"_Dec. 11, 1864._--Not further than Avignon! I was ill at Lyons and
could not go on. There I had a most agreeable visitor, a M. Gabet,
very zealous in the œuvres de la Propagation de la Foi. He spent
two evenings with us, and told us much that was very interesting.
He told me that he had lately received a donation from Dahomey,
and he corresponds with missionaries in every part of the world.
Auntie went up to the convent to fetch two friends of mine who were
staying there, and I have been given a small medal of the Curé
d'Ars blessed by himself."
My sister did not reach Rome till the second week in January.
"_Jan. 16, 1865._--We arrived late on Tuesday night, coming
_voiturier_ from Leghorn, two long days, and very fatiguing. When
we arrived at Leghorn a violent storm was raging, and we were
obliged to give up going by sea, only sending Leonardo with the
luggage. Auntie, Victoire, Clémence, and I travelled in a tolerable
carriage. There are so few travellers that way, that at Orbetello,
where we slept, the excitement was intense, the women wishing to
examine dress and coiffure, to know the _ultima moda_. The carriage
was quite mobbed, the _voiturier_ having declared it was a _gran
signora_. 'La vogliamo vedere,' the people cried out, and pushed
and struggled. It seemed so strange to return to a country where so
little could create such an excitement. I was carried upstairs, so
terribly tired with the incessant shaking. We slept also at Civita
Vecchia, whence Victoire and Clémence went on to Rome by an early
train, Auntie and I following late. It was quite dark as we drove
up to the Parisani, and the streets seemed perfectly silent. The
porter came out saying 'Ben tornata,' and then his wife, with a
scarlet handkerchief over her head, exclaiming 'Ben tornata' also,
and we came upstairs without being heard by any one else. I rushed
through the rooms, throwing open one door after another. In the
little sitting-room Clémence and Victoire were sitting together, a
look of misery on both faces. When I reached my own room I fell
upon a chair: I could scarcely breathe. I heard Victoire cry
out,'Mon Dieu! courage; c'est la volonté de Dieu: l'heure de votre
mère a sonné, l'heure aussi du mari de Clémence a sonné.' She
poured something down my throat and rubbed my hands, and brought me
round by degrees. Clémence was sobbing violently for the old
husband, whose death she had learnt on her arrival; Auntie was
standing looking from one to the other, as if she did not realise
how terrible was that evening: she had hoped that the joy of seeing
Rome again would make me forget what was sad. Poor Victoire had
made one great effort, and then she could scarcely speak for hours.
I never saw such devotion to the memory of a relation or friend as
her devotion to the memory of dear Mama; and then there was so much
to remind her also of the good Félix, gone to his rest since our
Roman home was broken up. I had dreaded this arrival for months,
and had been glad to put it off from week to week, till I could put
it off no longer. Now it is a pleasure to Victoire to unpack Mama's
things and bring them to me, one after another, her eyes often
filled with tears, and then she says, trying to compose herself,
'Que la volonté de Dieu soit faite.' And yet I cannot wish dear
Mama back again. What I had lived for was that deathbed--that it
should have God's blessing and that her soul should be saved. I
used to think _how_ glorified that soul might be, after so much
suffering, if only at death resigned. But now I am going back to
past thoughts, instead of telling my Augustus about the present.
"The old beggar-woman at San Claudio rushed towards me. 'L'ho
saputo,' she said,'quella benedetta anima!' and she cried also, and
then the sacristan of San Claudio, and he told me how Mama had died
on one of the great days of San Claudio--the feast of Notre Dame de
Bon Conseil--our Lady's altar under that title being the altar
where Mama had knelt for so many years: all have been struck by
this."
"_Feb. 9._--It is, as you say, a gathering up of the fragments that
remain. I am beginning to feel the sense of loneliness in these
desolate rooms less, though I still feel it very much. I do not
wish that anything should be different from what God has willed it
I used to tell Mama when we were so poor how strange it was that I
never _felt_ poor. She used to say that was the great difference
between herself and me, that she felt poor and I did not; why not
she could never understand. I feel quite certain that Mama would
never have liked Rome again; probably she never would have returned
here, and perhaps it was necessary that through suffering she
should be prepared for death by being detached from the things of
life.
"Most of the Romans have called, some paying long visits--Duchess
Sora, Princess Viano, Prince Doria, Dukes Fiano and Sora. In fact,
a day never passes without two or three visitors. I have made three
devoted friends--the Princess Galitzin; the Padre Pastacaldi, a
venerable ecclesiastic of Pisa, who is anxious to further my views
in establishing a particular association for raising funds for the
Church; and lastly, Don Giovanni Merlini, the friend of 'the
Venerable'[243] for thirty years, who has already paid me four
visits. These visits are quite delightful: I always feel I am in
the presence of a saint. His language is most beautiful. Yesterday
he gave me his blessing in the most solemn, earnest manner, laying
his hand on my head. I have heard from him so much of the Venerable
del Bufalo.... A great storm has swept over the nuns of the
Precious Blood: it nearly swept them out of England, but instead of
that they are to move to the Italian Church of S. Pietro in
Bloomsbury. I have had a great deal of correspondence about them."
"_March 4._--The friend of the Venerable[244] came to-day, and we
planned together work for the nuns in London,--a great work I have
wished to see established since early in 1858. Again he gave me his
solemn blessing. He spoke of poverty--voluntary poverty, but said
that all were not called to that '_spogliamento_.' Then I told him
that I had also been poor, and he looked around at the decorations
of the room and said simply 'Iddio ci ha rimediato.' His is
certainly a beautiful face from its expression; there is so much
light about it, and such simplicity and humility. Pierina[245]
certainly ought to be saint-like, since she has been trained to a
religious life by such a man."
"_March 9._--During my mother's illness I often thought of the
80,000 who die daily, and who have to appear before the
judgment-seat and who are found wanting. Sometimes, when I am
alone, I think how in every moment which I am idling away a soul
has been judged, and perhaps a prayer could have saved that soul.
Oh! in your watchings beside the sick-bed, ask forgiveness for the
souls that are then passing away from the earth, that they may be
counted amongst the blessed for eternity.... It is strange what
mental agony one can live through. A sort of supernatural strength
is given when it is required, and is it not another proof of the
watchful tenderness of our Blessed Lord? It is so true, that when a
soul is ready for the change, death is only an entering on the
perfected life.... I believe that God has still blessings left for
my brother: His blessings can never be exhausted."
"_May 3._--How you will envy me when you hear that the saint of
Acuto, the Rev. Mother-General of the Precious Blood, is coming to
Rome at the end of the week and is coming to see me. The
Father-General came to give me this welcome news, when I was
wondering and planning how I could get to Acuto with my weak back.
I have begged for two visits at least.... I have constant letters
from the Rev. Mother of the Precious Blood in London about the new
work of her nuns. I have been thinking of writing the life of the
Venerable del Bufalo. Don Giovanni Merlini, the Father-General,
promises help and materials, and the Italian life is very poor. The
Taigi and Bufalo lives would come out so well together, as they
lived at the same time, and died, I believe, in the same year,
though quite independent of each other; but I have not the gift of
writing--_there_ is the difficulty.
"On the 25th there was an anniversary High Mass and a very
beautiful choir for dearest Mama, Monseigneur Level attending, and
many friends. Mrs. Monteith sat next to me, and felt it so much,
she cried nearly the whole time. It is so beautiful this love for
the dead in the Catholic Church.
"I have had a letter from Mrs. Wagner, who says just that which
struck me in one of Father Galway's sermons, when he spoke of
parents' sorrow at the loss of their children, that they are to
look upon them as gifts _lent_ for a time. She says, 'We do not
repine, but render back with thankfulness the gift lent us for a
season.'
"To-day I had a beautiful simple note from the Father-General of
the Precious Blood. I wrote to thank him for several things he had
sent me. His answer was, 'Do not thank me; it suffices me that you
love our Lord Jesus Christ. I bless you from my heart. Pray for me
miserable.' I thought how my Augustus would have liked this note."
My sister during the whole of this winter very seldom left the house,
and never went into society. Political differences, however, rendered
Roman society at this time less pleasant than before. Esmeralda
wrote--"The usual conversation goes on, but all parties are divided and
contradictory: the Pope (Pius IX.) alone is perfectly calm, and trusts
in Providence whilst the world is raging and storming and plotting." If
Esmeralda went out, it was generally to the Villa Ludovisi, where the
Duke and Duchess Sora were living in a sort of honourable banishment,
the Duke's parents, the Prince and Princess Piombino, having been exiled
to Tuscany. The Duchess Sora used to talk to my sister of the
patriarchal life in her great "villa," where there were so many small
farmhouses and cottages within the grounds, that it gave her occupation
enough to visit their inmates and learn their characters. She said that
she brought up her children amongst the people within the walls of the
villa, that they might thus early learn to know thoroughly those who
would depend on them afterwards. She let them call one man after another
to work in their little gardens, that they might thus make individual
acquaintance with each. On Good Friday, when the chaplain called in all
the work-people to prayer, there were seventy in the chapel, including
the Duke and herself, and all, as it were, one great family.[246]
One of the people who most rejoiced over Esmeralda's return to Rome was
Giacinta Facchini, commonly known as "the Saint of St. Peter's." This
extraordinary woman lived for forty years in St. Peter's without ever
leaving it, devoting herself to incessant prayer and sleeping in a cell
in one of the pillars. When people had any particular object in view,
they used to go down to St. Peter's and ask her to pray for it.
Esmeralda used constantly, during her prosperity, to go to visit her in
St. Peter's, and she would remain with her for hours. At length one day
the confessor of the saint came to her and said that now, though she had
lived in St. Peter's for forty years, she would be showing a far more
real devotion to God and a more lowly spirit if she were to break
through the life which was beginning to make her celebrated, and return
to the humble service of God in the world. Giacinta Facchini obeyed, and
after that she often used to go to see my sister at the Palazzo
Parisani. But she still spent the greater part of her time in St.
Peter's, where I have often seen her quaint figure, in a half nun's
dress, bowed in prayer before one of the altars, or perfectly prostrate
on the pavement in silent adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.
Here are a few extracts from Esmeralda's private meditations at this
time:--
"Let me offer myself continually with all I have for the greater
glory of God, remembering the words of St. Ignatius, that 'having
received everything from God, we ought to be ever ready to render
back all that He has given us.' The propensity most opposed to the
reign of Jesus in our souls is the want of resolution in all
matters connected with spiritual advancement. Kneeling at the foot
of the cross, let me make war against all my evil propensities;
that I may be purified and strengthened in God's love, let me seek
to detach myself from everything, exterior and interior, that
separates me from God.'
"Self-love must be overcome by mortification of self, by asking of
God to give us His love, to fill us with His love, for if the love
of God _fills_ our hearts, self-love must be rooted out. Let me ask
of our Lord that I may have the same resolution in spiritual
matters, and in the carrying out and _on_ of a spiritual life,
which I have where a temporal matter is concerned. Oh! with what
zeal and earnestness can I pursue a temporal object, with the same
zeal and earnestness may I carry out my resolutions for a spiritual
life."
"_Jan. 14, 1865._--Unless we can build up a solitude in our hearts,
completely detaching ourselves from the love of everything in this
world, we can never hope to attain to that spiritual joy which is a
preparation for the life of Jesus in our souls, a preparation for
the resurrection to eternal life."
"_March 4._--Where there is such a strong attachment to this life,
my will cannot be perfectly united to the Divine. Oh! _how_ many
steps there are in the ladder of a spiritual life! Detachment from
this life must gradually lead to the union of my will with the
Divine and to the entire _indwèlling_ of the love of Jesus in my
soul."
"_March 17._--By the light of the wounds of Jesus Christ, may I
search the innermost folds of my heart, and cast out all that is
contrary to charity and humility. 'We must study in the book of
Charity more than in any other: that book teaches us all things;'
these are the words of S. Dominic."
"_March 30._--May filial love of God take the place of servile fear
in our hearts; then will our Lord draw nigh to us and replenish us
with His grace. When filial love has closed the door against all
earthly thoughts, then shall we return into that inward solitude in
which our Lord loves that we should dwell, to seek Him and commune
with Him."
"_April 1._--I ask for the grace of a pure love of God. The more we
can leave off thinking of ourselves, the nearer we shall attain to
that union with our Lord which the saints speak of--loving Him only
and entirely, because He first loved us. In proportion as our
confidence in God increases, and we can lay aside all confidence in
ourselves, we shall attain purity of intention in all our thoughts,
words, and actions. Let us seek that purity of intention which can
only follow confidence in God, and can only exist in those souls
which unite themselves entirely to God."
"_April 22._--Day by day I leave at the foot of the cross something
more of myself. I cannot live again the time that is no longer
mine. We are constantly journeying on to our last end, so let us
strive in our spiritual life truly to lay at the foot of the cross
something of that which binds our wills to ourselves and to
creatures, and thus free our will from all that hinders its perfect
union with the will of our Lord Jesus Christ."
I have been making a long digression from my personal story, but
Esmeralda, in her gentle patience and ardent search after all things
high and holy, had become so greatly endeared to us in the last few
years, that her life was almost ours. And indeed all those things are
ever a part of life which are a constant part of thoughts and
conversation.
* * * * *
In the summer of 1864 we had a delightful visit at Holmhurst from Dean
Alford and his family. He read Tennyson's "Guinevere" aloud to us in
the garden, and was at his very best, full of anecdote and fun. I
remember his description of a trial for murder which resulted in a
verdict of manslaughter owing to the very effective evidence of a
Somersetshire peasant. "He'd a stick and he'd a stick, and he hit he and
he hit he, and if he'd ha hit he when he hit he, he'd ha killed he and
not he he."
In the autumn, while I was staying with Mr. Stephen Lawley at Escrick
near York, I had much conversation with his charming old mother, Lady
Wenlock.[247] Here are some notes of what she told me:--
"I once saw Lord Nelson. It was when I was quite a little child.
The maids took me to church at St. George's, and there I saw the
wonderful little man, covered with orders and with one arm. They
told me it was Lord Nelson, and I knew it was, for his figure and
prints were in all the shop-windows.
"I remember well the battle of Trafalgar. It was the _Euryalus_,
Captain Blackwood, that brought the news, and, oh dear! the
sensation. I was seven years old then, but I knew the names of all
the ships and captains. My sister was then the mistress of my
father's house, and I was sent for down to her. She was not up,
and the newspaper was lying on the bed. 'Oh, my dear,' she said,
'my father has sent me up the newspaper, and we have taken twenty
ships of the line, but--Nelson is dead!' Child as I was, I burst
into tears; one had been taught to think that nothing could go on
without him.
"I cannot quite forgive Dean Trench his book.[248] Nelson was the
one hero of his time, and it was a pity to bring up the bad vulgar
side again and not to let it sleep.... The Lady Carysfort the book
mentions was my aunt. My cousins were quite devoted to Mrs. Trench,
and have often told me how enchanted they felt when she came back
to England."
* * *
"King George III. used to be very fond of driving about in
Berkshire with the Queen and visiting the families in the
neighbourhood of Windsor--those whom they used to honour with their
notice. He often came to my grandfather,[249] who was gouty with
the gout of that day, which prevented people from rising, so that
he was not able to get up when the King came in. The King and Queen
always came quite simply in a carriage and four with the prickers
riding before in crimson liveries. There was a particular point in
the avenue at which the prickers were visible from the windows, and
when they were seen, my grandfather used to ring the bell and ask
if there was a round of beef in the house. He was generally
answered in the affirmative, and then it was all right, for none of
the royal party took luncheon, only the Queen used to have a
particular kind of chocolate brought to her: my father generally
offered it on a tray, after they had been about half-an-hour in the
house. They used to take an interest in everything, and if any one
ventured to rehang their pictures, they would say, 'Mr. So-and-so,
why have you rehung your pictures?' I remember the King one day
asking my grandfather if he had read the memoirs which every one
was talking about at that time. They were those of the Duc de St.
Simon, La Grande Mademoiselle, &c., and my father said no, he had
not seen them. The King came again within the fortnight, and my
grandfather did not see him coming down the avenue, nor did he know
the King was in the house, till there was a kind of fumbling
outside the door, and the King, who would not let any one come to
help him, opened the door, with a great pile of volumes reaching
from his waist to his chin, saying, 'Here, Mr. Grenville, I have
brought you the books we were talking about.' But as the King came
through the door, the books slipped and fell all about on the
floor: my grandfather could not move, and the King began to pick
them up, till some one came to help him and put them on the table
for him.
"The scene on the terrace at Windsor on Sundays was the prettiest
thing. It was considered proper that every one in the neighbourhood
who could should go; those who were in a position of life to be
presented at court stood in the foremost rank. The presence of the
King was announced by the coming of 'Lavender,' a kind of
policeman-guard, who used to clear the way and always preceded the
royal family; he was the only kind of guard they had. The Queen
wore evening dress, a sort of cap with a string of diamonds, and a
loose flowing kind of gown; there was no such thing then as
demi-toilette. After her came the princesses, or any of the princes
who happened to have come down from London, or, on fine days, some
of the Cabinet Ministers. The royal family stopped perpetually and
talked to every one. I remember the King coming up to me when I was
a very little girl, and dreadfully frightened I was. 'Well, now,'
said the King, 'and here is _this_ little girl. Come, my dear, take
off your bonnet,' he said (for I wore a poke), and then he added,
'I wanted to see if you were like your mother, my dear.'
"It was Miss Burney who gave the impression of Queen Charlotte as
being so formidable. Nothing could be more false; she was the
kindest person that ever lived, and so simple and unostentatious.
The fact was that Miss Burney had been spoilt by having been made a
sort of queen in Dr. Johnson's court. The day 'Evelina' came out
Dr. Johnson said to her, 'Miss Burney, _die_ to-night,' meaning
that she had reached the highest point of fame which it was
possible to attain. Queen Charlotte made her one of her readers,
for she was passionately fond of being read to while she worked.
But Miss Burney was one of those people afflicted with _mauvaise
honte_. She could not read a bit, and the Queen could not hear a
word she said. 'Mama the Queen,' said the Duchess of Gloucester to
me, 'never could bear Miss Burney, poor thing!' So the Queen
invented some other place in her extreme kindness to Miss Burney,
to prevent having to send her away, and in that place Miss Burney
was obliged to stand.
"An instance of Queen Charlotte's extreme kindness was shown when
she made Lady Elizabeth Montagu one of her ladies-in-waiting, out
of her great love to Lady Cornwallis. When Lady Elizabeth arrived
at court, the Queen sent for her and said, 'My dear, you have no
mother here, so I must beg that you will consider me as your
mother, and if you have any trouble or difficulty, that you will
come to me at once.' When Lady Elizabeth went to her room, she
found the bed covered with new things--new dresses, a quantity of
black velvet to make the trains which were worn then, and a great
many ornaments. 'My dear,' said the Queen, 'you will want these
things, and it will be a year before your salary is due; I thought
it might not be convenient to you to buy them just now, so you must
accept them from me.'
"Another day, when Lady Elizabeth had been ill in the evening and
unable to go with the Queen to a concert, early in the morning she
heard a knock at her door while she was in bed, and the Queen came
in in her dressing-gown, with what we called a combing-cloth (which
they used because of the powder) over her shoulders, and all her
hair down. 'May I come in, Lady Elizabeth?' she said. 'I heard you
were ill, and there is nothing stirring to-day, so I came to beg
that you will not think of getting up, and that you will send for
everything you can wish for. Pray think of everything that it is
right for you to have.'"
* * * * *
"Mrs. Fry came to Escrick once, and was pleased to see our gardens
and the few little things we had to show her. 'Friend Caroline, I
like thy pig-styes,' she said."
During this and the following summer I was often with my sister in
London, and saw much of her friends, persons who have been entirely lost
to me, never seen again, since the link which I had to them in her has
been broken. Thus at Esmeralda's house I often saw the gentle sisters of
the Precious Blood and their sweet-looking Mother, Pierina Roleston. She
was utterly ignorant of worldly matters, and entirely governed by her
priests, but her own character was of a simplicity much like that of the
Curé d'Ars. She once described to me Maria de Matthias, and the story of
the foundation of her Order.
"Oh, I wish you could see the Mother-General: she is so simple,
such a primitive person. When she wants anything, she just goes
away and talks to our Blessed Lord, and He gives it to her.
Sometimes the nuns come and say to her, 'What can we do, Mother? we
have no flour, we cannot bake;' and she answers, 'Why should you be
troubled? Are not the granaries of our Master always full? We will
knock at them, and He will give us something.'
"One day there was nothing at all left at Acuto: there was no
bread, and there was no money to buy any. But Mother-General had
just that simple faith that she was not at all troubled by it, and
she even brought in five additional persons, five workmen who were
to make some repairs which were necessary for the convent. When
they came, she made the nuns come into the chapel, and she said,
'Now, my children, you know that we have nothing left, and we must
pray to our Master that He will send us something;' and she
herself, going up to the altar, began to talk to Our Blessed Lord
and to tell Him all her needs. 'Dear Lord,' she said, 'we have
nothing to eat, and I am just come to tell you all about it, and to
ask you to send us something; and I am in debt too, dear Lord. I
owe twenty-five scudi for your work; will you send it to me?' and
so she continued to talk to Our Blessed Lord, just telling Him all
she wanted.
"At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a young man put
a paper into the portress's hand, only saying these words--'Pray
for the benefactor.' The portress brought the paper to the
Mother-General in the chapel, and she opened it and said,'My
children, give thanks; the Master has sent us what we asked for.'
It was the twenty-five scudi. Mother-General was not surprised. She
_knew_ that our Blessed Lord heard her, and she felt sure He would
answer her. Soon after the convent bell rang for the dinner-hour.
The nuns were coming downstairs, but there was nothing for them to
eat. The Mother-General said, however, that the Master would send
them something, and indeed, as they reached the foot of the stairs,
the door-bell rang, and a large basket of food was left at the
door, sent by some ladies in the neighbourhood. 'See how our Lord
has sent dinner to us,' said the Mother-General.
"The Mother-General is an educated person, really indeed quite
learned, considering that in the time of her youth it was not
thought well to teach girls much, for fear they should learn
anything that is evil.
"When the Mother-General was a young person, as Maria de Matthias
in Vallecorso, she was very worldly and gay. But she heard 'the
Venerable' (Gaspare del Bufalo) preach in Vallecorso, and, as he
preached, his eye fixed upon her, he seemed to pierce her to the
very soul. When she went home, she cut off all her hair except the
curls in front, and turned her gown inside out, and wore her oldest
bonnet. She thought to please our Lord in this way, and she
remained for seven years shut up in her father's house, but all
that time she was not satisfied, and at last she went to 'the
Venerable' and asked him what she was to do, for she wished to do
something for our Blessed Lord. And the Venerable said to her, 'You
must go to Acuto, and there you will be told what you must do.' She
had never heard of Acuto, but she went to a friend of hers, also
named Maria, and inquired where Acuto was, for she was ordered to
go there. The friend said she would go with her, and ordered out
her horse, but the horse was a wild horse,[250] and she did not
know how to ride it. Maria de Matthias, however, went up to the
horse and patted it, saying, 'You must not be wild, you must become
calm, because it is necessary that we should go to Acuto: you and I
have to go in obedience, and I cannot walk, for it is twelve
hours' journey.' When the Mother had thus spoken to the horse, it
became quite mild, and, hanging down its head, went quite gently,
step by step, and the Mother rode upon it. When they had gone
half-way, she wished that the other Maria should ride, and the
Mother got off, and Maria climbed upon a wall to mount the horse,
but with her the horse would not move an inch, and then Maria felt
it was not our Lord's will that she should mount the horse, and the
Mother continued to ride to Acuto. When they arrived, and the
Mother got off the horse, it became again immediately quite wild,
and when Maria attempted to touch it, it was in such a fury that it
kicked and stamped till the fire came out of the ground.
"The priest of Acuto was waiting to receive the Mother, and she
remained there teaching a school. She believed at first that this
only was her mission, but in a short time the children began to
call her 'Mother,' and to ask her to give them a habit. The first
nun who received the habit was a little child of eight years old,
who is now Mother Caroline, Superior of the Convent at Civita
Vecchia.
"The Mother-General often preaches, and she preaches so powerfully
that even the priests crowd to hear her. When the people see her
come forward to the edge of the altar-steps and begin to speak,
they say 'Hark! the great Mother is going to talk to us,' and there
is fixed silence and attention. She generally begins by addressing
them as 'Brothers and Sisters,' and then she teaches them.
"The Mother-General cannot write. When she is obliged to write a
letter, she kneels down and kisses the feet of the Crucifix and
asks Our Lord to help her, and letters of hers which she has
written in this way, in the most beautiful hand, are preserved.
When there are no flowers for the altar she says, 'Our Master's
flowers are always blooming; He will send us some;' and that day
flowers come.
"After her death Sister Caterina appeared three times to Sister
Filomena, and begged her to tell the Mother not to be troubled, for
that the Sisters would suffer yet for four months longer, and then
that they would have all that they needed. That day four months
Lady Londonderry gave us a house.
"'The Venerable' left a prophecy that an English subject should
come to join his Order in Italy, and then go back to found the
female Order in England. When I took the veil, it was remembered
that the Venerable had said this.
"Don Giovanni Merlini used to accompany 'the Venerable' on his
missions. 'The Venerable' used to say, 'Take care of Don Giovanni,
for he is a saint.' Don Giovanni is still living at the little
church of the Crociferi near the Fountain of Trevi."
At this time my sister went frequently to see and consult Dr. Grant, the
Bishop of Southwark. She believed him to be quite a saint, and fancied
that he had the gift of healing, and she delighted to work for others
under his direction. But Esmeralda was always willing to believe in or
to find out saints of the nineteenth century. It was by Dr. Grant's
advice, I believe, that she went to visit a nun of saintly attributes
who lived near him, the Sœur Marie Anne. Of this visit she wrote:
"Sœur Marie Anne was quite full of canonizations and of all that was
going on about the Venerable Labre, because she said that, when she was
a child, she had once seen him as a venerable pilgrim, going through a
village, when the boys stoned him. She had been so struck, so _saisie_
by his appearance, that she went up to him and said, 'Forgive me, but I
hope that you will not refuse to tell your name.'--'Labre,' he said, and
the name Labre had stuck by her to that day. She implored me to get up a
special veneration for the Venerable Labre, but I said that I really
could not, for he was _too_ dirty."
In 1863, under the direction of her priests, and with the assistance of
many Catholic friends, Esmeralda had published a "Manual of the Dolours
of Our Lady," which she caused to be translated into almost every
language of Europe and to be disseminated among all its nations; this
she did through the medium of foreign converts. In her "retreats" and in
her religious life Esmeralda had for some years been brought nearer to
many of her former friends with the same interests, but especially to
Lady Lothian, Lady Georgiana Fullerton, and to a Miss Bradley, a recent
pervert to the Church of Rome. By them she had been induced to join the
society of "Les Enfants de Marie;" a society of persons united together
by special acts of devotion to the Virgin, and works of charity
conducted in her honour. In sorrow, faithfully borne, the beauty and
power of holiness had become hourly more apparent to Esmeralda. But she
could never join in the exaggeration which led many of these ladies to
invest the Virgin with all the attributes of our Lord Himself, as well
as with the perfection of human sympathies. I remember as rather
touching that when the Dowager Lady Lothian was writing to Esmeralda
about her son as being so "fearfully Protestant," she said, "It is very
trying to know that one cannot share one's thoughts with any one. I try
to make our dear Mother more my companion, but I am tempted sometimes to
remember how Our Lady, in all her sorrows, never can have had that of
anxiety about her son's _soul_. I know that she has it in and for us,
her adopted children, but she never can have felt it about Our Lord."
From the devotion which Esmeralda felt to the Blessed Virgin followed
her especial interest in the Order of the Servites, who had lately been
established in London, and who always wore black in sympathy with the
sorrows of Mary. The very name had an interest for Esmeralda, derived as
it was from the special love shown to the Madonna by seven noble
Florentines, the founders of the Order, which induced the children to
point at them in the streets, saying, "Guardati i servi di Maria." For
the Servites Esmeralda never ceased to obtain contributions.
Another confraternity in which my sister had entered herself as an
associate, together with Lady Lothian and most of her friends, was that
of "The Holy Hour"--first instituted by the beatified nun, Margaret Mary
Alacoque of Paray le Monial, a convent near Monceaux les Mines,[251] for
which her admirers, and my sister amongst them, had worked a splendid
carpet, to cover the space in front of her altar. The rules of this
society set forth that it "is established as a special manner of sharing
the agony of our Divine Lord, and of uniting in associated prayer for
reparation of insults offered Him by sin. The associates of this
devotion thus form a band of faithful disciples, who in spirit accompany
our Saviour every Thursday night to the scene of His agony, and share
more particularly that watch which Our Blessed Lady and the Apostles
kept on the eve of the Passion. With this end in view, the associates
spend one hour of Thursday evening in mental or vocal prayer upon the
Agony in the Garden, or other mysteries of the Passion." Thus every
Thursday night my sister repeated:--
"O Lord Jesus Christ, kneeling before Thee I unite myself to Thy
Sacred Heart and offer myself again to Thy service. In this hour
when Thou wert about to be betrayed into the hands of sinners, I, a
poor sinner, dare to come before Thee and say, 'Yes, Lord, I too
many times have betrayed and denied Thee, but Thou, who knowest all
things, knowest that I desire to love Thee, that I desire to
comfort Thee insulted by sin, that I desire to watch with Thee one
hour, and to cry before Thy throne, 'O Lord, remember me when Thou
comest into thy kingdom!' And therefore, with my whole heart, I now
promise before thee--
"When the mysteries of Thy life and Passion are denied: the more
firmly will I believe in them and defend them with my life.
"When the spirit of unbelief, coming in like a flood, seeks to
quench our hope: I will hope in Thee and take refuge in Thy Sacred
Heart.
"When blinded men obstinately shut their hearts to Thy love: I will
love Thee who hast shown me an everlasting love.
"When the Majesty and power of Thy Divinity are denied: I will say
to Thee--day by day--'My Lord and my God!'
"When Thy law is broken and Thy sacraments profaned: I will keep
Thy words in my heart and draw near to thy holy altar with joy.
"When all men forsake Thee and flee from Thy ways: I will follow
Thee, my Jesus, up the way of sorrow, striving to bear Thy cross.
"When the evil one, like a roaring lion, shall seek everywhere the
souls of men: I will raise Thy standard against them and draw them
to Thy Sacred Heart.
"When the Cross shall be despised for the love of pleasure and the
praise of men: I will renew my baptismal vows, and again renounce
the devil, the world, and the flesh.
"When men speak lightly of Thy Blessed Mother and mock at the power
of Thy Church: I will renew my love to the Mother of God, hailing
her as 'Our life, our sweetness, and our hope,' and will again give
thanks for the Church that is founded upon the rock."
At my sister's house, I now, at least on one occasion, met each of my
brothers, but we never made the slightest degree of real acquaintance;
indeed, I doubt if I should have recognised either of them if I had met
him in the street. When my eldest brother, Francis, came of age, he had
inherited the old Shipley property of Gresford in Flintshire, quantities
of old family plate, &c., and a clear £3000 a year. He was handsome and
clever, a good linguist and a tolerable artist. But he had a love of
gambling, which was his ruin, and before he was seven-and-twenty
(October 1857) he was in the Queen's Bench, without a penny in the
world, with Gresford sold--Hurstmonceaux sold--his library, pictures,
and plate sold, and £53,000 of debts. After Francis was released in
1860, he went to join Garibaldi in his Italian campaign, and being a
brave soldier, and, with all his faults, devoted to military adventure
and impervious to hardships, he was soon appointed by the Dictator as
his aide-de-camp. He fought bravely in the siege of Capua. His especial
duty, however, was to watch and follow the extraordinary Contessa della
Torre, who rode with the troops, and by her example incited the Italians
to prodigies of valour. Of this lady Francis said--
"The Contessa della Torre was exceedingly handsome. She wore a hat
and plume, trousers, boots, and a long jacket. She was foolhardy
brave. When a shell exploded by her, instead of falling on the
ground like the soldiers, she would stand looking at it, and making
a cigarette all the time. The hospital was a building surrounding a
large courtyard, and in the centre of the court was a table where
the amputations took place. By the side of the surgeon who operated
stood the Contessa della Torre, who held the arms and legs while
they were being cut off, and when they were severed, chucked them
away to join others on a heap close by. There were so many, that
she had a heap of arms on one side of her and a heap of legs on the
other. The soldiers, animated by her example, often sang the
Garibaldian hymn while their limbs were being taken off, though
they fainted away afterwards.
"When the war was over, the Contessa della Torre retired to Milan.
Her first husband, the Count della Torre, she soon abandoned; her
second husband, Signor Martino, a rich banker, soon abandoned
_her_. Lately she has founded a Society for the Conversion of the
Negroes of Central Africa, of which she appointed herself
patroness, secretary, and treasurer; and, obtaining an English
Clergy List, wrote in all directions for subscriptions. Of course
many clergy took no notice of the appeal, but a certain proportion
responded and sent donations, which it is needless to say were
_not_ applied to Central Africa."
After the siege of Capua, Francis was very ill with a violent fever at
Naples, and then remained there for a long time because he was too poor
to go away. It was during his stay at Naples that he formed his
friendship with the K.'s, about which my sister has left some curious
notes.
"When Francis first went to Naples, he had his pay, was well to do,
and stayed at the Hotel Victoria. Amongst the people who were
staying in the house and whom he regularly met at the
_table-d'hôte_, were an old Mr. K. and his daughter. Old Mr. K. was
a very handsome old gentleman and exceedingly pleasant and
agreeable; Miss K. was also handsome, and of very pleasing manners:
both were apparently exceedingly well off. After some time, the
K.'s went to Rome, where they passed some time very pleasantly.
When they returned, the siege of Capua was taking place, and it was
a source of great surprise to the Garibaldian officers to see the
father and daughter constantly walking about arm in arm with the
most perfect _sang-froid_ in the very teeth of the firing, shells
bursting all around them. The Garibaldians remonstrated in vain:
the K.'s remained unhurt in the heat of every battlefield, and
appeared to bear charmed lives.
"Some time after, it transpired that the K.'s had no money to pay
their bills at the Victoria. They were much respected there, having
been there often before, but they could not be allowed to remain
without payment, so the landlord told them they must leave. They
went to another hotel, where the same thing happened. Then they
went to a lodging.
"One day Francis met them coming down under the arch in the Chiaja.
He turned round and went with them to the Villa Reale. As they
went, Miss K. spoke of the great distress which was then prevalent
in Naples, and said that a _gentleman_ had just begged of them in
the street, and that they had nothing to give him. 'Before I would
be reduced to that,' she said, 'I would drown myself.'--'Yes, and I
too would drown myself,' said Mr. K.; but what they said did not
strike Francis till afterwards. When they reached the Villa Reale,
they walked up and down together under the avenue. Miss K. was more
than usually lively and agreeable, and they did not separate till
nightfall, when the gates of the Villa were going to be shut.
"At two o'clock the next morning, Francis was awakened by the most
dreadful and vivid dream. He dreamt that he stood on the little
promontory in the Villa Reale, and that he saw two corpses bobbing
up and down a short distance off. The dream so took possession of
him, that he jumped up, dressed himself, and rushed down to the
Villa, but the gates were shut when he got there, and he had to
wait till they were opened at four o'clock in the morning. He then
ran down the avenue to the promontory, and thence, exactly as he
had seen in his dream, he saw two corpses bobbing up and down on
the waves a short distance off. He called to some fishermen, who
waded in and brought them to land, and he then at once recognised
Mr. and Miss K. They must have concealed themselves in the Villa
till the gates were closed, and must then have deliberately climbed
over the railing of the promontory, and then tied each other's
ankles and wrists, and, after filling their pockets with heavy
stones, leapt off into the sea.
"Capua they had vainly hoped would destroy them.
"Some time after Francis found that Mr. K. had once been
exceedingly rich, but had been ruined: that his wife, who had a
large settlement, had then left him, making him a handsome
allowance. A few days before the catastrophe this allowance had
been suddenly withdrawn, and Mr. K. with the daughter, who devoted
herself to him, preferred death to beggary."
It may seem odd that I have never mentioned my second brother, William,
in these memoirs, but the fact is, that after he grew up, I never saw
him for more than a few minutes. It is one of the things I regret most
in life that I never made acquaintance with William. I believe now that
he was misrepresented to us and that he had many good qualities; and I
often feel, had he lived till I had the means of doing so, how glad I
should have been to have helped him, and how fond I might have become of
him. At Eton he was an excessively good-looking boy, very clever, very
mischievous, and intensely popular with his companions. He never had any
fortune, so that it was most foolish of his guardian (Uncle Julius) to
spend £2000 which had been bequeathed to him by "the Bath aunts," in
buying him a commission in the Blues. I only once saw him whilst he was
in the army, and only remember him as a great dandy, but I must say
that he had the excuse that everything he wore became him. After he left
the army he was buffeted about from pillar to post, and lived no one
knows where or how. Our cousin Lord Ravensworth was very kind to him,
and so was old Lady Paul; but to Hurstmonceaux or Holmhurst he was never
invited, and he would never have been allowed to come. I have often
thought since how very odd it was that when he died, neither my mother
nor I wore the slightest mourning for him; but he was so entirely
outside our life and thoughts, that somehow it would never have occurred
to us. He had, however, none of the cold self-contained manner which
characterised Francis, but was warm-hearted, cordial, affectionate, and
could be most entertaining. After his mother's great misfortunes he went
to Spain on some temporary appointment, and at Barcelona nearly died of
a fever, through which he was nursed by a lady, who had taken an
extraordinary fancy to him; but on his return, when it was feared he
would marry her, he took every one by surprise in espousing the very
pretty portionless daughter of a physician at Clifton.
During the year 1864 I constantly saw my Lefevre cousins and found an
increasing friendship for them. Sir John always showed me the greatest
kindness, being full of interest in all my concerns. I consulted him on
many subjects, feeling that he was the only person I had ever known,
except my mother, willing to take the trouble of _thinking_ how to give
the best advice and perfectly disinterested in giving it: consequently I
always took _his_ advice and his only. His knowledge was extraordinary,
and was only equalled by his humility and self-forgetfulness. Many were
the interesting reminiscences of other days which he delighted to call
up--many the remarkable parallels he drew between present events and
those he remembered--many the charming stories he told me. One of these,
which has always struck me as very grand and dramatic, I have so often
repeated that I will make a note of it here:--
"Within the memory of those still living there resided in Madrid a
family called Benalta. It consisted of Colonel Benalta, a man of
choleric and sharp disposition; of his wife, Madame Benalta; of his
young daughter; of his little son Carlos, a boy ten years old; and
of the mother of Madame Benalta, who was a woman of large property
and of considerable importance in the society at Madrid. On the
whole, they were quoted as an example of a happy and harmonious
family. It is true that there were, however, certain drawbacks to
their being completely happy, entirely harmonious, and the chief of
these was that Colonel Benalta, when his temper was not at its
best, would frequently, much more often than was agreeable, say to
his wife, 'My dear, you know nothing: my dear, you know nothing at
all: you know nothing whatever.' This was very disagreeable to
Madame Benalta, but it was far more unpleasant to the mother of
Madame Benalta, who considered her daughter to be a very
distinguished and gifted woman, and who did not at all like to have
it said, especially in public, that she knew--nothing!
"However, as I have said, on the whole, as Madrid society went, the
Benaltas were quoted as an example of a happy and harmonious
family.
"One day Colonel Benalta was absent on military duty, but the rest
of the family were assembled in the drawing-room at Madrid. In the
centre of the room, at a round table, sat Madame Benalta and her
daughter working. At a bureau on one side of the room sat the
mother of Madame Benalta, counting out the money which she had just
received for the rents of her estates in Andalusia, arranging the
louis-d'ors in piles of tens before her, and eventually putting
them away in a strong box at her side. At another table on the
other side of the room sat little Carlos Benalta writing a copy.
"Now I do not know the exact words of the Spanish proverb which
formed the copy that Carlos Benalta wrote, but it was something to
the effect of 'Work while it is to-day, for thou knowest not what
may happen to-morrow.' And the child wrote it again and again till
the page was full, and then he signed it, 'Carlos Benalta, Sept.
22nd,' and he took the copy to his mother.
"Now the boy had signed his copy 'Carlos Benalta, Sept. 22nd,' but
it really was Sept. 21. And Madame Benalta was a very superstitious
woman; and when she saw that in his copy Carlos had anticipated the
morrow--the to-morrow on which 'thou knowest not what may
happen'--it struck her as an evil omen, and she was very much
annoyed with Carlos, and spoke sharply, saying that he had been
very careless, and that he must take the copy back and write it all
over again. And Carlos, greatly crestfallen, took the copy and went
back to his seat. But the mother of Madame Benalta, who always
indulged and petted Carlos, looked up from her counting and said,
'Bring the copy to me.' And when she saw it she said to her
daughter, 'I think you are rather hard upon Carlos, my dear; he has
evidently taken pains with his copy and written it very well; and
as for the little mistake at the end, it really does not signify;
so I hope you will forgive him, and not expect him to write it
again.' Upon which Madame Benalta, but with a very bad grace, said,
'Oh, of course, if his grandmother says he is not to write it
again, I do not expect him to do it; but I consider, all the same,
that he ought to have been obliged to do it for his carelessness.'
Then the grandmother took ten louis-d'ors from the piles before
her, and she tore the copy out of the book and rolled them up in
it, and sealed the parcel, and she wrote upon the outside, 'For my
dear grandson, Carlos Benalta; to be given to him when I am dead!'
And she showed it to her daughter and her grand-daughter, and said,
'Some day when I am passed away, this will be a little memorial to
Carlos of his old grandmother, who loved him and liked to save him
from a punishment.' And she put the packet away in the strong box
with the rest of the money.
"The next morning the news of a most dreadful tragedy startled the
people of Madrid. The mother of Madame Benalta, who inhabited an
apartment in the same house above that of her daughter and
son-in-law, was found murdered in her room under the most dreadful
circumstances. She had evidently fought hard for her life. The
whole floor was in pools of blood. She had been dragged from one
piece of furniture to another, and eventually she had been
butchered lying across the bed. There were the marks of a bloody
hand all down the staircase, and the strong box was missing.
Everything was done that could be done to discover the murderer,
but unfortunately he had chosen the one day in the year when such a
crime was difficult to trace. As Mademoiselle Benalta was not yet
'out,' and as the family liked a quiet domestic life, they never
went out in the evening, and the street door was known to be
regularly fastened. Therefore, on this one day in the year, when
the servants went on their annual picnic to the Escurial, it was
supposed to be quite safe to leave the street door on the latch,
that they might let themselves in when they returned very late. The
murderer must have known this and taken advantage of it; therefore,
though Colonel Benalta offered a very large reward, and though the
Spanish Government--so great was the public horror--offered, for
them, a very large reward, no clue whatever was ever obtained to
the murderer.
"A terrible shadow naturally hung over the house in Madrid, and the
Benalta family could not bear to remain in a scene which to them
was filled with such associations of horror. By the death of the
poor lady, Madame Benalta's mother, they had inherited her estates
in Andalusia, and they removed to Cordova. There they lived very
quietly. From so great a shock Madame Benalta could not entirely
rally, and she shrank more than ever from strangers. Besides, her
home life was less pleasant than it had been, for Colonel Benalta's
temper was sharper and sourer than ever, and even more frequently
than before he said to her, 'My dear, you know nothing: you really
know nothing at all.'
"Eleven years passed away, melancholy years enough to the mother,
but her children grew up strong and happy, and naturally on them
the terrible event of their childhood seemed now quite in the
far-away past. One day Colonel Benalta was again absent on military
duty. Madame Benalta was sitting in her usual chair in her
drawing-room at Cordova, and Carlos, then a young man of
one-and-twenty, was standing by her, when the door opened and
Mademoiselle Benalta came in. 'Oh, mother,' she said, 'I've been
taking advantage of our father's absence to arrange his room, and
in one of his drawers I have found a little relic of our childhood,
which I think perhaps may be interesting to you: it seems to be a
copy which Carlos must have written when he was a little boy.'
Madame Benalta took the paper out of her daughter's hand and saw,
'Work while it is to-day, for thou knowest not what may happen
to-morrow,' and at the bottom the signature 'Carlos Benalta,
September 22nd,' and she turned it round, and there, at the back,
in the well-known trembling hand, was written, 'For my dear
grandson Carlos Benalta, to be given to him when I am dead.' Madame
Benalta had just presence of mind to crumple up the paper and throw
it into the back of the fire, and then she fell down upon the floor
in a fit.
"From that time Madame Benalta never had any health. She was unable
to take any part in the affairs of the house, and scarcely seemed
able to show any interest in anything. Her husband had less
patience than ever with her, and more frequently abused her and
said, 'My dear, you know nothing;' but it hardly seemed to affect
her now; her life seemed ebbing away together with its animation
and power, and she failed daily. That day-year Madame Benalta lay
on her death-bed, and all her family were collected in her room to
witness her last moments. She had received the last sacraments, and
the supreme moment of life had arrived, when she beckoned her
husband to her. As he leant over her, in a calm solemn voice,
distinctly audible to all present, she said, 'My dear, you have
always said that I knew nothing: now I have known two things: I
have known how to be silent in life, and how to pardon in death,'
and so saying, she died.
"It is unnecessary to explain what Madame Benalta knew."
In later years, in Spain, I have read a little book by Fernan Caballero,
"El Silencio en la Vita, e el Perdono en la Muerte," but even in the
hands of the great writer the story wants the simple power which it had
when told by Sir John.
* * * * *
The winter of 1864-65 was a terribly anxious one at Holmhurst. My mother
failed daily as the cold weather came on, and was in a state of constant
and helpless suffering. I never could bear to be away from her for a
moment, and passed the whole day by the side of her bed or chair,
feeding her, supporting her, chafing her inanimate limbs, trying by an
energy of love to animate her through the weary hours of sickness,
giddiness, and pain. We were seldom able to leave one room, the central
one in the house, and had to keep it as warm as was possible. My
recollection lingers on the months of entire absence from all external
life spent in that close room, sitting in an armchair, pretending to
read while I was ceaselessly watching. My mother was so much worse than
she had ever been before, that I was never very hopeful, but strove
never to look beyond the present into the desolate future, and, while
devoting my whole thoughts and energies to activity for her, was always
able to be cheerful. Still I remember how, in that damp and misty
Christmas, I happened to light upon the lines in "In Memoriam"--
"With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round our Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas Eve."
And how wonderfully applicable they seemed to our case.
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_Holmhurst, Dec. 17, 1864._--How we envy you the warmth of Italy!
Had we known how severe a winter this was likely to be, we also
should have started for Italy at all risks, and I feel that I have
been _very_ wrong ever to have consented to the mother's staying in
England, though she seemed so weary of travelling and so much
better in health, that I could not believe the effect would be so
bad. The cold is most intense. After a month of wet, we have had
two days of snow with black east wind, and now it is pouring again,
but the rain freezes as it falls.
"The dear mother is perfectly prostrated by the cold, and looks at
least twenty years older than in the summer. She has great and
constant pain, and trembles so greatly as to be quite unable to
feed herself, and she can do nothing whatever all day, so that she
is very miserable. Of course I am dreadfully and constantly anxious
about her, and the dread of paralysis haunts me night and day. I
need not say how sweet, and gentle, and uncomplaining my poor
darling is, but one can see she suffers greatly, and 'the pleasures
of an English winter,' which some of the family have always been
urging her to enjoy, consist in an almost total non-existence on
her part, and constant watching on mine."
Gradually the consciousness came to all around her that the only chance
of my mother's recovery would be from taking her abroad. How I longed to
follow the advice given in "Kotzebue's Travels" when he urges us to take
pattern by our ancestors, who were content to sit still and read the
injunction in their Bibles, "Let not your flight be in the winter." Yet
this year even poor Lea, generally so averse to leaving home, urged us
to set off. Then came the difficulty of how to go, and where. We decided
to turn towards Pau and Biarritz, because easier of access than Cannes,
and because the journeys were shorter: and then there was the constant
driving down to look at the sea, and the discovery that, when it was
calm enough, my mother was too ill to move, and when she was better, the
sea was too rough. At last, on the 20th of January, we left home in the
evening.
_To_ MY SISTER.
"_Bordeaux, Jan. 28, 1865._--I cannot say what a comfort it is,
amid much else that is sad and trying, to think of you safe at
Palazzo Parisani, in the home of many years, with the devoted
auntie and the two old domestic friends to share your interests and
sorrows and joys--so much left of the good of life, so much to gild
the memory of the past. I know how you would feel the return to
Rome at first--the desolate room, the empty chair, the unused
writing-table; and then how you would turn to 'gather up the
fragments that remain,' and to see that even the darkest cloud has
its silver lining.... No, you cannot wish your mother back. In
thinking of her, you will remember that if she were with you now,
it would not be in the enjoyment of Rome, of Victoire, and
Parisani, but in cheerless London rooms, with their many trials of
spirits and temper. _Now_ all those are forgotten by her, for
'Who will count the billows past,
If the shore be won at last'?
"And for yourself, you are conscious that you are in the place
where she would have you be, and that if she can still be with you
invisibly, her life and your life may still be running on side by
side, and yours now giving to her unclouded eyes the pleasure it
never could have given when earthly mists obscured them.
"I often think of Christian Andersen's story of the mother who was
breaking her heart with grief for the loss of her only child, when
Death bade her look into his mirror, and on one side she saw the
life of her child as it would have been had it remained on earth,
in all the misery of sorrow and sickness and sin; and on the other,
the glorified life to which it was taken; and then the mother
humbly gave thanks to the All-Wise, who chose for her, and could
only beg forgiveness because she had wished to choose for herself.
"Do you know, my Esmeralda, that great sorrow has been very near me
too? My sweetest mother has been very, very ill, and even now she
is so little really better, that I am full of anxiety about her.
From the New Year she was so ill at Holmhurst from the cold and
snow, that it was decided that we must take the first available
moment for going abroad. But we were packed up and waiting for more
than a fortnight before her health and the tempests allowed us to
start.
"Her passage on the 21st was most unfortunate, for a thick fog came
on, which long prevented the steamer from finding the narrow
entrance of Calais harbour, and the boat remained for two hours
swaying about outside and firing guns of distress every ten
minutes. These were answered by steamers in port, and the great
alarm-bell of Calais tolled incessantly. At last another steamer
was sent out burning red lights, and guided the wanderer in. My
poor mother was quite unable to stand from the cold and fatigue
when she was landed, and the journey to Paris, across the plains
deep in snow, was a most anxious one. During the three days we
spent at Paris, she was so ill that I had almost given up all hope
of moving her, when a warm change in the weather allowed of our
reaching Tours, where we stayed two more days.
"Tours is a fine old town, and is the place where our grandfather
died. I saw his house, quite a palace, now the museum. We slept
again at Angoulême, a very striking place, the old town rising out
of the new, a rocky citadel surrounded with the most beautiful
public walks I ever saw out of Rome, and a curious cathedral. This
Bordeaux is a second Paris, only with a river like an arm of the
sea, and immense quays, full of bustle and hubbub, like the
Carminella at Naples."
[Illustration: TOURS.[252]]