HOSPITALITIES--FARNHAM, ETC.
Amongst other memorabilia in no particular order, let me set down a few
visits, longer than a mere call, to sundry persons and places of note.
As these, for instance. Annually during many years I used to be a guest
from Thursday to Monday at Farnham Castle, when the good Bishop's
venison was in season. Of course, at such a table I constantly met
celebrities, but a mere list of their names would be tedious, and any
public record of private hospitalities I hold to be improper. No doubt
the kindly and courtly Bishop Sumner held high festival like an ancient
Baron, at such a rate (for those were golden times from renewed leases
for the see) as no successor with a less unlimited income could well
afford. The grandeur of Farnham Castle died with him: and my good friend
from boyhood, Bishop Harold Browne, must not be blamed if with less than
half his means he cannot compete with him.
I was enabled to gratify Bishop Sumner in a way that touched his heart,
as thus. A cousin of mine, De Lara Tupper of Rio Janeiro, a rich
merchant prince there, sent me, as a present for my Albury greenhouse,
two large bales of orchids, which, however, were practically useless to
me, as I had not that expensive luxury, a regular orchid-house. But I
knew that the dear Bishop had, and that orchid-growing was his special
hobby: accordingly all were transferred to Farnham, and I need not say
how gratefully accepted, as many roots proved to be most rare, and some
specimens quite unique. The good man gave me, _en révanche_, a splendid
Horace, in white vellum beautifully illustrated, and inscribed by him
"Gratiarum actio," now near me in a bookcase. The same South American
cousin sent me also a box of pines, oranges, and shaddocks just when
Garibaldi was our visitor at Princes Gate,--and I had the gratification
of giving many to him, not only because he mainly lived upon fruit, but
also because some of the said fruit came from the farm he and his first
wife, the well-beloved Anita, had once owned in South America. Later on,
Gladstone invited me to meet the hero at a reception in Carlton Gardens,
where I took note of Garibaldi, with his hostess on his arm, as he
walked in his simple red shirt, through a bowing lane of feathered
fashionables, whom he greeted right and left as if he had been always
used to such London high life. On that occasion I had the honour of
standing between Palmerston and Lord John Russell, who kindly conversed
with me, as also did the chief guest, specially thanking me for those
pines and oranges.
Parham.
Another notable visit of some days, was one to Parham, the ancient--and
haunted--seat of my old friend both at Charterhouse and at Christ
Church, Robert Curzon, afterwards Lord de la Zouche, the great collector
of Armenian and other missals and manuscripts. With him (alas! no more
amongst us, and his son has dropped the "de la") I spent a joyful and
instructive time: out of doors we fished in the lake and rode about the
park among the antlered deer,--three heads and horns whereof are now in
our glass-porch entrance at Albury; indoors, there was the splendid
gallery of family armour from feudal days,--several suits of which
Curzon told me he had tried to wear on some occasion, but couldn't; most
were too small for him, though by no means a tall man; and those which
he could struggle into were too heavy. Then there was the interminable
companion gallery of full-length portraits, some of whom, probably the
wicked ancestors, _walked_! and I'm sure that when I slept in a
tapestried chamber under that gallery, I did hear footsteps--could it
be, horrible fancy! in procession? When I told Curzon this, he answered
that he had often heard them himself, from boyhood, but that familiarity
bred contempt: he said also, with a twinkle in his eye, that there _was_
a room which was usually set apart for new-married couples, as such
would probably not be so much startled as lonely maids and bachelors
might be, at the whispered conversations across the bed! Moreover, evil
wings (possibly owls or bats, looking after glow-worm candles)
occasionally flapped at the casements. But Curzon was a humorist as well
as inventive. Perhaps one secret as to ghosts at Parham lay in the fact
that in the old thick walls were concealed staircases and "priests'
chambers," which possibly might be of use, even now, to vagrant lovers
(like Mr. Pickwick at Ipswich), or perhaps sleep-walkers,--or
burglarious, thieves. Anyhow, I liked to lock my bedroom door there,--as
indeed I do generally elsewhere, if lock and key are in good agreement;
for once I couldn't get out without the surgical operation of a
carpenter, having too securely locked myself in. This shall not happen
twice, if I can help it. Curzon's great glory, however, was his library,
full of rarities: he showed me, amongst other MSS., his unique purple
parchments, with gold letter types, being (if I remember rightly)
Constantine's own copy of the New Testament; and, to pass by other
curios, some tiny Elzevirs uncut: imagine his horror when I volunteered
to cut these open for him!--their chief and priceless wonder being that
no eye has ever seen, nor ever can see, the insides of those virgin
pages! I know there is such a rabies as bibliomania,--and I have myself,
at Albury, a "breeches" Bible, which belonged to a maternal ancestor, a
Faulkner, of course valued beyond its worth as a readable volume; and I
might name many other instances; but to esteem a book chiefly because it
has never been cut open, did strike my ignorance as an abnormal fatuity.
Curzon was one of our Aristotelians, as before mentioned.
Other Visits.
I am also mindful of a very pleasant week spent long ago at Shenstone's
Leasowes, a beautiful estate near Birmingham, now being dug up for coal
even as Hamilton is, where in those days some good friends of mine
resided, of whom (now departed like so many others) I have most kindly
recollections. The hostess, a charming and intelligent lady of the old
school, wearing her own white ringlets, used to have many talks with me
about Emanuel Swedenborg, a half-inspired genius whom she much favoured;
the host, a genial county magnate, did his best to enable me to catch
trout where Shenstone used to sing about them, and tried to interest me
in farm improvements: but my chief memory of those days is this. Whilst
I was there, a splendid testimonial in silver arrived in a fly from
Birmingham, well guarded by a couple of police against possible roughs,
the result of a zealous gathering from his political supporters; and
that Testimonial, "little Testy" as I called it, was a source of care
and dilemma to everybody; for care, it was immediately locked away for
fear of burglars; and as to dilemma, the white elephant was too tall for
the centre of a table, and too short to stand upon the floor. It seemed
closely to illustrate to my mind that wise text about a man's life and
his possessions. The cheerful spirit of the mansion and its inmates
seemed quite subdued by this unwelcome acquisition. When at the
Leasowes, I produced some suitable poems which were very kindly
received: here is one of them, hitherto unprinted.
_An Impromptu Sonnet._
_Ticked of at the Leasowes, Aug. 24, 1857, as per order._
"And so you claim a verse of me, good friend,
As from the inspiration of the place;
Well then,--from pastoral trash may taste defend
Your pleasant Leasowes, and the human race!
The Gentle Shepherd's day has had an end,
Nor even could melodious Shenstone here
(False and inflated, we must all allow),
Excite one glowing thought or pensive tear
Unless indeed of wrath or pity now:
Yet dearly can I love these tumbling hills
With roughly wooded winding glens between,
Set with clear trout pools link'd by gurgling rills
And all so natural and calm and green,
That served to enervate your Poetaster
But only strengthen now their Iron Master."
I will also record a hospitable sojourn in old days at Northwood Park,
the splendid abode of Isle-of-Wight Ward (grandfather to my school and
college friend Ward of the Aristotle class and Oxonian persecution),
where I once spent a week in my father's time: and similarly a visit at
Lord Spencer's perfect villa near Ryde: and at other pleasant homes,
made to me frequently welcome, the chief being Wotton, the classic
mansion of one of my oldest friends.
Also long ago,--see a former page,--I purposely dismissed with only a
word our lengthened visits in my father's day at Inveraray Castle with
the old Duke of Argyll, and Holkar Hall with Lord George Cavendish, as
private domesticities,--whilst a casual other few as at Ardgowan,
Rozelle, Herriard, Losely, and the like, gratefully on my memory, shall
be thus briefly recorded here: Ardgowan is the magnificent abode of my
friend Sir Michael Shaw-Stewart, after whose grandmother as my sponsor I
am named Farquhar; Rozelle, the hospitable mansion of Captain Hamilton,
where I sojourned many days, meeting the _élite_ of Ayr, and among them
the aged niece of Burns in the poet's own country; Herriard House, my
old school-friend Frank Ellis's heritage under his name of Jervoise, and
Losely--"of the manuscripts," where I have often visited my late
excellent friend James More Molyneux.
Of course, like everybody else who may be lifted a trifle above the
crowd, I have experienced, almost annually, the splendid hospitalities
of the Mansion House and most of the City Companies: may they long
continue, and not be spunged away by Radical meanness! all classes are
united and gratified thereby, for the poorest get the luxurious
leavings, and the feasts are paid for by benefactors long departed from
the scenes of their successful merchandise. All that seeming prodigality
and luxury have good uses. But I will mention (of course without the
hint of a name or place) one only instance of excessive splendour, quite
needless and to my mind vulgar. A great magnate (not a royalty, I need
hardly say) invited four guests to dine with his home party; the four
were my father and mother, my brother Dan and myself, humble guests
enough; and yet behind each of twelve chairs stood a gorgeous flunkey in
powder and bright livery, with my lord's gentleman superadded in
undertaker's evening trim, while the Earl himself wore his star and
garter! Of course too the buffet and the table were loaded, with
resplendent plate. That, scene of ostentation has been on the gray
matter of my brain ever since young manhood, and I relieve myself now of
the reminiscence for the first and last time. In another page I speak of
Prince Astor's pure gold service when I dined with him at New. York; and
I have grateful memory of the almost palatial splendour wherewith a rich
publisher entertained his guest at his castle under Arthur's Seat; but
in every case (and I might name others) my heart's aspiration has been,
"Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for
me." Mr. Vanderbilt was not happy with his millions; neither probably is
poor Jack without a shot in his locker.