Apropos of the growth of a story by exaggeration, Mrs. Bayley said:--

"The first person said, 'Poor Mrs. Richards was so ill that what

she threw up was almost like a black crow.' The second said, 'Poor

Mrs. Richards was so ill: it was the most dreadful thing, she

actually threw up a black crow.' The third said, 'Poor Mrs.

Richards has the most dreadful malady: it is almost too terrible to

speak of, but she has already thrown up ... three black crows.'"

Mrs. Bayley was a very "religious" person, but she never went to church;

she thought it wrong. She called herself an "unattached Christian," and

said that people only ought to go to church for praise, but to do their

confessions at home. When I left Dalton, she presented me with a little

book, which she begged me not to read till I was quite away. It was

called "Do you belong to the Hellfire Club?" It was not an allegorical

little book, but really and seriously asked the question, saying that,

though not generally known, such a club really existed, where the most

frightful mysteries were enacted, and that it was just within the

bounds of possibility that I might secretly belong to it, and if so,

&c., &c. A similar little book was once thrust into my hand by a lady at

the top of St. James's Street.

On the 29th of October 1866 we left England for Cannes, stopping on the

way at Villefranche, that we might visit Ars, for the sake of its

venerable Curé.

_To_ MY SISTER.

"_Nov. 1866._--It was a pretty and peculiar drive to Ars: first

wooded lanes, then high open country, from whence you descend

abruptly upon the village, which, with its picturesque old church,

and the handsome wooden one behind it, quite fills the little

hollow in the hills. The village itself is almost made up of hotels

for the pilgrims, but is picturesque at this season, with masses of

golden vine falling over all the high walls. We left the carriage

at the foot of the church steps, and ascended through a little

square crowded with beggars, as in the time of the Curé.[330] The

old church is exceedingly interesting. In the middle of the floor

is the grave of the Curé, once surrounded by a balustrade hung with

immortelles, which are now in the room where he died. At the sides

are all the little chapels he built at the different crises of his

life, that of S. Philomene being quite filled with crutches, left

by lame persons who have gone away cured. Beyond the old church

opens out the handsome but less interesting modern building

erected by the Empress and the bishops, with a grand baldacchino on

red granite pillars, and on the altar a beautiful bas-relief of the

Curé carried to heaven by angels. In the old church a missionary

was giving the pilgrims (who kept flocking in the whole time) a

very beautiful and simple exposition on the life of Christ as a

loving Saviour, quite carrying on the teaching of the Curé.

"At half-past twelve a Sister of Charity came to show the Curé's

room. It is railed off, because the pilgrims would have carried

everything away, as they have almost undermined the thick walls in

their eagerness to possess themselves of the bits of stone and

plaster; but you see the narrow bed, the poor broken floor, his

chair, his table, his pewter spoon and earthenware pot,--the

picture which was defiled by the Demon,--the door at which 'the

Grappin' knocked,--the narrow staircase from which he shouted

'Mangeur de truffes,'--the still poorer room downstairs where the

beloved Curé lay when all his people passed by to see him in his

last sleep,--the little court shaded by ancient elder-trees in

which he gave his incessant charities,--and close by the little

house of his servant Catherine. She herself is the sweetest old

woman, seeming to live, in her primitive life, upon the gleanings

and the teaching of the past. She sate on a low stool at Mother's

feet, and talked in the most touching way of her dear Curé. When

Mother said something about the crowds that came to him, she said,

'I have always heard that when the dear Saviour was on earth, He

was so sweet and loving, that people liked to be near Him, and I

suppose that now when men are sweet and loving, and so a little

like the dear Saviour, people like to be near them too.' In a small

chapel of the school he founded they showed some blood of the Curé

in a bottle--'_encore coulant_.' Many other people we saw who

talked of him--'Comme il était gai, toujours gai,' &c. The whole

place seemed cut out of the world, in an atmosphere of peace and

prayer, like a little heaven: no wonder Roman Catholics like to go

into 'Retreat' there."

We stayed afterwards at Arles, and made the excursion to S. Remy, one of

the most exquisitely beautiful places I have ever seen, where Roman

remains, grand in form and of the most splendid orange colouring, rise

close to the delicate Alpines.

At Cannes we were most fortunate in finding a house exactly suited to

our needs--a primitive bastide, approached by a long pergola of vines,

on the way to the Croix des Gardes, quite high up in woods of myrtle and

pine upon the mountain-side.[331] It was far out of the town and

dreadfully desolate at night, but in the daytime there were exquisite

views through the woods of the sea and mountains, and a charming

terraced garden of oranges and cassia--the vegetation quite tropical.

Close to the turn into our pergola was a little shrine of S. François,

which gave a name to our cottage, and which the peasants, passing to

their work in the forests, daily presented with fresh flowers.

Delightful walks led beyond us into the hilly pine woods with a soil of

glistening mica, and, if one penetrated far enough, one came out upon

the grand but well-concealed precipices of rock known as the Rochers de

Bilheres. Just below us lived Lord Mount-Edgecumbe, the "Valletort" of

my Harrow days, with his sweet invalid wife, and their three little

girls, with the little Valletort of this time, were a perpetual pleasure

to my mother in her morning walk to the Croix des Gardes. Old Madame

Bœuf, our landlady, used to come up every morning in her large

flapping Provençal hat to work with her women amongst the cassia: the

sunshine seemed almost ceaseless, and all winter we used to sit with

open windows and hear our maid Marguerite carolling her strange patois

ballads at her work.

[Illustration: S. REMY.[332]]

[Illustration: FROM MAISON S. FRANÇOIS, CANNES.[333]]

On the other side of Cannes, at the Hôtel de Provence, we had a large

group of friends, Lady Verulam and her sons; Lord and Lady Suffolk and

their two daughters; and the Dowager Lady Morley with her son and

daughter. With the latter I became very intimate, and joined them in

many long and delightful excursions to remote villages and to the

unspeakably grand scenery above the Var. Lady Suffolk too became a dear

and much honoured friend.

A still greater pleasure was the neighbourhood, in a small house by the

torrent at the foot of our hill, of the dear old Lady Grey of our Nice

days, and her niece Miss G. Des Vœux. I generally dined with them

once or twice a week, and constantly accompanied them on delightful

drawing excursions, taking our luncheon with us. In the spring I went

away with them for several days together to the wild mountains of S.

Vallier and S. Cesaire. Lady Grey painted beautifully, though she only

began to be an artist when she was quite an old woman. She always went

out sketching with thirty-nine articles, which one servant called over

at the door, another answering "Here" for each, to secure that nothing

should be left behind.

Beneath us, at the Hôtel Bellevue, were Lady Jocelyn and her children,

with Lord and Lady Vernon and Mr. and Lady Louisa Wells, whom we saw

frequently; also three admirable Scotch sisters, Mrs. Douglas, Miss

Kennedy, and Mrs. Tootal. Hither also came for two months our dear

friend Miss Wright ("Aunt Sophy"), and she was a constant pleasure,

dropping in daily at tea-time, and always the most sympathising of human

beings both in joy and sorrow.

[Illustration: BOCCA WOOD, CANNES.]

Altogether, none of our winters was so rich in pleasant society as this

one at Cannes, and we had nothing to trouble us till the spring, when

Lea was taken very seriously ill from the bite either of scorpion or

tarantula, and, while she was at the worst and unable to move, my

mother became alarmingly ill too with a fever. I was up with them

through every night at this time; and it was an odd life in the little

desolate bastide, as it was long impossible to procure help. At length

we got a Sœur de Charité--a pretty creature in a most picturesque

nun's dress, but efficient for very little except the manufacture and

consumption of convent soup, made with milk, tapioca, and pepper.

[Illustration: MAISON S. FRANÇOIS, CANNES.]

Still, for the most part, my mother had not been so well or so

perfectly happy for years as in our little hermitage amid the juniper

and rosemary. It was just what she most enjoyed, the walks all within

her compass--perfect country, invariably dry and healthy, perpetual

warmth in which to sit out, and endless subjects for her sketch-book.

Lea, rejoiced to be rid for some months of her tiresome husband, found

plenty of occupation in her kitchen and in attending to the poultry

which she bought and reared; while I was engrossed with my drawings, of

which I sold enough to pay our rent very satisfactorily, and with my

"Lives of the Popes," a work on which I spent an immense amount of time,

but which is still unfinished in MS., and likely to remain so. My mother

greatly appreciated the church at Cannes, and we liked the clergyman,

Mr. Rolfe, and his wife. His sermons were capital. I do not often attend

to sermons, but I remember an excellent one on Zacharias praying for

vengeance, and Stephen for mercy on his murderers, as respectively

illustrating the principles of the Old and New Testament--Justice and

Mercy.

[Illustration: Maria Hare. 1862.]

I dined once or twice, to meet Mr. Panizzi[334] of the British Museum,

at the house of a quaint old Mr. Kerr, who died soon afterwards. It

was him of whom it used to be said that he had been "trying to make

himself disagreeable for sixty years and had not quite succeeded." When

he was eighty he told me that there were three things he had never had:

he had never had a watch, he had never had a key, and he had never had

an account.

I frequently saw the famous old Lord Brougham, who bore no trace then of

his "flashes of oratory," of his "thunder and lightning speeches," but

was the most disagreeable, selfish, cantankerous, violent old man who

ever lived. He used to swear by the hour together at his sister-in-law,

Mrs. William Brougham,[335] who lived with him, and bore his

ill-treatment with consummate patience. He would curse her in the most

horrible language before all her guests, and this not for anything she

had done, but merely to vent his spite and ill-humour. Though a proper

carriage was always provided for him, he would insist upon driving about

Cannes daily in the most disreputable old fly he could procure, with the

hope that people would say he was neglected by his family. Yet he

preferred the William Broughams to his other relations, and entirely

concealing that he had other brothers, procured the reversion of his

title to his youngest brother, William, much to the annoyance of the

Queen when she found it out. Lord Brougham was repulsive in appearance

and excessively dirty in his habits. He had always been so. Mr. Kerr

remembered seeing him at the Beefsteak Club, when the Prince Regent was

President, and there was the utmost license of manners. One day when he

came in, the Prince Regent roared out, "How dare you come in here,

Brougham, with those dirty hands?"--and he insisted on the waiters

bringing soap and water and having his hands washed before all the

company. In early life, if anything aggravated him at dinner, he would

throw his napkin in the face of his guests, and he did things quite as

insulting to the close of his life at Cannes, where he had a peculiar

prestige, as having, through his "Villa Louise Eleanore,"[336] first

brought the place into fashion, which led to the extension of a humble

fishing village into miles upon miles of villas and hotels.

[Illustration: CAGNES.[337]]

_To_ MISS WRIGHT (after she had gone on to Rome).

"_Maison S. François, Cannes, Feb. 2, 1867._--On Tuesday we made an

immense excursion of thirteen hours to the 'Seven villages of the

Var.' The party consisted of Lord Morley and Lady Katherine, Lord

Suffolk and Lady Victoria, Lord Henry Percy, Lord Mount-Edgecumbe,

and myself. We left by the 7.40 train and had carriages to meet us

at Cagnes. These took us as far as the grand Sinai-like granite

peaks of S. Janet, and thence we walked. The whole terrace is most

grand for seven miles above the tremendous purple gorge of the Var,

overhung here and there by splendid Aleppo pines or old gnarled

oaks; and as we reached just the finest point of all, where the

huge castle of Carrozza stands out on a great granite crag, the

mist curtain drew up and displayed range on range of snow

mountains, many of them close by--really a finer scene than any

single view I remembered in Switzerland. The whole of our party,

hitherto inclined to grumble, were almost petrified by the

intensity of the splendour.

"M. Victor Cousin's sudden death at dinner has been a great shock

to the Cannes world. It was just at that time that our attention

was so sadly occupied by the illness and death of dear old Sir Adam

Hay. The Hays gave a picnic at Vallauris, to which I was invited,

and Sir Adam caught a cold there, which excited no attention at the

time, as he had never been ill in his life before. Four days

afterwards Addie Hay took Miss Hawker and me in their carriage to

Napoule, where we spent a pleasant day in drawing. When we came

back, his father was most alarmingly ill, and absent children had

been already telegraphed for. All that week I went constantly to

Villa Escarras, and shared with the family their alternations of

hope and fear, but at the end of a week dear Sir Adam died, and all

the family went away immediately, as he was to be buried at

Peebles."

[Illustration: ANTIBES.[338]]

During the latter part of our stay at Cannes, the society of Madame

Goldschmidt (Jenny Lind) was a great pleasure to my mother, and in her

great kindness she came often to sing to her. We went with the

Goldschmidts to Antibes one most glorious February day, when Madame G.

was quite glowing with delight in all the beauties around and gratitude

to their Giver. "Oh, how good we ought to be--_how_ good with all this

before our eyes! it is a country to die in." She spoke much of the

sweetness of the Southern character, which she believed to be partly due

to the climate and scenery. She talked of an old man, bowed with

rheumatism, who worked in her garden. That morning she had asked him,

"Comment ça va t'il? Comment va votre santé?"--"Oh, la volonté de Dieu!"

he had replied--"la volonté de Dieu!" In his pretty Provençal his very

murmur was a thanksgiving for what God sent. She spoke of the dislike

English had to foreigners, but that the only point in which she envied

the English was their noble women. In Sweden she said they might

_become_ as noble, but that hitherto the character of Swedish women had

been oppressed by the bondage in which they were kept by the laws--that

they had always been kept under guardians, and could have neither will

nor property of their own, unless they married, even when they were

eighty. She said that she was the first Swedish woman who had gained her

liberty, and that she had obtained it by applying direct to the king,

who emancipated her because of all she had done for Sweden. Now the law

was changed, and women were emancipated when they were five-and-twenty.

Then Madame Goldschmidt talked of the _faithfulness_ of the Southern

vegetation. In England she said to the leaves, "Oh, you poor leaves! you

are so thin and miserable. However, it does not signify, for you have

only to last three or four months; but these beautiful thick foreign

leaves, with them it is quite different, for they have got to be

beautiful always."

We drove up the road leading to the lighthouse, and then walked up the

steep rocky path carrying two baskets of luncheon, which we ate under

the shadow of a wall looking down upon the glorious view. Madame

Goldschmidt had been very anxious all the way about preserving a

cream-tart which she had brought. "Voilà le grand moment," she exclaimed

as it was uncovered. When some one spoke of her enthusiasm, she said,

"Oh, it is delightful to soar, but one is soon brought back again to the

cheese and bread and butter of life." When Lady Suffolk asked how she

first knew she had a voice, she said, "Oh, it did fly into me!"

At first sight Madame Goldschmidt might be called "plain," though her

smile is most beautiful and quite illuminates her features; but how true

of her is an observation I met with in a book by the Abbé Monnin, "Le

sourire ne se raconte pas." "She has no face; it is all _countenance_,"

might be said of her, as Miss Edgeworth said of Lady Wellington.

[Illustration: LE PUY.[339]]

[Illustration: ROYAT.[340]]

It was already excessively hot before we left Cannes on the 29th of

April. After another day at the grand ruins of Montmajour near Arles, we

diverged from Lyons to Le Puy, a place too little known and most

extraordinary, with its grand and fantastic rocks of basalt crowned by

the most picturesque of buildings. Five days were happily spent in

drawing at Le Puy and Espailly, and in an excursion to the charming

neighbouring campagne of the old landlord and landlady of the hotel

where we were staying. Then my mother assented to my wish of taking a

carriage through the forests of Velay and Auvergne to the grand desolate

monastery of the Chaise Dieu, where many of the Popes lived during their

exile in France, and where Clement VI. lies aloft on a grand tomb in

the centre of the superb choir, which is so picturesquely hung with old

tapestries. Our rooms at the hotel here cost half a franc apiece.

Joining the railway again at Brioude, we went to the Baths of Royat,

then a very primitive and always a very lovely place, with its torrent

tumbling through the walnut woods, its gorge closed by a grand old

Templars' church, and its view over rich upland vineyards to the town

and cathedral of Clermont. On the way home we visited the great deserted

abbey of Souvigny near Moulins, and bought the beautiful broken

statuette which is one of the principal ornaments of Holmhurst.

* * * * *

In June I went to Oxford to stay with my friend Henry Hood, and was

charmed to make acquaintance with a young Oxford so different from the

young Oxford of my days, that it seemed altogether another race--so much

more cordial and amusing, though certainly very Bohemian. During this

visit I cemented an acquaintance with Claude Delaval Cobham, then

reading for the orders for which he soon felt himself unsuited. In some

respects, he is one of the cleverest men I have met, especially from his

unusual linguistic acquirements, combined with extreme correctness. I

have frequently received kindness from him since and valuable advice and

help in literary work, and though I have sometimes conceitedly rebelled

against his opinion at the time, I have never failed to find that he was

in the right.

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Oxford, June 1, 1867._--We went this morning in two

pony-carriages to Cuddesden, where Claude Cobham now is, and spent

the afternoon in walking and sitting in the Bishop's shady and

weedy garden.

"The other day, coming out of this garden, the Bishop heard two

navvies on the other side of the road talking. 'I zay, Bill, ain't

yon a Beeshop?' said one. 'Yees,' said Bill. 'Then oi'll have some

fun oot o' him.' So he crossed the road and said, 'I zay, zur, be

you a Beeshop?'--'Yes, at your service,' said the Bishop. 'Then can

you tell us which is the way to heaven?'--'Certainly,' said the

Bishop, not the least discomposed; 'turn to the right and go

straight on.'"

"_June 3._--I enjoy being at Oxford most intensely, and Hood is

kindness itself. A wet day cleared into a lovely evening for the

boat-race, which was a beautiful sight, the green of the

water-meadows in such rich fulness, and the crowd upon the barges

and walks so bright and gay."

"_6 Bury Street, June 12_.--The first persons I met in London were

Arthur and Augusta Stanley, who took me into their carriage, and

with them to the Park, whence we walked through Kensington Gardens,

and very pretty they looked. Arthur described his first sight of

the Queen on that spot, and Augusta was full of Princess Mary's

cleverness in being confined in the same house on the same day on

which the Queen was born.

"Then I went to Lady Wenlock, a most charming visit to that sweet

old lady, now much feebler, but so animated and lively, and her

life one long thanksgiving that her paralysis has left all her

powers unimpaired. She told me many old stories. I also called on

Lady Lothian, who is greatly disturbed at Madame de Trafford's

power over my sister. She says she quite considers her 'possessed,'

and that she ought to be exorcised. To-day I dined with Lady Grey.

She told me that as Charlie Grey was crossing to America, his

fellow-passengers were frightfully sea-sick, especially a man

opposite. At last an American sitting by him said, 'I guess,

stranger, if that man goes on much longer, he'll bring up his

boots.'"

"_June 15._--I have been sitting long with Lady Eastlake. She spoke

of how the great grief of her widowhood had taught her to sift the

dross from letters of condolence. She says that she lives upon

hope; prayer is given her in the meanwhile as a sustenance, not a

cure, for if it were a cure, one might be tempted to leave off

praying: still 'one could not live without it; it is like port wine

to a sick man.'

"She says she finds a great support in the letters of Sir Charles

to his mother--his most precious gift to her. She said touchingly

how she knew that even to her he had a slight reserve, but that to

his mother he poured out his whole soul. In those letters she had

learnt how, when he was absent, his mother hungered after him, and

perhaps, in all those blessed years when she had him, his mother

was hungering after him. In giving him up, she felt she gave him up

to her: he was with her now, and from those letters she knew what

their communion must be. 'I know he is with her now, for "I have

seen my mother, I have seen my mother," he twice rapturously

exclaimed when he was dying.' How touching and how consoling are

those visions on this side of the portal. Old Mr. Harford, when he

was dying, continually asked his wife if she did not hear the

music. 'Oh, it is so wonderful,' he said, 'bands upon bands.' She

did not understand it then but she knows now.

"'It was beautifully ordered,' said Lady Eastlake, 'that my

"History of Our Lord" was finished first: I could not have done it

now. And through it I learnt to know his library. My darling was

like a boy jumping up and down to find the references I wanted,

and, if possible, through the book I learnt to know him better.'

"She spoke of his wonderful diligence. When he was a boy he wrote

to his mother, 'London will be illuminated to-morrow, I shall draw

all night.'"

* * * * *

[Illustration: IN THE DEAN'S GARDEN, CANTERBURY.[341]]

In July I spent a few days with the Alfords at the Deanery of

Canterbury, which was always most enjoyable, the Dean so brimming with

liveliness and information of every kind. In the delightful garden grows

the old historic mulberry-tree,[342] about which it used to be said

that the Deans of Canterbury sit under the mulberry till they turn

purple, because those Deans were so frequently elevated to the episcopal

bench, and bishops formerly, though it is rare now, always wore purple

coats. I dined out with the Dean several times. I remember at one of the

parties a son of Canon Blakesley saying to me--what I have often thought

of since--"I find much the best way of getting on in society is never

to be able to understand why anybody is to be disapproved of." Both the

Dean's daughters were married now, and he cordially welcomed my

companionship, always treating me as an intimate friend or relation. No

one could be more sympathetic, for he had always the rare power of

condemning the fault, but not the action of it.[343] I insert a few

snatches from his table-talk, though they give but a faint idea of the

man.

"We have been studying Butler's Analogy ever since we came back

from Rome, for we've had eight different butlers in the time. The

last butler said to me, 'It's not you who govern the Deanery, and

it's not Mrs. Alford, but it is the upper housemaid.'"

"Archbishop Harcourt was very fond of hunting, _so_ fond that he

was very near refusing the archbishopric because he thought if he

accepted he should have to give it up. He consulted a friend, who

said that he must take counsel with others. 'Of course I should

never join the meet,' said the Archbishop, 'but you know I might

fall in with the hounds by accident.' After some time the friend

came back and said that on the whole the party considered that the

Archbishop might hunt, provided he did not shout."

"Archbishop Manners Sutton had a wonderfully ready wit. One day a

blustering vulgar man came up to him and said, 'I believe,

Archbishop, that I am a relation of yours: my name is Sutton.' The

Archbishop quietly replied, 'Yes, but you want the Manners.'"

"When some one was abusing our font the other day, I could not help

saying that, for a font, I thought renaissance peculiarly

appropriate."

"I met Lady Mounteagle the other day: you know she was the sister--

'Of the woman tawny and tough[344]

Who married the Master rude and rough

Who lived in the house that Hope built.'

You know Hope gothicised the Master's Lodge at Trinity. At the

Whewells' 'perpendiculars,' as their large parties were called, no

one was allowed to sit down: if any one ventured to do so, a

servant came and requested him to move on."

"When Alice was a little girl, I was explaining the Apostles' Creed

to her. When we came to the point of our Saviour descending into

hell she said, 'Oh, that is where the devil is, isn't

it?'--'Yes.'--'Then why didn't the devil run at him and tear him

all to pieces?'"

[Illustration: Arthur Penrhyn Stanley]

In August we spent some time at the Deanery of Westminster, where Arthur

and Augusta Stanley were always hospitality itself, and, with more than

the usual kindness of hosts, always urged, and almost insisted, on

our inviting our own friends to dinner and luncheon, making us, in fact,

use their house and fortune as our own.

_From my_ JOURNAL.

"_July 28, 1867._--In the evening, from the gallery of the Deanery

which overhangs the abbey, Mother, Mrs. Hall, and I looked down

upon the last service. Luther's hymn was sung and the Hallelujah

chorus, and trumpets played: it was very grand indeed. The Bishop

of Chester and the Wordsworths dined. Yesterday Arthur showed

thirty working-men over the Abbey. He pointed out where Peel was

buried. One of them received it very gravely in silence, and then,

after several minutes, said, 'Well, it is very extraordinary. I've

lived all my life in the next county, and I never knew that before:

I always thought he was buried at Drayton. Now that's what I call

_information_.'"

"_August 3._--It has a weird effect at night to look down upon the

Abbey, and see the solitary watchman walking along the desolate

aisles and the long trail of light from the lantern he carries

flickering on each monument and death's-head in turn. Hugo Percy,

who was here the other evening, asked him about his nights in the

Abbey. 'The ghosts have been very cross lately,' he said.

'Palmerston was the last who came, but Mr. Cobden has not come

yet.'

[Illustration: COURTYARD, DEANERY, WESTMINSTER.]

"We have been to Buckingham Palace to see the rooms which were

arranged for the Sultan, which are dull and handsome. The chief

fact I derived from the housekeeper was that the Sultan never 'goes

to bed' and never lies down--in fact, he cannot, for a third of the

imperial bed at either end is taken up by a huge bolster, in the

middle of which he _sits_ all night, and reclines either way in

turn. There was a picture of the late Sultan in the room, and of

Frederick, Prince of Wales, sent from Windsor for the occasion. One

room was entirely hung with portraits of French kings and their

families."

From London I went to visit Bishop Jeune,[345] who was most wonderfully

kind to me, really giving up his whole time to me whilst I was with him,

and pouring forth such stores of information as I had not received since

the days of Dr. Hawtrey; and it was a great pleasure to feel, to be

quite sure--which one so seldom is--that he liked my visit as much as I

liked being with him.

_From my_ JOURNAL.

"_August 10, 1867._--On the 8th I went to Peterborough, where I

have had a most agreeable visit at the Palace. When I arrived at

half-past seven, the family were all gone to dine with Dr. James,

an old Canon in the Close, whither I followed them. He was a

charming old-fashioned gentleman, most delightful to see.

"In the morning the Bishop, wearing his surplice and hood, read

prayers at a desk in the crypted hall of the Palace. Afterwards we

walked in the garden. I spoke of there being no monument in the

Cathedral to Catherine of Arragon. 'It is owing to that very

circumstance,' said the Bishop, 'that you are here to-day. If

Catherine of Arragon had had a tomb, I should never have been

Bishop of Peterborough. When people reproached Henry VIII. with

having erected no monument to his first wife, he said, "The Abbey

of Peterborough shall be a cathedral to her monument," and he

instituted the bishopric; the last abbot was the first bishop.' As

we passed the lavatory of the old convent, the Bishop said that a

touching description was still extant of its dedication and of the

number of cardinals, bishops, and priests who were present. 'How

few of them,' he said, 'would have believed that not only their

buildings, which they believed would last for ever, could become an

indefinite ruin, but that their Church, whose foundations they

believed to be even more eternally rooted in the soil, should be

cast out to make way for another Church, which is already tottering

on its base and divided against itself.' He said he 'firmly

believed that the ends both of the Church and monarchy were close

at hand, that the power of government was even now in the hands of

a few individuals, who were in their turn in the hands of a few

Irish priests.'

"While passing through the garden in returning to the Palace, the

Bishop showed me a white fig-tree growing out of the old wall of

the refectory and abundantly bearing fruit. 'This,' he said, 'I

believe to be the white fig-tree which is nearest to the Pole.'

Passing a fine mulberry-tree he said, 'We owe that to James I., as

he was so excessively anxious to promote the manufacture of silk,

that he recommended to every one the cultivation of the

mulberry-tree, but especially to the clergy, and those of the

clergy planted it who wished to stand well with him. Therefore it

is to be found in the neighbourhood of many of our cathedrals.'

[Illustration: PALACE GARDEN, PETERBOROUGH.]

"Afterwards the Bishop showed the old chronicle of the Abbey, which

he had had splendidly restored at Oxford. He read me some Latin

verses which had evidently been inserted by one of the monks

descriptive of his amours. 'Yet,' said the Bishop, 'these sins of

the monk were probably only sins of the imagination, quite as vivid

as real ones. You know,' he added, 'there are far more acted than

enacted sins, and the former are really far the more corrupting of

the two.'

"In the afternoon we drove to Croyland. The Bishop talked the whole

way. I spoke of his patronage, and envied the power it gave him; he

bitterly lamented it. He said, 'I have in my gift three canonries,

two archdeaconries, and sixty livings, and if any of these fell

vacant to-morrow, I should be at my wit's end whom to appoint. On

the average, two livings fall vacant every year, and then comes my

time of trouble. A bishop who would appoint the best man would be

most unpopular in his diocese, for every one of his clergy would be

offended at not being considered the best.' With regard to the

canonries, I suggested that he could find no difficulty, as he

might always choose men who were employed in some great literary

work. The Bishop allowed that this was exactly what he desired, but

that no such men were to be found in his diocese. There were many

very respectable clergy, but none more especially distinguished

than the rest. He said that when he was appointed bishop, Dr.

Vaughan advised him never to become what he called 'a carpet-bag

bishop,' but that this, in fact, was just what he had become: that

when he was going to preach in a village and sleep in a clergyman's

house, he did not like to trouble them by taking a man-servant, and

that he often arrived carrying his own carpet-bag. That

consequently he often never had his clothes brushed, or even his

boots blacked, but that he brushed his boots with his clothes-brush

as well as he could, as he was afraid of ringing his bell for fear

of mortifying his hosts by showing that he had not already got all

that he wanted. He said, however, that the work of a bishop was

vastly overrated, that there was nothing which did not come within

the easy powers of one man, yet that a proposition had already been

made to exclude the bishops from the House of Lords, to reduce

their incomes to £1500, and to double their number. He said that he

believed all Conservatives had better at once emigrate to New

Zealand, and that he wondered the Queen did not invest in foreign

funds; that it was utterly impossible the monarchy could last much

longer; that the end would be hastened by the debts of the two

Princes.

"When we reached Croyland we went into the Abbey Church, where the

Bishop pointed out the baptistery used for immersion, and several

curious epitaphs, one as late as 1729 asking prayers for the dead.

The drive was most curious over the fens, which are now drained,

but of which the soil is so light that they are obliged to marl it

all over to prevent its being blown away. The abbey itself is most

picturesque. It was built by St. Guthlac, a courtier, who retired

hither in a boat, but who came from no desire of seclusion and

prayer, but merely because he longed for the celebrity which must

accrue to him as a hermit. His sister, Pega, became the foundress

of Peakirk. The Bishop spoke much of the sublimity of the

conception under which these great abbeys were founded--'One God,

one Pope as God's interpreter, one Church, the servant of that

Pope, unity in everything.' He spoke of the Jesuit influence as

used to combat that of the Gallican Church, and he said that there

were now only three Gallican bishops.

"Coming home, the Bishop talked about Wales, and asked if I had

ever compared the military tactics of the Romans with regard to

Wales with those of Edward I. 'The Romans,' he said, 'built the

castle of Lincoln for the repression of the savage people of the

fens, and with the same idea built a line of fortresses between

England and Wales for the repression of the Welsh; but the

consummate skill of Edward I. saw a better plan than this, and he

built a line of fortresses along the coast, which could be

provisioned from the sea, so that if the Welsh made a raid into

England, he could bring them back by falling upon their wives and

children.

"In the evening the Bishop read aloud French poetry, a ballad of

the early part of the seventeenth century, on which Goldsmith had

evidently founded his 'Madame Blaise,' the powerful 'Malbrook,' and

many old hymns; also a beautiful hymn of Adolph Monod on the

Passion of Christ, which he said showed too much philosophy. He

described how he had preached in Westminster Abbey in French during

the great Exhibition, and the immense power of declamation that

French gave; that he had apostrophised those lying in the tombs,

the dead kings round about him, as he never should have ventured to

do in English. He spoke of the transitions of his life, that his

childhood had been passed amongst the rocks of Guernsey, and that

he had loved rocks and wild rolling seas ever since. That as a

child he was never allowed to speak French, as only the lower

orders spoke it, but that he went to the French college of S.

Servan, and there he learnt it. Then came his Oxford life, after

which, thinking that he was never likely to have any opening for

making his way in England, he went off to Canada in despair,

intending to become a settler in the backwoods. The rough life,

however, soon disgusted him, and in a year he returned to England,

where he became fellow and tutor of his college. Thence he was

appointed Dean of Jersey, and ruled there over the petty community.

Then he was made Master of Pembroke (where he remained twenty

years), Vice-Chancellor, Dean of Lincoln, and Bishop of

Peterborough. He spoke of the honour of Oxford men and the

consistency of the Hebdomadal Board, compared with others he had to

deal with. In Jersey, as a matter of course, all his subordinates

voted with their Dean. When he came to Oxford he expected the same

subserviency, and looked on all his colleagues with suspicion, but

he was soon convinced of their uprightness. He said touchingly

that, when near the grave, on looking back, it all seemed much the

same--the same pettiness of feeling, the same party strife, only he

did not worry himself about it; they were all in the hands of One

who died for all alike; that now there were changes in

everything--only One was unchanged.

"Speaking of the morality of Italy, he said that his friend Mr.

Hamilton, head of a clan, had met 'Sandy,' one of his men,

travelling between Rome and Naples. After expressing his surprise

at seeing him there, he asked what he thought of Rome and Naples.

'Wal,' said Sandy, 'I jist think that if naething happens to Rome

and Naples, Sodom and Gomorrah were very unjustly dealt with.'

"'I met Gioberti in Italy,' said the Bishop, 'and asked him about

the Pope. "C'est une femme vertueuse," he replied, "mais c'est

toujours une femme."'

"The Bishop said that, when younger, he wished to have written a

series of Bampton Lectures (and began them) on the History of the

Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. He intended to begin with a

description of three scenes--first, the supper in the upper chamber

at Jerusalem; then the Pope officiating at the altar of the

Lateran; then a simple Scotch meeting in the Highlands--and he

would proceed to describe what had led to the differences between

these; how the Agape was arranged as a point at which all divisions

and dissensions should be laid aside; how it was set aside after

sixty years by the Roman Emperor; then of the gradual growth of the

Eucharist, till oaths were taken on the wafer, and deeds were

sealed with it to give them a solemnity; and till, finally, it came

to be regarded as the actual body of Christ; then of the gradual

rise of all the different theories, the impanation, the invination

of the Saviour.

"This morning the Bishop asked if I knew what was the difference

between the entrance of a field in France and England. 'In

England,' he said, 'it is a _gate_ to let people in; in France a

_barrière_ to keep people out: from this you might proceed to

theorise that England was a country where sheep might stray, but

France not: England a country for milk and flesh, France for corn

and wine.'

"The Bishop said he knew our Roman acquaintance Mr. Goldsmid well.

'I met Nat Goldsmid in Paris about the time of the Immaculate

Conception affair, and I said to him, "Goldsmid, now why has your

Church done this? for you know you all worshipped the Virgin as

much as you could before, and what more can you do for her

now?"--"Yes," he said, "that is quite true; we all worshipped the

Virgin before, but we have done this as a stepping-stone to

declaring the infallibility of the Pope. A Pope who could take upon

himself to declare _such_ a dogma as this must be infallible!"'

From Peterborough I went to stay at Lincoln with Mrs. Nicholas Bacon,

mother of the premier baronet, a very pretty old lady, who reminded me

of the old lady in "David Copperfield," finding her chief occupation in

rapping at her window and keeping the Minster green opposite free from

intruding children, and unable to leave home for any time because then

they would get beyond her--"so sacrilegious," she told them, it was to

play there. Going with her to dine with that Mrs. Ellison of Sugbrooke

who has bequeathed a fine collection of pictures to the nation, I met

the very oldest party of people I ever saw in my life, and as one

octogenarian tottered in after another, felt more amazed, till Mrs.

Ellison laughingly explained that, as Mrs. Bacon had written that she

was going to bring "a very old friend" of hers, she had supposed it

would be agreeable to him to meet as many as possible of his

contemporaries! Afterwards, when staying with Mr. Clements at

Gainsborough, I saw Stowe, which, as an old cathedral, was the

predecessor of Lincoln--very curious and interesting. Thence I went to

Doncaster, arriving in time to help Kate[346] with a great tea-party to

her old women. She asked one old woman how she was. "Well," she said, "I

be middling _upwards_, but I be very bad _downwards_. I be troubled with

such bad legs; downright dangerous legs they be." After visits at

Durham, Cullercoats, and Ridley Hall, I went to stay with the

Dixon-Brownes at Unthank in Northumberland.

_To_ MY MOTHER.

"_Unthank, August 27, 1867._--I spent yesterday morning in my

Northern home (at Ridley), which is in perfect beauty now--the

Allen water, full and clear, rushing in tiny waterfalls among the

mossy rocks, all the ferns in full luxuriance, and the rich heather

in bloom, hanging over the crags and edging the walks. At six

o'clock the flag was raised which stops all trains at the bottom of

the garden, and I came the wee journey of seven miles down the

lovely Tyne valley to Haltwhistle. Unthank is the old home of

Bishop Ridley, the house to which he wrote his last letter before

the stake, addressed to 'my deare sister of Unthanke,'--and it is a

beautiful spot in a green hollow, close under the purple slopes of

the grand moor called Plenmellor. The house is modern, but has an

old tower, and a garden splendid in gorgeous colouring sweeps up

the hill behind it. To-day we went up through a romantic gill

called 'The Heavenly Hole' to Plenmellor Tarn, a lovely blue lake

in the midst of the heather-clad hills. We spoke of it to an old

man there, 'Aye,' he said, 'it's jist a drap of water left by the

Fluid, and niver dried up.'"

"_Bonnyrigg, August 30._--This shooting lodge of Sir Edward

Blackett is quite in the uninhabited moorlands, but has lovely

views of a lake backed by craggy blue hills--just what my sweet

mother would delight to sketch. Lady Blackett is very clever and

agreeable.[347] We have been a fatiguing walk through the heather

to 'the Queen's Crag,' supposed to be Guinevere turned into stone."

"_Bamborough Castle, Sept. 7._--I always long especially for my

dearest mother in this grand old castle, to me perhaps the most

delightful place in the world, its wild scenery more congenial than

even beautiful Italy itself. Nothing too can be kinder than the

dear old cousins.[348] ... It was almost dark when we drove up the

links and under all the old gateways and through the rock entrance:

the light burning in Mrs. Liddell's recess in the court-room. And

it was pleasant to emerge from the damp into the brightly lighted

tapestried chamber with the dinner set out. All yesterday the

minute-gun was booming through the fog to warn ships off the

rocks--such a strangely solemn sound.

"Mr. Liddell was speaking to an old Northumbrian here about the

organ yesterday, and he said, 'I canna bear the loike o' that kist

o' whistles a buzzin' in my ears.'"

"_The Lodge, North Berwick, Sept. 9._--I find my sweet hostess,

Mrs. Dalzel,[349] little altered, except perhaps more entirely

heavenly than before in all her thoughts and words. 'I am very near

the last station now,' she says, 'and then I shall be at home. I am

the last of fifteen, and I can think of them all _there_--my

mother, my sisters, one after another, resting upon their Saviour

alone, and now with Him for ever!' 'When one is old, the wonderful

discoveries, the great works of man only bewilder one and tire one;

but the flowers and the unfolding of Nature, all the wonderful

works of God, refresh and interest as much as ever: and may not it

be because these interests and pleasures are to be immortal, amid

the flowers that never fade?'

"Mr. Dalzel does not look a day older, but he sat at dinner with a

green baize cloth before him to save his eyes. We dined at five,

and another Mrs. Dalzel came, who sang Scottish songs most

beautifully in the evening. Mr. Dalzel prayed aloud long extempore

prayers, and we dispersed at ten. Before dinner I went to the sands

with Mrs. Allen Dalzel,[350] who was very amusing:--

"'The old Dalzel house is at Binns near Linlithgow. The first

Dalzel was an attendant of one of the early Kenneths. The king's

favourite was taken by his enemies and hanged on a tree. "Who will

dare to cut him down?" said the king. "Dalzel," or "I dare," said

the attendant, who cut him down with his dagger. Hence came the

name, and hence the Dalzels bear a dagger as their crest, with the

motto "I dare," and on their arms a man hanging.

"'At Binns there are trees cut in the shape of men hanging. There

is also a picture of the "tyrannous Dalzel," who persecuted the

Covenanters, and who made a vow at the death of Charles I. that he

would never shave again or change his costume. He lived for fifty

years after that, but he never cut his beard, and he is represented

in his odd suit of chamois leather, with a high-peaked hat and his

hair down to his waist.

"'His comrade was Grierson of Lag, whose eye was the most terrible

ever seen. Long after the persecution was over, he was told that a

servant in the house had a great curiosity to see him. "Let him

bring me a glass of wine," said Grierson. The servant brought it in

upon a salver. Grierson waited till he came close up, and then,

fixing his eye on him, exclaimed, "Are there ony Whigs in Galloway

noo?" and the effect was so terrible, that the servant dropped the

salver, glass and all, and rushed out of the room.

"'I used to go and teach Betty O'Brien to read when we lived at

Seacliffe. Her mother was a clean tidy body, and, though she had

not a penny in the world, she was very proud, for she came from the

North of Ireland, and looked down upon all who came from the South.

I asked her why she did not make friends with her neighbours, and

she said, "D'ye think I'd consort wi' the loike o' them, just

Connaught folk?" So on this I changed the subject as quick as I

could, for I just came from Connaught myself.

"'Her daughter, however, married one of those very Connaught

Irish--what she called "the boy O'Flinn," and she would have

nothing to do with her afterwards; and she lay in wait for "the boy

O'Flinn," and threw a stone at him, which hit him in the chest so

badly that he was in bed for a week afterwards. When I heard of

this, I went to see her and said, "Well, Betty, you're Irish, and

I'm Irish, and I think we just ought to set a good example and show

how well Irishwomen can behave." But she soon cut short my little

sermon by saying, "They've been telling tales o' me, have they? and

it's not off you they keep their tongues neither: they say you're a

_Roman_!" I did not want to hear any more, and was going out of the

cottage, when she called after me in a fury, "_I_ know what you've

been staying so long in Edinburgh for; you just stay here to fast

and to pray, and then you go there to faast and drink tay."'"

"_Sept. 10._--I wish for my dearest mother every hour in this

sanctuary of peace and loving-kindness, with the sweet presence of

Mrs. Dalzel. What she is and says it is quite impossible to give an

idea of; but she is truly what Milton describes--

"Insphered

In regions mild of calm and air serene,

Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot

Which men call earth."

"Her constant communion with heaven makes all the world to her

only a gallery of heavenly pictures, creating a succession of

heavenly thoughts, and she has so sweet and gentle a manner of

giving these thoughts to others, that all, even those least in

unison with her, are equally impressed by them. Most striking of

all is her large-heartedness and admiration of all the good people

who disagree with her. Her daughter-in-law has quite given up

everything else in her devotion to her: it is really Ruth and Naomi

over again.

"This afternoon we drove to Tantallon and on to Seacliffe, a most

beautiful place on the coast, where Mrs. Dalzel lived formerly. A

delightful little walk under a ruined manor-house and through a

wood of old buckthorn trees led down to the sea, and a most grand

view of Tantallon rising on its red rocks. We walked afterwards to

'Canty Bay,' so called because the Covenanters sang Psalms there

when they were being embarked for the Bass.

"'How curious it would be,' Mrs. Dalzel has been saying, 'if all

the lines on people's faces had writing on them to say what brought

them there. What strange tales they would tell!'

"'Oh, what it is to be at peace! at perfect peace with God! in

perfect reliance on one's Saviour! I often think it is like a

person who has packed up for a journey. When all his work is

finished and all his boxes are packed, he can sit down in the last

hour before his departure and rest in peace, for all his

preparations are made. So in the last hours of life one may rest in

peace, if the work of preparation is already done.'

"'I used to count the future by years: now I only do it by months;

perhaps I can only do it by weeks.'

"'My eldest brother lived in a great world. He was very handsome

and much admired. As aide-de-camp to Sir Ralph Abercromby, George

IV. made him his friend, and many people paid court to him. At last

one day he came to my dear mother, who was still living in her

great age, and who had found her Saviour some years before, and

said to her, "Mother, I feel that my health is failing and that

this world is rapidly slipping away from me, and I have no certain

hope for the next: what would you advise me to do?" And my mother

said to him, "My dear son, I can only advise you to do what I have

done myself, take your Bible and read it with prayer upon your

knees, and God will send you light." And my brother did so, and God

granted him the perfect peace that passeth understanding. He lived

many years after that, but his health had failed, and his Bible was

his constant companion. When I went to see him, he used to lay his

hand on the Book and say, "_This_ is my comforter." A few years

before he died, a malady affected one of his legs which obliged him

to have the limb amputated. When the operation was about to

commence, the doctor who was standing by felt his pulse, and did

not find it varied in the least. "General Macmurdo," he said, "you

are a hero."--"No," said my brother solemnly, "but I hope I am a

Christian." And the doctor said he felt the power of Christianity

from that day.'

"'From the shore of another world all my past life seems like a

dream.'[351]

"I think if one stayed here long, one would quite feel the

necessity of sinning occasionally to avoid the danger of becoming

intolerant of petty faults and unsuitablenesses, from living with

those so entirely without them."

"_Carstairs, Sept. 18._--This is a large and comfortable house, and

Mr. Monteith is busied with various improvements in the grounds.

One improvement I should certainly make would be the destruction of

a horrible tomb of a former possessor of the place, an atheist

relation, with an inscription 'to the Infernal Deities.' No wonder

that the avenue leading to the tomb is said to be haunted."

It was during this summer that old Lady Webster died.[352] She had long

been a conspicuous figure in our home neighbourhood, and had seemed to

possess the secret of eternal youth. In my childhood she reigned like a

queen at Battle, but the Websters had several years before been obliged

to sell Battle to Lord Harry Vane (afterwards Duke of Cleveland),

chiefly because there were five dowager Lady Websters at once, all

drawing jointures from the already impoverished property. Of these

ladies, three, usually known as "the good Lady Webster," "Grace, Lady

Webster," and "the great Lady Webster," lived much at Hastings. When the

great Lady Webster died, she left several sons, and it was a subject of

much comment at the time that, when her will was opened, she was found

to have left nothing to any of them. Her will was very short. She left

everything she possessed in the world to her dear and faithful companion

Madame Bergeret. It excited many unkind remarks, but those who learnt

the real facts always admitted that, in the crowning act of her life,

Lady Webster had only acted with that sense of justice and duty which

had ever been her characteristic. The story is this:[353]--

Towards the latter part of the last century there lived at an old

manorial farm in Brittany a female farmer named Bergeret. Her

ancestors had owned the farm, and had cultivated their own land for

hundreds of years, and Madame Bergeret herself was well known and

highly respected through all the neighbouring country, charitable

to her poorer neighbours, frank, kind, and unfailingly hospitable

to those in her own rank of life. She lived bounteously, kept an

open house, and spent in beneficence and hospitality the ample

income which her lands brought her.

One day she was surprised by a visit from her next neighbour, a man

named Girard, in her own class of life, whose family had always

been known to her own, and who had possessed the neighbouring farm.

He told her that he felt she would be shocked to hear that he had

long been acting a part in making himself appear much better off

than he was; that he had lost a great deal of money in speculation;

that all was on the eve of being divulged; that if he could manage

to keeps things going till after the next harvest, he might tide

over his misfortunes, but that otherwise he must be totally ruined,

lose everything he had, and bring his wife and children to

destitution; and by the recollection of their old neighbourhood and

long intimacy he adjured Madame Bergeret to help him. Madame

Bergeret was very sorry--very sorry indeed, but she told him that

it was impossible; and it really was. She lived amply up to her

income, she had laid nothing by: she was well off, but all she had

came from her lands; her income depended upon her harvest; she

really had nothing to give to her poor neighbour, and she told him

so--told him so with a very heavy heart, and he went away terribly

crestfallen and miserable.

When Girard was gone, Madame Bergeret looked round her room, and

she saw there a collection of fine old gold plate, such as often

forms the source of pride to a Breton yeoman of old family, and

descends like a patent of nobility from one generation to another,

greatly reverenced and guarded. Madame Bergeret looked at her

plate, and she said to herself, "If this was sold, it would produce

a very large sum; and ought I, for the sake of mere family pride,

to allow an old and honourable family to go to destitution?" And

she called her neighbour back, and she gave Girard all her gold

plate. The sum for which he was able to sell it helped him through

till after the harvest; soon afterwards he found an opportunity of

disposing of his Breton lands to very great advantage, and removed

to another part of the country. He thanked Madame Bergeret, but he

did not seem to realise that she had made any great sacrifice in

his behalf; and she, resting satisfied in having done what she

believed to be right, expected no more.

Some years afterwards, Madame Bergeret, being an old woman, placed

her Breton lands in the hands of an agent, and removed with her two

children to Paris. The great French Revolution occurred while she

was there, and the Reign of Terror came on, and Madame Bergeret,

who belonged to a Royalist family of loyal Brittany, was arrested:

she was thrown into the prison of La Force, and she was condemned

to death.

The Madame Bergeret I knew in another generation recollected being

with her little brother in a room on the Rue St Honoré on the day

on which a hundred and twenty persons were to suffer in the Place

Louis XV. She saw them pass down the street to execution in

twenty-two tumbrils; but when the last tumbril came beneath the

window, the friends who were with her in the room drew down the

blinds; not, however, before she had recognised her own mother in

that tumbril, with all her hair cut off, that the head might come

off more easily.

All the way to the place of execution, Madame Bergeret consoled

and encouraged her companions, and she assented to their petition

that she should suffer last, that she would see them through the

dread portal before her. Therefore, when her turn at length came,

the ground around the scaffold was one sea of blood, for a hundred

and nineteen persons had perished that day. Thus, on descending the

steps of the cart, Madame Bergeret slipped and stumbled. This

arrested the attention of the deputy who was set to watch the

executions. He started, and then rushed forward saying, "This woman

has no business here. I know her very well; she is a most honest

citoyenne, or, if she is not, I know quite well how to make her so:

this woman is not one to be guillotined." It was Girard.

Now Madame Bergeret was quite prepared for death, but the sudden

revulsion of her deliverance overcame her and she fainted. Girard

carried her away in his arms, and when she came to herself she was

in bed in a house in a quiet back-street of Paris, and he was

watching over her. He had removed to Lyons, and, with the sudden

changes of the time, had risen to be deputy, and being set to watch

the executions, had recognised the woman who had saved him. By the

help of Girard, and after many hairbreadth escapes, Madame Bergeret

reached the coast, and eventually arrived in England. She then made

her way to the only person she knew, a lady who had once spent some

time in her Breton village, a Mrs. Adamson. Her daughter played

with and was brought up with the little Miss Adamson. When Miss

Adamson married Sir Godfrey Webster of Battle Abbey, Mademoiselle

Bergeret (her mother being dead) went with her and lived at Battle

as a sort of companion to Lady Webster and nursery-governess to her

boys. For fifty years she never received any salary, and having,

through the changes of things in France, inherited something of her

mother's Breton property, she twice sacrificed her little all to

pay the debts of the Webster family. Therefore it was that, in the

close of life, Lady Webster felt that her sons might provide for

themselves, but that, having very little to bequeath, the one

person she could not leave destitute was "her dear and faithful

companion and friend, Madame Bergeret."

Five months before her death, Lady Webster was very full of the

terrible deaths which had lately occurred from railway accidents,

and, on leaving home, she said to Madame Bergeret, "Here is this

paper, and if I should be killed by an accident or not live to come

home, you may read it; but at any rate keep it for me, and perhaps,

if I come back, some day I may want it again." Lady Webster came

back well and did not ask for the paper, and when she died, it was

so sudden, a few minutes after talking quite cheerfully to Madame

Bergeret, that in the shock she remembered nothing about it, and it

was only long afterwards, when they were making a great fuss about

there being no will, that she suddenly thought of the paper

entrusted to her, and, when it was read, found Lady Webster had

left her all she possessed.

Madame Bergeret dying herself about a year afterwards, left

everything back to the Webster family. She was a quiet primitive

old woman, who used to sit in the background at work in Lady

Webster's sitting-room.

After my return home in the autumn of 1867, my mother was terribly ill,

so that our journey abroad was a very anxious one to look forward to. I

tried, however, to face it quite cheerily. I have read in an American

novel somewhere, "It is no use to pack up any worries to take with you;

you can always pick up plenty on the way;" and I have always found it

true.

_To_ MISS WRIGHT _and_ JOURNAL.

"_Nice, Nov. 17, 1867._--My dear Aunt Sophy will be delighted to

see this date. So far all our troubles and anxieties are past, and

the sweet Mother certainly not the worse, perhaps rather better for

all her fatigues. It is an extraordinary case, to be one day lying

in a sort of vision on the portals of another world, the next up

and travelling.

[Illustration: FONTAINES.[354]]

"When we reached Paris she was terribly exhausted, then slept for

thirty-six hours like a child, almost without waking. At the

Embassy we were urged to go on to Rome, all quiet and likely to

subside into a dead calm; but so much snow had fallen on Mont

Cenis, that in Mother's weak state we could not risk that passage,

and were obliged to decide upon coming round by the coast. On

Monday we reached Dijon, where twenty-four hours' sleep again

revived the Mother. It was fiercely cold, but Tuesday brightened

into a glorious winter's day, and I had a most enchanting walk

through sunshine and bracing air to Fontaines. It is picturesque

French country, a winding road with golden vines and old stone

crosses, and a distance of oddly-shaped purple hills. Fontaines

itself is a large village, full of mouldering mediæval fragments,

stretching up a hillside, which becomes steeper towards the top,

and is crowned by a fine old church, a lawn with groups of old

walnut-trees, and the remains of the château where St. Bernard was

born. Over the entrance is a statue of him, and within, the room of

his birth is preserved as a chapel. The view from the churchyard is

lovely, and the graves are marked by ancient stone crosses and

bordered with flowers. Within are old tombs and inscriptions--'Ce

git la très haute et très puissante dame,' &c.

"We came on to Arles by the quick night-train, and stayed there as

usual two days and a half--days of glaring white sirocco and no

colour, and at Arles we found ourselves at once in Southern heat,

panting, without fires and with windows wide open."

[Illustration: ARC DE S. CESAIRE, ALISCAMPS, ARLES.[355]]

"_Pisa, Dec. 1._--We left Nice on the 21st, and slept at Mentone,

quite spoilt by building and by cutting down trees. I saw many

friends, especially the Comtesse d'Adhemar, who flung her arms

round me and kissed me on both cheeks. We spent the middle of the

next day at S. Remo and slept at Oneglia. The precipices are truly

appalling. I have visions still of the early morning drive from

Oneglia along dewy hillsides and amongst hoary olives, and through

the narrow gaily painted streets of the little fishing-towns, where

the arches meet overhead and the wares set out before the

shop-doors brush the carriage as it passes by.

[Illustration: AT SAVONA.[356]]

"The second day, at Loiano, I was left behind. I went just outside

the hotel to draw, begging my mother and Lea to pick me up as they

went by. The carriage passed close by me and they did not see me.

At first I did not hurry myself, thinking, when they did not find

me, that they would stop for me a little farther on; but seeing the

carriage go on and on, I ran after it as hard as I could, shouting

at the pitch of my voice; but it never stopped, and I quite lost

sight of it in the narrow streets of one of the fishing-villages

before reaching Finale. At Finale I was in absolute despair at

their not stopping, which seemed inexplicable, and I pursued mile

after mile, footsore and weary, through the grand mountain coves in

that part of the Riviera and along the desolate shore to Noli,

where, just as night closed in, I was taken up by some people

driving in a little carriage, on the box of which, in a bitter cold

wind, I was carried to Savona, where I arrived just as our heavy

carriage with its inmates was driving into the hotel. It was one of

the odd instances of my dear mother's insouciance, of her

'happy-go-lucky' nature: 'they had not seen me, they had not looked

back; no, they supposed I should get on somehow; they knew I always

fell on my legs.' And I was perfectly conscious that if I had not

appeared for days, my mother would have said just the same. We

spent a pleasant Sunday at Savona, the views most beautiful of the

wonderfully picturesque tower, calm bay of sapphire water, and

delicate mountain distance.

"The landlord of the Croce di Malta at Genoa engaged a _vetturino_

to take us to La Spezia. The first day, it was late when we left

Sta. Margherita, where we stayed for luncheon. The driver lighted

his lamps at Chiavari. Soon both my companions fell asleep. I sat

up watching the foam of the sea at the bottom of the deep black

precipices without parapets as long as I could see it through the

gloom: then it became quite dark. Suddenly there was a frightful

bolt of the horses, scream after scream from the driver, an awful

crash, and we were hurled violently over and over into the black

darkness. A succession of shrieks from Lea showed me that she was

alive, but I thought at first my mother must be killed, for there

was no sound from her. Soon the great troop of navvies came up,

whose sudden appearance from the mouth of a tunnel, each with a

long iron torch in his hand, had made the horses bolt. One of them

let down his torch into the mired and broken carriage as it lay

bottom upwards. 'Povera, poveretta,' he exclaimed, as he saw Lea

sitting pouring with blood amongst the broken glass of the five

great windows of the carriage. Then Mother's voice from the depth

of the hood assured us that she was not hurt, only buried under the

cushions and bags, and she had courage to remain perfectly

motionless, while sheet after sheet of broken glass was taken from

off her (she would have been cut to pieces if she had moved) and

thrown out at the top of the carriage. Then there was a great

consultation as to _how_ we were to be got out, which ended in the

carriage being bodily lifted and part of the top taken off, making

an opening through which first Lea was dragged and afterwards the

Mother. Then my mother, who had not walked at all for many weeks,

was compelled to walk more than a mile to Sestri, in pitch darkness

and pouring rain, dragged by a navvy on one side and me on the

other. Another navvy supported Lea, who was in a fainting state,

and others carried torches. We excited much pity when we arrived at

the little inn at Sestri, and the people were most hospitable and

kind. I had always especially wished to draw a particular view of a

gaily painted church tower and some grand aloes on the road near

Sestri, and it was curious to be enabled to do so the next day by

our forcible detention there for want of a carriage.

[Illustration: SESTRI.[357]]

"On the 29th we crossed once more the grand pass of Bracco, with

its glorious scenery of billowy mountains ending in the delicate

peaks of Carrara; and we baited at a wretched village where Mother

was able to walk in the sunny road. Yesterday we came here by the

exquisite railway under Massa Ducale, and were rapturously welcomed

by Victoire[358] and her daughter."

"_Palazzo Parisani, Rome, Dec. 10._--We had a wearisome journey

here on the 3rd, the train not attempting to keep any particular

time, and stopping more than an hour at Orbetello for the

'_discorso_' of the guard and engine-driver,[359] and at other

stations in proportion. However, Mother quite revived when the

great masses of the aqueducts began to show in the moonlight. They

had given up expecting us in the Palazzo, where my sister has lent

us her apartments, and it was long before we could get any one to

open the door.

"It has been bitterly cold ever since we arrived and the air filled

with snow. The first acquaintance I saw was the Pope! He was at the

Trinità de' Monte, and I waited to see him come down the steps and

receive his blessing on our first Roman morning. He looked

dreadfully weak, and Monsignor Talbot seemed to be holding him

tight up lest he should fall. The Neapolitan royal family I have

already seen, always in their deep mourning.[360]

"The Pincio is still surrounded with earthworks, and the barricades

remain outside the gates: a great open moat yawns in front of the

door of the English Church. The barrack near St. Peter's is a

hideous ruin. The accounts of the battle of Mentana are awful: when

the Pontificals had expended all their ammunition, they rushed upon

the Garibaldians and tore them with their teeth.

"Terrible misery has been left by the cholera, and the streets are

far more full of beggars than ever. The number of deaths has been

frightful--Princess Colonna and her daughters; old Marchese

Serlupi; Müller the painter and his child; Mrs. Foljambe's old maid

of thirty years; Mrs. Ramsay's donna and the man who made tea at

her parties, are amongst those we have known. The first day we were

out, Lea and I saw a woman in deep mourning, who was evidently

begging, look wistfully at us, and had some difficulty in

recognising Angela, our donna of 1863. Her husband, handsome

Antonio the fisherman, turned black of the cholera in the

Pescheria, and died in a few hours, and her three children have

been ill ever since.

"Mrs. Shakspeare Wood has been to see us, and described the summer

which she has spent here--six thousand deaths in Rome between May

and November, sixty in the Forum of Trajan, thirty in the

Purificazione alone. The Government wisely forbade any funeral

processions, and did not allow the bells to be tolled, and the dead

were taken away at night. Then came the war. The gates were closed,

and an edict published bidding all the citizens, when they heard

'cinque colpi di cannóne, d'andare subito a casa.' The Woods laid

in quantities of flour, and spent £5 in cheese, only remembering

afterwards that, having forgotten to lay in any fuel, they could

not have baked their bread."

"_Dec. 13._--Yesterday I went to Mrs. Robert De Selby.[361] She

described the excitement of the battles. In the thick of it all she

got a safe-conduct and drove out to Mentana to be near her husband

in case he was wounded. She also drove several times to the army

with provisions and cordials. If they tried to stop her, she said

she was an officer's wife taking him his dinner, and they let her

pass. One of the officers said afterwards to her mother, 'La sua

figlia vale un altro dragone.'

"She told me Lady Anne S. Giorgio (her mother),[362] was living in

the Mercede, and I went there at once. She was overjoyed to see me,

and embraced me with the utmost affection. She is also enchanted to

be near the Mother, her 'saint in a Protestant niche.' She is come

here because 'all the old sinners in Florence' disapproved of her

revolutionary tendencies. Lady Anne remembered my father's great

intimacy with Mezzofanti. She said my father had once a servant who

came from an obscure part of Hungary where they spoke a very

peculiar dialect. One day, going to Mezzofanti, he took his servant

with him. The Cardinal asked the man where he came from, and, on

his telling him, addressed him in the dialect of his native place.

The man screamed violently, and, making for the door, tried to

escape: he took Mezzofanti for a wizard.

"Lady Anne recollected my father's extreme enjoyment of a scene of

this kind. There was a Dr. Taylor who used to worship the heathen

gods--Mars and Mercury, and the rest. One day at Oxford, in the

presence of my father and of one of the professors, he took his

little silver images of the gods out of his pocket and began to

pray to them and burn incense. The professor, intensely shocked,

tried to interfere, but my father started up--'How _can_ you be so

foolish? _do_ be quiet: don't you see you're interrupting the

comedy?' The same Dr. Taylor was afterwards arrested for

sacrificing a bullock to Neptune in a back-parlour in London!"

"_44 Piazza di Spagna, Dec. 29._--We moved here on the 20th to a

delightfully comfortable apartment, which is a perfect sun-trap.

Most truly luxurious indeed does Rome seem after Cannes--food,

house, carriages, all so good and reasonable. I actually gave a

party before we left my sister's apartment, lighting up those fine

rooms, and issuing the invitations in my own name, in order that

Mother might not feel obliged to appear unless quite equal to it at

the moment. Three days after I had another party for children--tea

and high romps afterwards in the long drawing-room.

"On the 21st I went with the Erskines, Mrs. Ramsay, and Miss

Garden, by rail to Monte Rotondo. The quantity of soldiers at the

station and all along the road quite allayed any fears of brigands

which had been entertained regarding the mile and a half between

the village and the railway. The situation proved quite

beautiful--the old houses crowned by the Piombino castle, rising

from vineyards and gardens, backed by the purple peak of Monte

Gennaro. Beyond, in the hollow, is the convent where Garibaldi was

encamped, and farther still the battlefield of Mentana.

"On the 23rd there was a magnificent reception at the Spanish

Embassy. Every one went to salute the new ambassador, Don

Alessandro del Castro, and the whole immense suite of rooms thrown

open had a glorious effect. There was an abundance of cardinals,

and the Roman princesses all arrived in their diamonds. The

Borgheses came in as a family procession, headed by Princess

Borghese in blue velvet and diamonds. The young English Princess

Teano looked lovely in blue velvet and gold brocade. On Christmas

Day I went to St Peter's for the coming in of the Pope, and stayed

long enough to see Francis II. arrive with his suite. In the

afternoon I took Lea to the Ara Cœli and Sta. Maria Maggiore. At

the Ara Cœli great confusion prevails and much enthusiasm on

account of a new miracle. When people were ill, upon their paying a

scudo for the carriage, the Santo Bambino was brought by two of the

monks, and left upon the sick-bed, to be fetched away some hours

after in the same way. A sacrilegious lady determined to take

advantage of this to steal the Bambino; so she pretended her child

was ill and paid her scudo; but as soon as ever the monks were

gone, she had a false Bambino, which she had caused to be prepared,

dressed up in the clothes of the real one, and when the monks came

back they took away the false Bambino without discovering the

fraud, and carried it to the place of honour in the Church of Ara

Cœli.

"That night the convent awoke to fearful alarm, every bell rang at

the same moment, awful sounds were heard at the doors; the

trembling brotherhood hastened to the church, but loud and fast the

knocks continued on the very door of the sanctuary ('bussava,

bussava, bussava'). At last they summoned courage to approach the

entrance with lights, and behold, a little tiny pink child's foot,

which was poked in under the door; and they opened the door wide,

and there without, on the platform at the head of the steps, stood,

in the wind and the rain, quite naked, the real Bambino of Ara

Cœli. So then the real child was restored to its place, and the

lady, confounded and disgraced, was bidden to take the false child

home again.

"Our donna, Louisa, was in ecstasies when she told us this

story--'Oh com' è graziosa, oh com' è graziosa questa storia,'--and

she never can understand why we do not send for the Bambino to cure

Mother of all her ailments, though, in consequence of the theft, it

is now never left alone in a house, but is taken away by the same

monks who bring it. Lea was imprudent enough to say she did not

believe the Bambino would ever do _her_ any good; but when Louisa,

looking at her with wondering eyes, asked why, said weakly,

'Because I have such a bad heart,' in which Louisa quite acquiesced

as a reason.

"It had been a sad shadow hitherto over all this winter that my

sweetest Mother had been so ill. At Parisani I had many sad days

and nights too. She suffered almost constantly from pain in the

back, and moaned in a way which went to my very heart.... Twice

only in the fortnight was Mother able to get out to the Forum and

walk in the sun from the Coliseum to the Capitol, and she felt the

cold most terribly, and certainly the Palazzo was very cold.

"At first, when we came to this house, Mother was better, and she

was delighted with these rooms, which fulfilled a presentiment she

had told me of before we left home, that this winter she should

have the pleasantest apartment she had ever had yet. But on the

21st she was chilled when driving with Mrs. Hall to Torre Quinto,

and that evening quite lost her power of articulation. It only

lasted about an hour.... She was conscious of it afterwards, and

said, 'It was so odd, I was not able to speak.' Some days after,

though able to articulate, she was unable to find the words she

needed, calling the commonest things by their wrong names, and this

was the more alarming as more likely to be continuous. On Thursday

she was well enough to drive with me to the Aqua Acetosa, and walk

there in the sun on the muddy Tiber bank, but that evening she

became worse, and since then has scarcely been out of bed."

"_Dec. 30._--On Saturday I was constantly restless, with a sense of

fire near me, but could discover nothing burning in the apartment.

I had such a strong presentiment of fire that I refused to go out

all day. When Lea came in with my tea at 8 P.M., I told her what an

extraordinary noise I continually heard--a sort of rushing over the

ceiling, which was of strained canvas--but she thought nothing of

it. Soon after she was gone, a shower of sparks burst into the room

and large pieces of burning wood forced their way through a hole

in the ceiling. Shouting to Lea, I rushed up to the next floor, and

rang violently and continuously at the bell, shouting 'Fuoco,

fuoco;' but the owners of the apartment were gone to bed and would

not get up; so, without losing time, I flew downstairs, roused the

porter, sent him off to fetch Ferdinando Manetti, who was

responsible for our apartment, and then for the _pompieri_.

Meantime the servants of Miss Robertson, who lived below us, had

come to our help, and assisted in keeping the fire under with

sponges of water, while Lea and I rushed about securing money,

valuables, drawings, &c., and then, dragging out our great boxes,

began rapidly to fill them. Mother was greatly astonished at seeing

us moving in and out with great piles of things in our arms, but

did not realise at once what had happened. I had just arranged for

her being wrapped up in blankets and carried through the streets to

Palazzo Parisani, when the _pompieri_ arrived. From that time there

was no real danger. They tore up the bricks of the floor above us,

and poured water through upon the charred and burning beams, and a

cascade of black water and hot bricks tumbled through together into

our drawing-room."

_To_ MISS WRIGHT.

"_Jan. 1._--Alas! I can give but a poor account of her who occupies

all my real thoughts and interests. My sweetest Mother is still

very, very feeble, and quite touchingly helpless. She varies like a

thermometer with the weather, and if it is fine, is well enough to

see Mrs. Hall and one or two friends, but she is seldom able to be

dressed before twelve o'clock, and often has to lie down again

before four. I seldom like to be away from her long, and never by

day or night feel really free from anxiety."