walter is
gruffly kind and grumpily amiable. As to information, he is a
perfect mine, and he knows every book and ballad that ever was
written, every story of local interest that ever was told, and
every flower and fossil that ever was found--besides the
great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers of everybody dead or
alive. His conversation is so curious that I follow him about
everywhere, and take notes under his nose, which he does not seem
to mind in the least, but only says something more quaint and
astonishing the next minute. Lady Trevelyan is equally unusual. She
is abrupt to a degree, and contradicts everything. Her little black
eyes twinkle with mirth all day long, though she says she is ill
and has 'the most extraordinary _feels_;' she is 'sure no one ever
had such extraordinary feels as she has.' She never appears to
attend to her house a bit, which is like the great desert with one
or two little oases in it, where by good management you may
possibly make yourself comfortable. She paints foxgloves in fresco
and makes little sketches à la Ruskin in the tiniest of
books--chiefly of pollard willows, which she declares are the most
beautiful things in nature. To see pollard willows in perfection
she spent six weeks last spring in the flattest parts of Holland,
and thought it lovely--'the willows so fine and the boat-life so
healthy.' 'Well, you _will_ go to the bad,' she said to me
yesterday, because I did not admire a miserable little drawing of
Ruskin: my own sketches she thinks quite monstrous.
"We went the day before yesterday to Capheaton, the home of the
Swinburnes, a very curious old house, and Sir John Swinburne, a
very pleasing young miser, is coming to dinner to-day. Yesterday we
went through fog and rain to Camphoe, Kirk Whelpington, and Little
Harle, a fine inhabited castle. Sir Walter made me wade through the
Wansbeck as we came back!"
"_Sept. 28._--The more one knows Sir Walter and Lady Trevelyan, the
more one finds how, through all their peculiarities, they are to be
liked and respected. Everything either of them says is worth
hearing, and they are so full of information of every kind, that
the time here has been all too short for hearing them talk.[220] On
Thursday, Miss Ogle, the authoress of that charming novel 'A Lost
Love,' came. She has lived here a great deal, and says the
Wallington ghost is a lady with her head under her arm, who walks
about at night. She has heard all the extraordinary rappings very
often, and says they cannot be accounted for in any way, but she
has never seen the lady.
"The library here is delightful, full of old topographical books
and pamphlets; and sleek Mr. Wooster, with whites of his eyes
turned up to the skies, is always at hand to find for you anything
you want.
"On Friday Sir Walter took me a long drive through the beautiful
forest-land called the Trench, and by Rothley Crags to
Netherwitton, where the Raleigh Trevelyans live. Mrs. Raleigh
Trevelyan, a stately and beautiful old lady, is the direct
descendant of the Witherington who fought upon his stumps. She has
pictures of Lord Derwentwater and his brother, and one of her
ancestors concealed Simon, Lord Lovat, in his house for months: the
closet where he was hidden is still to be seen, and very curious.
Then we went to Long Witton, to Mrs. Spencer Trevelyan, a great
botanist and eccentric person, who breakfasts at six, dines at
twelve, teas at four, and goes to bed at seven o'clock.
"Yesterday Miss Ogle and I went to Harnham, where Mrs. Catherine
Babington, a famous Puritan lady who was excommunicated, is buried
in the rock; to Shortflat Tower, the old peel castle of the Dents;
and to the Poind and his Man, Druidical antiquities, and Shaftoe
Crag, a beautiful wild cliff overgrown with heather. The country
round this is singularly interesting--the view from the church
(Cambo), where we have just been, quite beautiful over the endless
waves of distant hill."
[Illustration: WARKWORTH, FROM THE COQUET.]
"_Warkworth, Oct. 2._--My mother will like to think of me with the
Clutterbucks in this charming sunny old house, the most perfect
contrast to Wellington; but if Sir Walter saw his house papered and
furnished like those of other people's, he would certainly pine
away from excess of luxury. I have spent two days with the Ogles,
whom we have often met abroad, with their dark handsome
daughters--dark, people say, because their grandmother was a
Spaniard. They are proud of their supposed Spanish blood, and when
Isabel Ogle married George Clayton, all her sisters followed in
long _black_ lace veils. Near their modern house is the old moated
family castle of Ogle."
"_St. Michael's Vicarage, Alnwick, Oct. 4._--I have been kindly
received here by the Court Granvilles: he is a fiery, impetuous
little man; she (Lady Charlotte) a sister of the Duke of Athole.
The Duke of Northumberland sent for me to his hot room at the
castle, where he sits almost immovable, fingers and toes swollen
with gout, and talked a great deal about the importance of my work,
the difficulty of getting accurate information, &c.; but I do not
think he heard a word that I said in reply, for when he has the
gout he is almost quite deaf. Then he sent for the Duchess, who
good-naturedly knotted her pocket-handkerchief round her throat,
and went through all the rooms to show me the pictures. We went
again to dinner--only Sir Cresswell Cresswell, the famous judge,
there, and Lady Alvanley, sister of the Duke of Cleveland. Sir
Cresswell was most amusing in describing how, when a lady was being
conveyed in a sedan-chair to a party at Northumberland House, the
bottom fell out, and, as she shouted in vain to make her bearers
hear, she was obliged to run as fast as she could all the way
through the mire inside the shell of the chair."
"_Blenkinsopp Castle, Oct. 11._--This is the castellated house of
the Coulsons, in the upper part of South Tyne Valley--very large
and comfortable. The owner, Colonel Coulson, is a great invalid,
and his daughter-in-law, a daughter of Lord Byron, does the
honours. We have made pleasant excursions to Gilsland Spa, and to
Llanercost and Naworth, the latter--externally a magnificent feudal
castle--the home of Belted Will Howard in mosstrooping times."
"_Bamborough Castle, Oct. 17._--How enchanting it is in this grand
old castle looking out on the sea, with all the Farne Islands
stretched out as on a map. I think even the Mediterranean is
scarcely such a beautiful sea as this, the waves are so enormous
and have such gorgeous colouring. I have had delightful walks with
the dear old cousin on the sands, and to Spindleston, where the
famous dragon lived."
"_Winton Castle, Tranent, Oct. 17, Evening._--As my mother will
see, I have come here for holidays, and shall be glad of a day or
two in which the mind is not kept in perpetual tension. I heard
from Lady Ruthven that I was to meet Lord Belhaven at Prestonpans
station, and had no doubt which was he--an old gentleman in a white
hat with white hair and hooked nose. We drove here together, and
very pleasant it was to exchange the pouring rain without for the
large, low, old-fashioned drawing-room, with a splendid ceiling and
sculptured chimney, thick Indian carpets, and fine old pictures and
china. Soon Lady Ruthven and Lady Belhaven came in, calling out
'welcome' as they entered the room. The other guests are Lady
Arthur Lennox and her youngest daughter, who looks, as Lady Ruthven
says, 'just like a Watteau;' also Lord Leven, cousin of our
hostess, and Miss Fletcher of Saltoun."
[Illustration: WINTON CASTLE.]
"_Winton Castle, Oct. 20._--When I awoke on Saturday, I was
surprised to see a fine old tower opposite my windows, with high
turrets and richly-carved chimneys and windows; but the castle has
been miserably added to. Lady Ruthven is most original, with a
wonderfully poetical mind, and is very different from her
regal-looking sister, Lady Belhaven, who, still very handsome,
sweeps about the long rooms, and for whom 'gracious' is the only
befitting expression. All the guests are pushed together by Lady
Ruthven in a way which makes it impossible that they should not be
intimate. For instance, as we went in to breakfast on Saturday, she
said, 'Now, Mr. Hare, you are to sit next to Lord Leven, for you
will not see any more of him; so mind you devote yourselves to one
another all breakfast time.'
"On Saturday we all went to luncheon at Saltoun, the great place of
the neighbourhood, where Mr. Fletcher lives, whose wife, Lady
Charlotte, is one of Lady Ruthven's nieces. It is a large, stately,
modern castle, containing a fine library and curious MSS. The
tables were loaded with 'loot' from the Summer Palace in China.
"Yesterday we all went at twelve o'clock to the Presbyterian church
at Pencaitland, one of the oldest in Scotland. The singing was
beautiful, and we had an admirable sermon from the minister, Mr.
Rioch, who came in the evening and made a very long 'exposition' to
the servants."
"_Oct. 21._--The Mount-Edgecumbes and I went to-day with Lady
Ruthven to Gosford--her nephew Lord Wemyss's place, near the sea. I
walked for some time in the shrubberies with Lady Mount-Edgecumbe,
till we were sent for into the house. There we found old Lady
Wemyss with her daughter, Lady Louisa Wells, and her
daughter-in-law, Lady Elcho. The last is a celebrated beauty, and
has been celebrated also for fulfilling the part of 'Justice' in a
famous tableau. In ordinary life she is perfectly statuesque, with
a frigid manner. She was very kind, however, and took us over the
house, full of works of art, of which we had not time to see a
tenth part, but there is a grand Pordenone."
"_North Berwick, Oct. 23._--It has been charming to be here again
with dear Mrs. Dalzel.... What a quaint place it is. Formerly every
one who lived in North Berwick was a Dalrymple: there were nine
families of Dalrymples, and seventeen Miss Dalrymples, old maids:
the only street in the town was Quality Street, and all its houses
were occupied by Dalrymples. North Berwick supported itself
formerly upon its herring-fishery, and it is sadly conducive to
strict Sabbatarianism that the herrings have totally disappeared,
and the place become poverty-stricken, since an occasion in the
spring when the fishers went out on a Sunday."
"_Kings Meadows, Oct. 25._--This comfortable house of kind old Sir
Adam Hay is close to Peebles. 'As quiet as Peebles or the grave,'
is a proverb. The Baillie, however, does not think so. He went to
Paris, and when he came back, all his neighbours were longing to
know his impressions. 'Eh, it's just a grand place, but Peebles for
pleasure,' he said. Ultra-Sabbatarianism reigns supreme. An old
woman's son whistled on a Sunday. 'Eh, I could just put up wi' a
wee swearing, but I canna thole whistling on the Sabbath,' she
lamented. Another woman, being invited to have some more at a
dinner given to some of the poor, answered, 'No, thank ye, mum, I
won't have any more, mum; the sufficiency that I have had is enough
for me.'"
"_Wishaw House, Motherwell, Oct. 27._--When I came here, I found
Lord and Lady Belhaven alone, but a large party arrived soon
afterwards, who have since been admirably shaken together by their
hostess. The place is almost in the Black Country, but is charming
nevertheless. A rushing river, the Calder, dashes through the rocky
glen below the castle, under a tall ivy-covered bridge, and through
woods now perfectly gorgeous with the crimson and golden tints of
autumn. Above, on either side, are hanging walks, and in the depth
of the glen an old-fashioned garden with a stone fountain, clipped
yew-trees, and long straight grass walks.
"We have been taken to Brainscleugh, a wonderful little place
belonging to Lady Ruthven--a sort of Louis XIV. villa, overhanging
the river Avon by a series of quaint terraces, with moss-grown
staircases and fountains--more like something at Albano than in
Scotland. Miss Melita Ponsonby, Sir Charles Cuffe, and I walked on
hence to the old Hamilton Chase, full of oaks which have stood
there since the Conquest, and part of the forest which once
extended across Scotland from one sea to the other. It poured with
rain, but we reached the place where the eighty wild milk-white
cattle were feeding together. Then we pursued the rest of the party
to Hamilton Palace, which is like a monster London house--Belgrave
Square covered in and brought into the country. There are endless
pictures, amongst them an awful representation of Daniel in an
agony of prayer in the lions' den. 'It is no wonder the lions were
afraid of him,' the Duchess of Hamilton overheard one of the crowd
say as they were being shown round. In the park is a huge domed
edifice something like the tomb of Theodoric at Ravenna. It was
erected by the last Duke for himself, his son, grandson, and his
nine predecessors. 'What a grand sight it will be,' he said, 'when
twelve Dukes of Hamilton rise together here at the Resurrection!'
He lies himself just under the dome, upon a pavement of coloured
marbles and inside the sarcophagus of an Egyptian queen, with _her_
image painted and sculptured outside. He had this sarcophagus
brought from Thebes, and used frequently to lie down in it to see
how it fitted. It is made of Egyptian syenite, the hardest of all
stones, and could not be altered; but when dying he was so haunted
by the idea that his body might be too long to go inside the queen,
that his last words were, 'Double me up! double me up!' The last
drive he took had been to buy spices for his own embalming. After
he was dead, no amount of doubling could get him into the
mummy-case, and they had to cut off his feet to do it![221] The
mausoleum is a most strange place, and as you enter mysterious
voices seem to be whispering and clamouring together in the height
of the dome; and when the door bangs, it is as if all the demons in
the Inferno were let loose, and the shriekings and screamings
around you are perfectly terrific. Beneath lie all the house of
Hamilton in their crimson coffins, which you survey by the light of
a single tallow candle.
"Yesterday I went to Dalzell, the old fortified house of the
Hamiltons, and we have also been taken to the Falls of the Clyde at
Stonebyres, which were magnificent, the river tossing wildly
through woods which now have all the gorgeous colouring of an
Indian autumn."
"_Ford Cottage, Nov. 5._--This is a charming little house, nestling
at the foot of the castle-hill, and it has been an amusement to
Lady Waterford to fit it up temporarily with the most interesting
contents of the castle. The walls are hung with beautiful pictures
and the rooms furnished with ivory and ebony cabinets, quantities
of old china, tall glasses piled with ferns and flowers,
old-fashioned tables and deep velvet arm-chairs. She will be here
for another year probably, and thoroughly enjoys the life, saying
that she never knew what it was to have a garden before.
"Dear old Lady Stuart is here in her deep mourning, and Lady
Waterford, now her only remaining child, has been more closely
united to her mother than ever since Lady Canning's death.[222]
"Lady Waterford is indeed perfectly delightful--brimming with
originality and enthusiasm, and with the power--which so few people
have--of putting all her wonderfully poetical thoughts into words,
and so letting others have the benefit of them. Sometimes she will
sit down to the pianoforte and sing in the most thrilling
way--Handel or Beethoven, or old Spanish ballads--without having
the music or words before her. At others she will draw, suddenly
and at once, the beautiful inspirations which come to her. Last
night it was a lovely child crowned and sporting with flowers, and
four other sweet little maidens dancing round her with garlands; it
was from the childhood of Mary Queen of Scots and her four Maries.
She is never tired of hearing of _people_; she says she sees so few
and knows so little of them now--_places_ she does not care to hear
about.
[Illustration: THE CHEVIOTS, FROM FORD.[223]]
"In the afternoon we went up to the castle, which is entirely
changed since I saw it last, having gone back from a gingerbread
gothic house to the appearance of an ancient building. The
drawing-room is beautiful, with its ceiling and ornaments copied
from that at Winton. Lord Durham was drilling his volunteer corps
before the castle, and a mock siege was got up, with a storming of
the new bridge over the dene. Then we walked to a new lodge which
is building. All around are improvements--church restored, schools
built, cottages renewed, gardens made, and then the castle."
"_Nov. 5_ (_Evening_).--The hard frost last night preluded a bright
beautiful day. Lady Waterford let me have the pony-carriage with
two white ponies to go where I liked, and I went to a ruined peel
at Howtell Grange, and then through hollows in the Cheviots to
Kirk-Newton, where Paulinus baptized his Northumbrian converts.
'Oh! if my Lady were only here, for it is quite lovely!' exclaimed
the coachman, as we turned the corner of the mountains. He told me
about Lord Waterford's death, how he was riding by his side over
the mountain when his horse stumbled. He got up safely, and then
somehow overbalanced himself and fell from the saddle upon his
head. They could not believe that he was hurt at first, for he lay
in his hunting-coat quite unbruised and beautiful; but when they
raised him up, his head fell down, for his neck was broken and he
was dead. 'Then there was an awful wail,' said the man, 'though we
could none of us believe it. Dr. Jephson rode on to break it to my
Lady, and he met her driving her two white ponies up to the door,
all gay and happy, and told her at first that my Lord had broken
his thigh-bone and was very much hurt; but she saw by his face that
it was worse than that, and said so, and he could not speak to her.
Then she went away to her own room and locked herself in. When my
Lord had been brought home and night came on, she ordered every one
away from her, and she looked on his face once more, but what my
Lady did that night we none of us knew.'
"She cannot bear a horse now: she has only this little
pony-carriage.
"This afternoon I have been with her to her school. She is covering
it with large pictures which have the effect of frescoes. All the
subjects are Bible stories from the lives of good children. In the
first, of Cain and Abel, the devout Abel is earnestly offering his
sacrifice of the lamb; while careless Cain, attracted by the flight
of some pigeons, looks away and lets his apples fall from the
altar. All the children are portraits, and it was interesting to
see the originals sitting beneath the frescoes, slates and pencils
in hand.
"It seems to me as if Lady Waterford had become strangely
spiritualised this year since Lady Canning's death. She is just
what she herself describes Miss Boyle to have become, 'A calm
seeker after good, in whatever way she may find it.'"
"_Falloden, Nov. 7, 1862._--I have been most kindly received by Sir
George and Lady Grey.... He has the reputation of being the most
agreeable 'gentleman' in England, and certainly is charming, so
cordial and kind and winning in manner.... We have been this
evening to Dunstanborough--most lovely, the tall tower in the
evening light rising rosy-pink against a blue sea."
"_Roddam, Nov. 13._--I have been with Mrs. Roddam at Eslington, a
large grey stone house on a terrace, with a French garden and fine
trees. Hedworth Liddell received us, and then his many sisters came
trooping in to luncheon from walking and driving. 'We are sure this
is our cousin Augustus Hare: we saw you through the window, and
were sure it was you, you are so like your sister.' ... They were
much amused at my delight over the portraits of our ancestors."
"_Chillingham, Nov. 14._--There is a large party here, including
Captain and Mrs. Northcote, a very handsome, distinguished-looking
young couple, and my hitherto unknown cousins, Lord and Lady
Durham.[224] He has a morose look, which does him great injustice;
she is one of Lord Abercorn's charming daughters--excessively
pretty, natural, and winning."
"_Nov. 15._--Each evening we have had impromptu charades, in which
Lord Durham acts capitally. Yesterday we went to a review of his
volunteer corps on Millfield Plain, and afterwards to tea at
Copeland Castle, an old Border fortress on the Till, which the
Durhams are renting. You would be quite fascinated by Lady
Durham--'the little Countess,' as Lady Tankerville calls her. Lord
Durham does not look a bit older than I, though he has seven
children. They have given me a very cordial invitation to stay with
them."
"_Morpeth, Nov. 16._--We dispersed yesterday evening. Lord
Tankerville wished me to have stayed, and it was very pleasant at
the end of an enchanting visit to have one's host say, 'I am so
very sorry you are going; and, though the Greys are very nice
people, I quite hate them for taking you away from us.' They sent
me in one carriage, and my luggage in another, to meet the coach at
Lilburn. I had three-quarters of an hour to wait, and took refuge
in a shepherd's hut, where the wife was very busy washing all her
little golden-haired children in tubs, and putting them to sleep in
box-beds."
"_Morpeth, Nov. 19._--On Monday I got up in pitch darkness and went
off at half-past seven by coach to Rothbury, a lonely little town
amid moorland hills with sweeping blue distance. There I got a gig,
and went far up Coquetdale to Harbottle, a most interesting
country, full of peel towers and wild rocky valleys. Coming back, I
stopped at Holystone, where a tall cross and an old statue near a
basin of transparent water mark the place where Paulinus baptized
three thousand Northumbrians. Then, in the gloaming, I saw the fine
old Abbey of Brinkburn, close upon the shore of Coquet, celebrated
in many old angling songs.
"To-day I have been with the Greys to Cresswell, the largest modern
house in the county, with an old peel tower where an ancestress of
the family starved herself to death after seeing her three brothers
murder her Danish lover upon the shore."
Several more visits brought me home at the end of November, with an
immense stock of new material, which I arranged in the next few months
in "Murray's Handbook of Durham and Northumberland"--work for which
neither Murray nor any one else gave me much credit, but which cost me
great labour, and into which I put my whole heart.