The Story of My Life, Volumes 1–3

XV Last Years With the Mother

“Nothing but the infinite pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of human life.”

—John Inglesant.

“Never here, for ever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear—
For ever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
Forever—never!
Never—forever!”

—LONGFELLOW.

“Dic nobis... Quid vidisti in via?
... Gloriam vidi Resurgentis.”

—From the Paschal Mass.

“C’est une âme qui se racconte dans ces volumes: ‘Autrefois, aujourd’hui.’ Un abîme les sépare, le tombeau.”

—Victor Hugo.

The autumn of 1868 was indeed filled for me with utter misery and “weariness of spirit.” If it were not that my dear Mother had gone hand and hand with me through the terrible time of the trial and the weeks which followed, I could scarcely have survived them. To please her, I went away for a time, at the end of August, to our old friend Mrs. Francis Dawkins near Havant, and to Ripley Castle and Flaxton in Yorkshire; but I had no spirits to enjoy, scarcely to endure these visits.

It added to the complication of troubles that the poor Aunt Eleanor, for whose sake alone I had brought all the trouble upon myself, now began to take some perverted view,—what I have never ascertained. She went to live with her brother George Paul, who had lately returned from America, and for ten years I never saw her to speak to.

I was most thankful when we left England for Italy on the 12th of October, and seemed to breathe freely when we were once more in our old travelling life, sleeping in the primitive inns at Joigny and Nuits, and making excursions to Citeaux and Annecy. Carlyle says, “My father had one virtue which I should try to imitate: he never spoke of what was disagreeable and past,” and my Mother was the same; she turned her back at once upon the last months, which she put away for ever like a sealed volume. We spent several weeks at Florence in the Via della Scala, whence, the Mother being well, I went constantly to draw in the gallery of sketches by Old Masters at the Uffizi. But, in the middle of November, I felt already so ill, that I began to dread a possibility of dying where my Mother would not have any one to look after her, and on the 16th we hurried to Rome, where I had just time to look out lodgings for my Mother, and establish her and Lea in the Piazza Mignanelli, when I succumbed to a violent nervous fever. Most terrible are the sufferings which I recollect at this time, the agonising pains by day, and the nights of delirium, which were truly full of Coleridge’s “pains of sleep,” in which I was frequently haunted by the sardonic smile of the horrible Mrs. Dunlop, and otherwise by dreams which were, as Carlyle would say, “a constant plunging and careering through chaos and cosmos.” In the second week of December I rallied slightly, and could sit with Mother in the sun on the terrace of Villa Negroni. By the 14th I was able to walk a little, and went, supported on each side, to the quiet sunny path by the Tiber which then existed opposite Claude’s villa. Just in front of us a carter was walking by the side of his cart, heavily laden with stones. Suddenly the wheel of the cart went too near the steeply sloping bank of the Tiber and tipped over; the horse tried in vain to recover itself, but the weight of the stones was so great that it was dragged down, and slowly, slowly, screaming as only animals do scream, disappeared with the cart under the swollen yellow waters; while the driver stood helplessly upon the bank shrieking and wringing his hands.

Weak as I was, this terrible scene naturally brought back all my fever, which now turned to typhoid, and I soon became delirious. By the following Sunday my life was despaired of. But in the small hotel where we had stayed at Florence, we had met an American, Dr. Winslow, with his wife and daughters, to whom my Mother had shown kindness, and who had been struck with our entire union and devotion to each other. Dr. Winslow arrived in Rome when I was at the worst, and the first news he heard was that I was dying. He at once gave up his Roman sight-seeing and everything else, and devoted himself to me, coming many times a day and nursing me with such wonderful care, that I eventually recovered, though it was February before I was at all myself again. It was an unspeakable blessing that my Mother continued well during my long illness, and was so kindly looked after by Mrs. Woodward and Miss Wright that I had no anxiety about her; though in the spring, when we had moved to the Via Babuino, she had one of her strange illnesses, ending in a tranquil unbroken sleep which lasted two days and nights. It was about this time that she was called to bear a loss which in earlier years would have been utterly crushing, that of her sister-friend Lucy, who expired peacefully in her quiet home at Abbots-Kerswell, with only her faithful maid watching over her. In her hermit-life, my Aunt Lucy had become farther removed from us each year, but two years before my Mother had found great happiness in visiting her, and her beautiful letters were a constant enjoyment. Still it is a merciful dispensation that to those who are themselves on the border-land of heaven, bereavements fall less bitterly, separations seem so short; and, to my Mother, the loss of the dearest friend of her early life was only a quiet grief: she had “only gone from one room into the next.” My Aunt Lucy Hare had never liked me, but I had none of the bitter feeling towards her which I had towards my Aunt Esther: she truly loved my Mother, and I could admire, though I could not enter into, the various graces of her character, which were none the less real because they were those of a Carmelite nun in Protestant form.

To Roman antiquaries this spring was rendered important from the discovery of the site of the Porta Capena,—the site of which was long a vexed question,—by Mr. J. H. Parker, the Oxford publisher, who devoted much of his fortune to archæological pursuits. Pius IX. granted him permission to excavate without in the least believing anything would come of it. But when he came to inspect the discoveries he exclaimed, “Why, the heretic’s right,” and complained bitterly that his own archæologists, whom he paid highly, should have failed to find what had been discovered by a foreigner. Mr. Parker carefully marked all the pieces then found of the Servian Wall, and numbered them in red; but the guardia, seeing the red marks, thought they meant something revolutionary, and destroyed them. When he found them gone, Parker was furious. “Is it,” he said, “due to the absurdities of an effete religion, or is it perhaps the insolence of some rival archæologist?” (meaning Rosa).

As we returned through France in the spring of 1869, we diverged to Autun and Nevers, the last of the pleasant expeditions the dear Mother and I made together in summer weather. The greater part of our summer was spent quietly at home, and was chiefly marked for me by the marriage of my dear friend Charlie Wood to Lady Agnes Courtenay.

To Miss Wright.

“Holmhurst, July 10, 1869.—Your description made me see a pleasant mental picture of the cousinhood assembled at your party. For myself, I cannot but feel that all social pleasures will henceforward become more and more difficult for me, as the Mother, though not ill, becomes daily more dependent upon me for all her little interests and amusements, so that I scarcely ever leave her even for an hour. It is an odd hermit-like life in the small circuit of our little Holmhurst, with one or two guests constantly changing in its chambers, but no other intercourse with the outside world. At last summer has burst upon us, and looks all the brighter for the long waiting, and our oak-studded pastures are filled with gay groups of haymakers, gathering in the immense crop. The garden is lovely, and my own home-sunflower is expanding in the warmth and stronger and better than she has been for months past.”

“Holmhurst, August 1.—I cannot be away from home at all this summer, partly because I cannot leave Mother, who (though very anxious to promote my going away) is really becoming more dependent upon my constant care and companionship; and partly because I cannot afford the inevitable small expenses of going anywhere, our finances having been completely prostrated by the Roman Catholic robberies last year. Indeed, I have never been poorer than this year, as I have had nothing, and when I put two threepenny bits into the Communion plate to-day, felt exceedingly like the widow with the two mites, for it was literally all that I possessed! However, this is not so very dreadful after all, and I daresay another year matters will come round.”

In September, however, when Charlotte Leycester came to take care of my Mother, I did go to the North.

To MY Mother.

“Ridley Hall, Sept. 1, 1869.—Though I have got into a great scrape with Cousin Susan by calling blackberry jelly, ‘jam,’ and though I was terribly scolded the other day for saying ‘thanks,’—’such new-fangled vulgarity,’—this visit at Ridley has been very pleasant. First, there never was more perfect ideal weather, so fresh and bright, so bracing, and the colouring of the woods and moorlands, and the glorious tumbling amber-coloured rivers so beautiful. Then I feel much stronger and better than I have done for two years past, and Cousin Susan, who thought me most ghastly when I arrived, is quite satisfied with the results of her grouse, pheasants, and sherry. On Wednesday Lady Blackett came to spend the day, and, after she was gone, Cousin Susan and I made a long exploring expedition far beyond the Allen Water, up into the depths of Staward valley—most romantic little paths through woods and miniature rocky gorges to a ruined bridge and ‘Plankey Mill,’ and then up a steep wood path to the moor of Briarside. Cousin Susan had never been so far since she lived here, and we were walking, or rather climbing, for three hours, attended by the white dogs. These have chairs with cushions on each side the fireplace in her new sitting-room. One is in bad health, has medical attendance from Hexham at half-a-guinea a visit, and uninitiated visitors must be rather amazed when they see ’my poor little sick girl’ whom Cousin Susan is constantly talking of.... On Sundays there is only service here in the morning: the clergyman giving as his curious reason for not having it in the afternoon, that ’perhaps it might annoy the Dissenters.’... This evening it has thundered. Cousin Susan, as usual on such occasions, hid herself with her maid under the staircase (the safest place in case of thunderbolts), and held a handkerchief over her eyes till it was over; but her nerves have been quite upset ever since, and we are not to have the carriage to-morrow for fear the storm should return.”

“Ford Castle, Sept. 8.—It was almost dark as I drove up the beautiful new road over the high bridge to the renovated castle, which is now all grand and in keeping. I found the beautiful mistress of the house in her new library, which is a most delightful room, with carved chimney-piece and bookcases, and vases of ferns and flowers in all the corners and in the deep embrasures of the windows. She is full of the frescoes in her school. ‘I want to paint “Josiah was eight years old when he began to reign.” I think he must be a little boy on a step with other children round him—a very little boy, and he must have some little regal robes on, and I think I must put a little crown upon his head.’”

“Sept. 10.—Every day of a visit at Ford always seems to contain more of charm and instruction than hundreds of visits elsewhere. The great interest this time has been Lady Canning’s drawings—many hundreds of them, and all so beautiful that you long to look at each for hours. All yesterday evening Lady Waterford read aloud to us—old family letters, from old Lady Hardwicke and from Lady Anne Barnard. ‘My great-aunt, Lady Anne Barnard,’ she says, ’wrote a book very like your Family Memoirs, only hers was too imaginative. She called all her characters by imaginary names, and made them all quite too charming: still her book is most interesting. She was very intimate with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and describes all her first meetings with George IV. and the marriage, and then she went with her on her famous expedition to Paris. She got possession of all the real letters of the family and put them into her book, but she embellished them. She got hold of a letter Uncle Caledon wrote to my aunt when he proposed to her, but when Uncle Caledon read the book and found a most beautiful letter, he said, “My dear, I never wrote all this.”—“No, my dear,” she answered, “I know you did not, but then I thought your real letter was not warm enough.” Lady Anne Barnard wrote “Auld Robin Gray,” and she used to describe how some one translated it into French, and how, when she went to Paris, she saw every one looking at her, she could not imagine why, till she heard some one say, “Voilà l’auteur du fameux roman de Robin Gray.’”392

“Sept. 10.—We have all been to luncheon at Carham, sixteen miles off, and the latter part of the drive very pretty—close to the wide reaches of the Tweed, with seagulls flitting over it, and Cuyp-like groups of cattle on the shore, waiting for the ferryboats to take them across to Coldstream Fair. Carham is one of the well-known haunted houses: the ‘Carham light’ is celebrated and is constantly seen. We asked old Mrs. Compton of eighty-three, who lives there now, about the supernatural sights of Carham. ‘Och,’ she said, ’and have ye niver heard the story of the phantom carriage? We have just heard it this very morning: when we were waiting for you, we heard it drive up. We are quite used to it now. A carriage drives quickly up to the door with great rattling and noise, and when it stops, the horses seem to paw and tear up the gravel. Strange servants are terribly frightened by it. One day when I was at luncheon I heard a carriage drive up quickly to the door: there was no doubt of it. I told the servant who was in waiting to go out and see who it was. When he came back I asked who had come. He was pale as ashes. “Oh,” he said, “it’s only just the phantom coach.”

“‘And then there is the Carham light. That is just beautiful! It is a large globe of fire in the shape of a full moon: I have seen it hundreds of times. It moves about in the woods, and sometimes settles in one place. The first time I saw it I was driving from Kelso and I saw a great ball of fire. I said to the driver, “What is that?”—“Oh, it’s just the Carham Light,” he said. When Dick393 came in, he said he did not believe it—he had never seen it; but that night it came—bright as ever. All the gentlemen went out into the woods to examine it; but it moved before them. They all saw it, and they were quite convinced: it has never been explained.’

“We had tea with the charming old lady. ‘I’ve just had these cakes made, Lady Waterford,’ she said, ‘because they were once very weel likit by some very dear to you; so I thought you would like them.’

“Lady Waterford sends you a riddle:—

‘Mon premier est un tyran, mon second une horreur,
Mon tout est le diable lui-même.
Mais si mon premier est bon, mon second ne fait rien,
Et mon tout est le bonheur suprême.’”394

“Foxhow, Ambleside, Sept. 12, 1869.—How lovely the drive into Foxhow from Windermere; but, after the grand ideas of my childhood, how small everything seems, even the lake and the mountains! We drove in at the well-remembered gate by Rotha Cottage, and along those lovely Swiss pasture-meadows. It was like a dream of the past as one turned into the garden, all so exactly the same and so well remembered, not only from our last brief visit, but from that of twenty-six years ago. Dear Mrs. Arnold is little altered, and is so tenderly affectionate and charming, that it is delightful to be with her. She likes to ask all about you and Holmhurst, and says that her power of producing mind-pictures and dwelling upon them often brings you before her, so that she sees you as before, only older, in your home life. It is quite beautiful to see the intense devotion of her children to their mother and her happiness in them, in Fan especially. All the absent ones write to her at least three times a week.

“We have just been in a covered car to Rydal Church: how beautiful the situation! How well I remembered being sick as a child from the puggy smell of its hideous interior. It was just as puggy to-day, but I was not sick. There was a most extraordinary preacher, who declared that the Woman on the seven mountains was Rome on her seven hills—’allowed to be so by all authorities, Jewish, and even Romanist,’—that the dragon was only the serpent in its worshipped form, and that both were identical with the Beast and represented the pagan religion; that the Woman flying into the wilderness before the Beast was Early Christianity flying from pagan persecution, and that when she came back, to St. John’s astonishment she was seated on the Beast, i.e., she had adopted all the pagan attributes, the cross, the mother and child—well-known objects of worship at Babylon, and Purgatory—a tenet of pagan Rome!”

“Foxhow, Sept. 14.—My Mother will have thought of this pouring weather as most unpropitious for the Lake Country, but in reality it has not signified very much, as each day it has cleared for a few hours, and the lights and shadows have been splendid. On Sunday afternoon Edward (Arnold) and I went up Loughrigg. All the little torrents were swollen by the storms, and the colours of the dying fern and the great purple shadows on Helm Crag and Bow Fell were most beautiful. It is a most picturesque bit of mountain, and it all strikes me, as I remember it did in 1859, as more really beautiful than anything in Switzerland, though so contracted.

“Yesterday afternoon we walked to Grasmere, and I stayed looking at the interesting group of Wordsworth tombs, whilst Edward paid a visit. Afterwards the lake looked so tempting, that Edward rowed me down it, sending the boat back by a boy. We landed at the outlet of the Rotha on the other side, and had a beautiful walk home by a high terrace under Loughrigg. If one remained in this country, one could not help becoming fond of Wordsworth, his descriptions are so exact. Edward has repeated many of his poems on the sites to which they apply, and they are quite beautifully pictorial. Mrs. Arnold is very happy in the general revival of interest in his poetry.... Nothing can be more enjoyable and united than the family life here, the children and grandchildren coming and going, and so many interesting visitors. Truly dear Mrs. Arnold’s is an ideal old age, so hedged in by the great love and devotion of her descendants.”395

“Dalton Hall, Lancashire, Sept. 17.—I always enjoy being here with the Hornbys. Yesterday we drove in the morning to Yealand, a pretty village so called from the Quakers who colonised it. In the afternoon we went to Levens. It is a lovely country, just upon the outskirts of the Lake District, with the same rich green meadows, clear streams, and lanes fringed with fern and holly. We passed through Milnthorpe, and how well I remembered your shutting me up and making me learn a Psalm in the inn there, instead of letting me go out to draw! The country is very primitive still. An old clergyman who officiated till lately in the neighbouring church of Burton Moss had only three sermons, one of which was laid in turn on the pulpit desk by his housekeeper every Sunday morning. When he had finished, he used to chuck it down to her out of the pulpit. One of these sermons was on ‘Contentment,’ and contained—apropos of discontent—the story of the Italian nobleman whose tombstone bore the words, ‘I was well, I wished to be better, and now I am here.’”

It was a great pleasure this autumn to see again in London the New Zealand Sir George Grey. I remember his saying how he wished some one would write a poem on Pharaoh pursuing the Israelites to the Red Sea, from the point of view that in pursuing them he was pursuing Christianity; that if the Israelites had perished, and not Pharaoh, there would have been no Redemption.

Journal (The Green Book).

“Holmhurst, Oct. 13, 1869.—After the storms of last year, this summer has been peaceful and quiet. My sweet Mother, though often ailing, has been very gently and quietly happy. She seems older, but age has with her only its softening effects—casting a brighter halo around her sweet life, and rendering more lovable still every precious word and action.... We are more than ever to each other now in everything.”

We left home in 1869 on the 14th of October, intending to cross the Channel at once, but on arriving at Folkestone, found such a raging sea, that we retreated to Canterbury to wait for better weather. This enabled us to pay a charming visit to Archdeacon and Mrs. Harrison, who had been very familiar to us many years before, when the Stanleys lived at Canterbury. It was the last visit my Mother ever paid, and she greatly enjoyed it, as it seemed almost like a going back into her Hurstmonceaux life, a revival of the ecclesiastical interests which had filled her former existence. Whenever any subject was alluded to, Archdeacon Harrison, like Uncle Julius, went to his bookcase, and brought down some volume to illustrate it. Thus I remember his reading to us in the powerful sermons of Bishop Horsley. One of the most remarkable was upon the Syro-Phœnician woman. Another is on the French Nuns, in defence of their institution in England, saying, with little foresight, how unlikely they were to increase in number, and how very superior they were to those women “who strip themselves naked to go out into the world, who daub their cheeks with paint, and plaster their necks with litharge.”

Apropos of the proverb about Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands, Archdeacon Harrison described how it was in allusion to two things totally disconnected. Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands are very far apart, and of course have no connection whatever: yet perverse persons used to say that Tenterden Steeple was the cause of Goodwin Sands, as money which ought to have been used to prevent the accumulation of Goodwin Sands was diverted to the building of Tenterden Steeple. The place where you may hear most about it is “Latimer’s Sermons.” Latimer is inveighing against the persons who denounced the study of the Bible as the cause of the misfortunes of the time, and says that they had as much connection as Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin Sands, and so forth.

To Miss Wright.

“Munich, Nov. 1, 1869.—We made it four days’ journey from Paris to Strasbourg. First we went to Bar-le-duc. I had longed to see it, from a novel I read once, and it is well worth while—the old town rising above the new like the old town of Edinburgh—tall grey houses pierced with eight or ten rows of windows, a river with a most picturesque bridge, and in the church ‘Le Squelette de Bar,’ a wonderful work of Richier, the famous sculptor of S. Mihiel, commemorating the Princes of Bar (Henri I., II., III., &c.), sovereigns of whom I wonder if you ever heard before: I never did.

“We slept next at Toul, where there is a fine huge dull cathedral, a beautiful creche by Ignace Robert, and a lovely convent cloister of flamboyant arches. Living at Toul is wonderfully cheap; our rooms for three were only four francs, and dinner for three four francs.396 We wonder people do not emigrate to Lorraine instead of to Australia; it would be far cheaper, and infinitely more amusing. If it had been warmer, we should have gone to Domremy and S. Mihiel, but we feared the cold. We were a day at Nancy: how stately it is! At Strasbourg we found that the storks had left, and we thought it the least interesting place on the road, yet most people stay only there.

“We had three days at Carlsruhe, and found dear Madame de Bunsen most bright and well and charming, with much to tell that was worth hearing, and the fullest sympathy and interest in others. Generally one feels that conversation weakens the mind; with the Bunsens it never fails to strengthen it. Madame de Bunsen talked much of the difficulties which had crowded round her when she herself was to begin the Memoir of her husband. Bunsen had said to her, ‘You must tell the story of our common life; you are able to do it, only do not be afraid.’ Thus to her the work was a sacred legacy. First, as material, her son George brought her Bunsen’s letters to his sister Christiana, which she had given to him, and which he had fortunately never given to his father for fear he should destroy them. Then she had written to Reck, the early Göttingen friend and confidant of all Bunsen’s early life, and had been refused all help without any explanation! Then Stockmar, Brandeis, &c., sent all their letters; thus the work grew. But there were no journals, she had made no notes, there was only her recollection to fall back upon. Madame de Bunsen regretted bitterly the destruction of Uncle Julius’s letters by his widow, especially those written in his early life to his brother Augustus, which would have been ‘the history of the awakening of a new phase of opinions.’ I made quantities of notes from the intensely interesting reminiscences Madame de Bunsen poured forth of her own life.399

“We were one day at Stuttgart, which I had never seen, and was delighted with—so handsome, really a beautiful little capital, and we reached Munich in time to have one day for the International Exhibition of Paintings, which was well worth seeing—finer, I thought, than ours. The German artists have surely far more originality than the artists of other nations. Three pictures especially remain in my mind—‘The Chase after Luck,’ a wild horseman with Death riding behind him in pursuit of Luck, a beautiful figure scattering gold and pearls whilst floating on a bladder, full speed across a bridge which ends in a rotten plank over a fathomless abyss: ‘The Cholera in Rome,’ the Angel of Death leading the Cholera—a hideous old woman—down the street under the Capitol by moonlight, and showing her the door she is to knock at: ‘L’Enfant qui dort à l’ombre du lit maternel, et les Anges qui savent d’avance le sort des humains, et baissent avec larmes ses petites mains.’ It is interesting to see how familiar the German common people are with their artists: the great names of Kaulbach, Henneberg, &c., are in every mouth; how few of our common people would know anything of Landseer or Millais!”

“Vicenza, Nov. 14.—The descent into Italy by the Brenner was enchanting—the exchange of the snow and bitter cold of Germany for vineyards and fruit-gardens, still glorious in their orange and scarlet autumnal tints. We were greatly delighted with Botzen, where the delicately wrought cathedral spire against the faint pink mountains tipped with snow is a lovely subject.

“At Verona we spent several days, thinking it more captivating than ever. Mother was able to enjoy the Giusti gardens, and I went one day to Mantua. It is wonderful. The station is two miles off, and the drive into the town across an immense bridge over the lake is most striking401—the towers all reflected in the still waters, and the fishing-boats sailing in close under the houses. Then, in the town, the intense desolation of one part—courts and corridors and squares all grass-grown and utterly tenantless—is a striking contrast to the other part, teeming with life and bustle. The Palazzo del Té is marvellous—only one story high, gigantic rooms covered with grand frescoes opening on sunny lawns with picturesque decaying avenues. I wandered over the vast ducal palace with three American ladies, who ‘guessed’ that ‘when Mantua was in its prime, it must have been rather an elegant city.’”

“Hôtel de Londres, Pisa, Dec. 7.—From Verona we went to Vicenza, where we stayed nearly a week in the old-fashioned palazzo which is now turned into the Hôtel de la Ville. We found some old Roman acquaintances there—Mrs. Kuper and her daughter, great Italian travellers, famous linguists, and excessively amusing companions. With them I went many delightful walks in the lovely country near Vicenza, which is quite the ideal Italy one reads so much of and so seldom sees—splendid mountain background with snowy peaks; nearer hills golden with decaying chestnuts and crimson with falling vine-leaves; old shrines and churches half hidden in clematis and vine, and a most interesting town with a fine picture-gallery—Montagna (not Mantegna) being the great master. I took to the plan of trying to make ever so slight sketches from pictures, and find them, bad as they are, far more interesting than photographs. We had permission to walk in the lovely gardens of the old Marchese Salvi, close to the hotel, a great pleasure to the Mother.

“The Kupers preceded us to Padua and engaged comfortable rooms for us there, to which we followed. Here was another kind of interest in the quaint churches; the Prato della Valle with its stone population; the University, where we went to hear a lecture and saw the 3000 students assembled; and the society of some pleasant young Paduans—M. Fava and Count Battistino Medine, introduced by the Kupers. But alas! Mother became very unwell indeed during the latter part of our stay at Padua, and I was made very unhappy by her constant cough and inability to take food. So I was thankful when we were able to come on to this comfortable hotel, where Flora and the faithful Victoire are incessant in their attentions. I am still anxious about my sweet Mother, who is very ailing and unable to go out; otherwise I always like staying at Pisa, with its clean quiet streets and the interest of the Campo Santo, so full of beautiful relics and memories. Many delightful hours have I spent there, and what a school of art and history it is! And then the Spina is always so graceful and striking against the crimson sunset which turns the muddy Arno into a river of fire.407 Then, only think, I have made a new friend, and, strange to say, an American, with the uninteresting name of Robert Peabody. I do not know when, if ever, I have seen any one I like so much—so clever, so natural, so unworldly, so large-minded, so good-looking. The Mother thinks my sudden friendships most fantastic, but I have no doubt about this one; and as Mother was much better last week, I went away with him for four days to Siena and S. Gemignano, and we were entirely happy together, though it poured cats and dogs the whole time, and thundered and lightened as if the skies were coming down. I do not think you have ever been half excited enough about Siena: it seems to me such a sublime place—the way it rises out of that desolate earthquake-riven country, the cathedral so grandly solemn, and such a world of interest circling around all the scenes in S. Catherine’s life. I tried to draw the famous Sodoma, and longed to stay months, but we only did stay two days, and then away we went in a baroccino over the hills to S. Gemignano. You must never come to Italy again without going there: I am beginning now to fancy that no one has seen Italy who has missed S. Gemignano. It is a perfect sanctuary of art, the smallest town ever seen, but with thirteen tall mediæval towers in fullest preservation, crowning the top of the little hill like a huge group of ninepins, and with churches covered with frescoes by Filippo and Simone Memmi, Beccafumi, Ghirlandajo, and all that wonderful school. The great saint of the place is Santa Fina—a poor girl, who had a spine complaint, lay for years on a backboard, bore her intense sufferings with great patience, and finally died a most peaceful and holy death—perhaps the one Roman Catholic saint whose story is unspoilt by miracles. I first heard about her from Lady Waterford, and had always longed to see her native place. The Ghirlandajo fresco of her death is most touching and real, portraying the bare cottage room, the hard-featured Tuscan nurse, the sick girl on her backboard—all like a scene in a Tuscan cottage now; and, above, the angels floating away with their newly-gained sister. But the people of S. Gemignano forgot the picture when they quaintly told us that ‘all the little flowers and shrubs were so enchanted with her exemplary patience, that they began to sprout around her bed, and by her twenty-eighth year (when she died) she was lying in quite a garden of beautiful flowers.’”

In recollection I feel grateful for this short absence from my Mother with Robert Peabody, as it procured for me my last tiny letter from her—cheerful and tender as all her letters were now. But after the beginning of December I seldom left her, and the next six weeks were spent entirely in her room, in watching and cheering her through a time of great suffering, whilst the rain never ceased to fall in torrents. I was often able to amuse her with stories of my companions at the table-d’hôte.

Journal.

“Pisa, Nov. 27.—The chief interest here has been from travellers in the hotel—a Mr. and Mrs. D., kind, vulgar people, who have seldom been out of London, except to Paris, and who do not speak a word of any foreign language; at least Mr. D. does speak certain words, and uses them all together to all the foreigners he meets, without any regard to their meaning—‘Lait pain thé bongjour toodyswee;’—a haughty pretty Polish girl and her governess, and a clever pretty Polish Comtesse de M. with her young husband. The last lady keeps the whole table alive with her stories, told with the utmost naïveté, and in the prettiest manner.

“‘I will tell you about my going to Ferrara. When I arrived I was gasping with hunger. We drove up to the hotel. “Could we have any dinner?”—“J’en suis désolé, Madame, but the cook is out.” We drove to another. “Could we have any dinner?”—“J’en suis au désespoir, Madame, mais il n’y a pas de feu.” We drove on. Another hotel. We ordered our dinner, and when it was put on the table, it was so dreadful, I gave one look and ran out of the room. And then the sights of Ferrara! We went to the castle. It was horrible—a ghastly dungeon with bare walls and chains and one glimmering ray of light. “This,” said the guide, “was the dungeon of Ugo and Parisina; here they suffered and here they died.” Oh, mon Dieu, quel horreur! I wished to go somewhere else. They took me to a convent—again a ghastly room, a fearful prison. “This, Madame, was the prison of Tasso”—encore des horreurs! Oh, then I would have a carriage. I asked the driver where he would take me. “Ma, Signora, allo Campo Santo.” Ah! quelle triste ville la ville de Ferrare! But when we got to Bologna, and I asked where we should go, c’était toujours la même chose—toujours au Campo Santo, and at Pisa here, it is encore au Campo Santo!

“‘At Ferrara, in the prison of Tasso, they show on the wall an ode written by Lord Byron. The rest of the wall is white, but the place where the ode is written is brown. “Why,” I asked, “is that part of the wall brown?”—“Ah!” said the custode, “that is the sweat of the English. All the English will touch the writing of their compatriot, and then they perspire from their hot fingers, and thus it is brown.” In the same room is a great hole; the wall has crumbled away: it is gone: the room will fall. “And what is that?” I asked. “Ah! that is made by the English, who all insist upon taking away a morsel of the prison of Tasso.” And thus it was at Verona; when I saw Juliet’s tomb, they told me it was only an imitation; for as for the real one, the English ladies had chopped it all up and were wearing it in bracelets. Oh, comme c’est ennuyant de voyager, il faut tourner la tête pour regarder les tableaux, et on casse le cou par ici: il faut regarder par la fênetre pour voir la vue, et on casse le cou par là: il faut regarder au plafond pour voir les fresques, et on casse le cou de tous les côtés à la fois. And then the journey to Switzerland! Mais aller en Suisse, jamais! What do you want to see mountains for? to admire their height? Ah! then how stupid to go up! Why, of course they become shorter every step you go. No, you should go into the depths to see the mountains. Les plaines pour moi!... Jusqu’à mon mariage je ne suis jamais sortie à pied, mais depuis mon mariage je suis devenue... raisonable.’

“I asked the Polish ladies if the language they spoke was Russian. It was like throwing a bomb into the camp. They detest the Russians, and would not speak to a pleasant Countess Boranoff, née Wasilikoff, who has been staying here.... But of all my Pisan acquaintance there is none like Robert Peabody! He has been at an atelier in Paris for two years studying as an architect, and had a charming life there with his fellow-students, making walking tours in France, &c. When he first went to Paris, he did not know a word of French, and made out his washing bills by drawing little pictures, socks, shirts, drawers, &c., and the washerwoman put the prices opposite them.”

On December 10 occurred the terrible floods of the Arno.

To Miss Leycester.

“Pisa, Dec. 11, 1869.—How little you will be able to imagine all we have been going through in the last twenty-four hours! We have had a number of adventures in our different travels, but this is by far the worst that has ever befallen us. Now I must tell you our story consecutively.

“For the last three days the Mother has been very ill. On Thursday she had an attack of fainting, and seemed likely to fall into one of her long many days’ sleep.... The rain continued day and night in torrents. Yesterday made it three weeks since we arrived, and in that time there had been only two days in which the rain had not been ceaseless. The Arno was much swollen: I saw it on Thursday, very curious, up to the top of the arches of the bridges.

“Yesterday, Friday, Madame Victoire came to dine with Lea. Afterwards she came up to see us as usual, and then Flora’s children came to be shown pictures. I think it must have been half-past three when they took leave of us. Lea went with them down the passage. Soon she came back saying that little Anna said there was ‘such an odd water coming down the street, would I come and see,’ and from the passage window I saw a volume of muddy water slowly pouring down the street, not from the Arno, but from towards the railway station, the part of the street towards Lung’ Arno (our street ends at the Spina Chapel) remaining quite dry. The children were delighted and clapped their hands. I meant to go and see the water nearer, but before I could reach the main entrance, in half a minute the great heavy waves of the yellow flood were pouring into the courtyard and stealing into the entrance hall.408

“It was as suddenly as that it came upon us.

“The scene for the next half-hour baffles all description. Flora and her mother stood on the principal staircase crying and wringing their hands: the servants rushed about in distraction: Lea, pale as ashes, thought and cried that our last moment was come; and all the time the heavy yellow waters rose and rose, covering first the wheels of the omnibus, the vases, the statues in the garden, then up high into the trees. Inside, the carpets were rising and swaying on the water, and in five minutes the large pieces of furniture were beginning to crash against each other. I had rushed at the first alarm to the garde meuble, and (how I did it I cannot imagine) dragged our great box to the stairs: it was the only piece of luggage saved from the ground-floor. Then I rushed to the salle-à-manger, and shouting to Flora to save the money in her bureau, swept all the silver laid out for dinner into a tablecloth, and got it safe off. From that moment it was a sauve qui peut. I handed down rows of teapots, jugs, sugar-basins, &c., to the maids, who carried them away in lapfuls: in this way also we saved all the glass, but before we could begin upon the china, the water was up to our waists and we were obliged to retreat, carrying off the tea-urns as a last spoil. The whole family, with Amabile and all the old servants, were now down in the water, but a great deal of time was wasted in the belief that a poor half-witted Russian lady was locked into her room and drowning, and in breaking open the door; but when at last a panel of the door was dashed in, the room was found full of water and all its contents swimming about, but the lady was... gone out for a walk!

“As I was coming in from the lower rooms to the staircase with a load of looking-glasses, a boat crashed in at the principal entrance, bringing home the poor lady and two other English, who had been caught by the flood at the end of the street, and had been for some time in the greatest peril: the boatmen having declined to bring them the few necessary steps until they had been paid twenty francs, and then having refused altogether to bring a poor Italian who had no money to give them. At this moment Madame Victoire insisted on taking the opportunity of the boat to return to her own house. It was a dreadful scene, all the women in the house crying and imploring her to stay, but she insisted on embarking. She did not arrive without hairbreadth escapes. When she reached her own house, the current was so strong, and the boat was dashed so violently against the walls, that it was impossible for her to be landed; but the flood was less violent beneath her larger house which is let to the Marchese Guadagna, from which sheets were let down from the upper windows, and she was fastened to them and raised: but when she reached the grille of the first-floor windows, and was hanging half-way, the current carried away the boat, and at the same moment the great wall opposite S. Antonio fell with an awful crash. However, the Guadagna family held tight to the sheets, and Madame Victoire was landed at last, though she fell insensible on the floor when she entered the window.

“The walls were now falling in every direction with a dull roar into the yellow waters. The noise was dreadful—the cries of the drowning animals, the shrieks of the women, especially of a mother whose children were in the country, wringing her hands at the window of an opposite house. The water in our house was rising so rapidly that it was impossible to remain longer on the side towards the principal staircase, and we fled to the other end, where Pilotte, a poor boy in the service, lay dangerously ill, but was obliged to get up from his bed, and, though quite blind from ophthalmia, was far more useful than any one else. Since her mother left, Flora had been far too distracted to think of anything; still we saved an immense number of things, and I was able to cut down pictures, &c., floating on a sofa as if it were a boat. The great difficulty in reaching the things was always from the carpet rising, and making it almost impossible to get out of the room again. The last thing I carried off was the ‘Travellers’ Book!’ It was about half-past 5 P.M. when we were obliged to come out of the water, which was then terribly cold and above the waist.

“Meantime the scene in the street was terrible. The missing children of the woman opposite were brought back in a boat and drawn up in sheets; and the street, now a deep river, was crowded with boats, torches flashing on the water, and lights gleaming in every window. All the thirty poor hens in the hen-house at the end of the balcony were making a terrible noise as they were slowly drowned, the ducks and pigeons were drowned too, I suppose, being too frightened to escape, and many floated dead past the window. The garden was covered with cushions, chairs, tables, and ladies’ dresses, which had been washed out of the lower windows. There was great fear that the omnibus horse and driver were drowned, and the Limosins were crying dreadfully about it; but the man was drawn up late at night from a boat, whose crew had discovered him on the top of a wall, and at present the horse exists also, having taken refuge on the terrace you will remember at the end of the garden, where it is partially above water. The street was covered with furniture, great carved wardrobes being whirled down to the Arno like straws. The cries of the drowning animals were quite human.

“All this time my poor sweet Mother had been lying perfectly still and patient, but about 6 P.M., as the water had reached the highest step of the lower staircase and was still mounting, we had our luggage carried up to the attics, secured a few valuables in case of sudden flight (as no boat would have taken luggage), and began to get Mother dressed. There was no immediate danger, but if another embankment broke, there might be at any moment, and it was well to be prepared. Night closed in terribly—pouring rain again, a perfectly black sky, and waters swelling round the house: every now and then the dull thud of some falling building, and, from beneath, the perpetual crash of the furniture and floors breaking up in the lower rooms. Mother lay down dressed, most of the visitors and I walked the passages and watched the danger-marks made above water on the staircase, and tried to comfort the unhappy family, in what, I fear, is their total ruin. It seemed as if daylight would never come, but at 6 A.M. the water was certainly an inch lower.

“It was strange to return to daylight in our besieged fortress. There had been no time to save food, but there was one loaf and a little cheese, which were dealt out in equal rations, and we captured the drowned hens as the aviary broke up, and are going to boil one of them down in a tiny saucepan, the only cooking utensil saved. Every one has to economise the water in their jugs (no chance of any other), and most of all their candles.... How we are ever to be delivered I cannot imagine. The railways to Leghorn, Spezia, and Florence must all be under water.”

“Dec. 14.—It seems so long now since the inundation began and we were cut off from every one: it is impossible to think of it as only three days.

“Nothing can be more dreadful than the utter neglect of the new Government and of the municipality here. They were fully warned as to what would result if Pisa was not protected from the Arno, but they took no heed, and ever since the dikes broke they have given no help, never even consenting to have the main drains opened, which keeps us still flooded, refusing to publish lists of the drowned, and giving the large sums sent for distribution in charity into the hands of the students, who follow one another, giving indiscriminately to the same persons, whilst others are starving. On Saturday night there ceased to be any immediate alarm: the fear was that the Arno might break through at the Spina, which still stands, and which, being so much nearer, would be far more serious to us. The old bridge is destroyed. All through that night the Vicomte de Vauriol and the men of the house were obliged to watch on the balconies with loaded pistols, to defend their property floating in the garden from the large bands of robbers who came in boats to plunder, looking sufficiently alarming by the light of their great torches. The whole trousseau of the Vicomtesse is lost, and her maid has 4000 francs in her box, which can still be seen floating open.... But the waters are slowly going down. Many bodies have been found, but there are still many more beneath the mud. In the lower rooms of this house the mud is a yard deep, and most horrid in quality, and the smell of course dreadful. I spend much of my time at the window in hooking up various objects with a long iron bed-rod—bits of silver, teacups, even books—in a state of pulp.”

“Dec. 19.—My bulletin is rather a melancholy one, for my poor Mother has been constantly in bed since the inundation, and cannot now turn or move her left side at all.... I have also been very ill myself, with no sleep for many days, and agonies of neuralgia from long exposure in the water.... However, I get on tolerably, and have plenty to take off my thoughts from my own pain in attending to Mother and doing what I can for the poor Limosins.... In the quarter near this seventy bodies have been found in the mud, and as the Government suppresses the number and buries them all immediately, there are probably many more. Our friends at Rome have been greatly alarmed about us.”

“Dec. 27.—Mother has been up in a chair for a few hours daily, but cannot yet be dressed. The weather is horrible, torrents of rain night and day—quite ceaseless, and mingled with snow, thunder, and lightning. It is so dark even at midday, that Mother can see to do nothing, and I very little. The mud and smell would prevent our going out if it were otherwise possible. It has indeed been a dismal three months, which we have all three passed entirely in the sick-room, except the four days I was away.... Still the dear Mother says ‘we shall have time to recount our miseries in heaven when they are over; let us only recount our mercies now.’”

To Miss Wright.

“33 Via Gregoriana, Rome, Jan. 19, 1870.—You will have heard from others of our misfortunes at Pisa, of Mother’s terrible illness, and my wearing pains, and in the midst of all this our awful floods, the Arno bursting its banks and overwhelming the unhappy town with its mud-laden waves. I cannot describe to you the utter horror of those three days and nights—the rushing water (waves like the sea) lifting the carpets and dashing the large pieces of furniture into bits like so many chips,—the anxious night-watchings of the water stealthily advancing up step after step of the staircase,—the view from the upper corridor windows of the street with its rushing tourbillon of waters, carrying drowning animals, beds, cabinets, gates, &c., along in a hideous confusion;—from our windows of the garden one maze of waters afloat with chairs, tables, open boxes, china, and drowned creatures;—the sound of the falling walls heavily gliding into the water, and the cries of the drowning and their relations. And then, in the hotel, the life was so strange, the limited rations of food and of water from the washing jugs, and the necessity for rousing oneself to constant action, and far more than mere cheerfulness, in order to prevent the poor people of the hotel from sinking into absolute despair.

“When the real danger to life once subsided and the poor drowned people had been carried away to their graves, and the water had changed into mud, it was a strange existence, and we had still six weeks in the chilled house with its wet walls, and an impossibility of going out or having change. However, there is a bright side to everything, and the utter isolation was not unpleasant to me. I got through no end of writing work, having plenty also to do in attending on my poor Mother; and you know how I can never sufficiently drink in the blessedness of her sweet companionship, and how entirely the very fact of her existence makes sunshine in my life, wherever it is.

“All the time of our incarceration I have employed in writing from the notes of our many Roman winters, which were saved in our luggage, and which have been our only material of employment. It seems as if ‘Walks in Rome’ would some day grow into a book. Mother thinks it presumptuous, but I assure her that though of course it will be full of faults, no book would ever be printed if perfection were waited for. And I really do know much more about the subject than most people, though of course not half as much as I ought to know.

“One day I was away at Florence, where I saw Lady Anne S. Giorgio and many other friends in a very short time. How bright and busy it looked after Pisa.

“Last week Pisa devoted itself, or rather its priests, to intense Madonna-worship, because, owing to her image, carved by St. Luke, the flood was no worse. Her seven petticoats, unremoved for years, were taken off one by one and exchanged for new, and this delicious event was celebrated by firing of cannon, processions, and illuminations all over the town. In the midst, the Arno displayed its disapproval by rising again violently and suddenly; the utmost consternation ensued; the population sat up, doors were walled up, the doll-worshippers were driven out of the cathedral (which lies very low) at the point of the bayonet by the Bersaglieri under General Bixio. To us, the great result of the fresh fright was, that the Mother suddenly rose from her bed, and declaring that she could not stay to endure another inundation, dressed, and we all set off last Wednesday morning, and arrived at midnight after a prosperous journey, though the floods were certainly frightful up to the very walls of Rome.

“Oh, how glad we were to get here—to feel that after all the troubles of the last few months we were safe in the beloved, the home-like city. It is now only that I realise what a time of tension our stay at Pisa has been. We breathe quietly. Even the calm placid Mother feels the relief of not having to start up at every sound and wonder whether ‘L’Arno é sbordato.’

“I always feel as if a special Providence watched over us in respect of lodgings. It has certainly been so this time, as we could never have hoped, arriving so late, to obtain this charming apartment, with full sun, glorious view, and all else we can wish. You can fancy us, with all our own pictures and books, the mother in her chair, the son at his drawing-table, and Lea coming in and out.

“But on Friday we had a terrible catastrophe. In the evening at the hotel the poor Mother fell violently upon her head on the hard stone floor and was dreadfully hurt. You will imagine my terror, having gone out at 8 P.M., to find every one in confusion on my return, that Dr. Winslow had been sent for, and that I had been searched for everywhere. For some hours the Mother was quite unconscious, and she can still see nothing, and I am afraid it will be some days before any sight is restored; but all is going on well, and I am most thankful to have been able to move her to her own house.

“Do you know, I am going to renounce the pomps and vanities of the world this winter and not ’go out’ at all. I have often found that it has rather fatigued Mother even to hear of my going out, and it is far easier to give a thing up altogether than partially. In the daytime I can see people. My American friend Robert Peabody is here, and the most delightful companion, and there are endless young men artists, quite a colony, and of the pleasantest description.

“The weather is very fine, but very cold. I went to-day to St. Peter’s (Il Giorno della Scatola), and the procession was certainly magnificent. The Bishop who attracts most attention is Monsignor Dupanloup of Orleans, who at first displayed great courage in opposing the Infallibility doctrine, but is allowing his opposition to be swamped. Many of the Bishops are most extraordinary—such a variety of forms and colours in costume, blue and violet veils, green robes and hats, and black caps with gold knobs like the little Shems and Hams in Noah’s Ark. But the central figure of Pius IX. looks more than ever solemn and impressive, the man so lost in his intense feeling of the office, that it is impossible to associate him, mentally, with the Council and its blasphemies. Of the Council itself we hear nothing, and there is little general interest about it. Lord Houghton asked Manning what had been going on: he answered, ‘Well, we meet, and we look at one another, and then we talk a little, but when we want to know what we have been doing, we read the Times.’”

To Miss Leycester.

“Jan. 31.—We have had another anxious week, though once more all is going on well. On Monday the Mother was well enough to see visitors, but that night was in terrible suffering, and the next day had a slight paralytic seizure... followed by long unconsciousness; but it was all accounted for the next morning when we found the roof white with snow. She continued in great suffering till Friday, when the weather suddenly changed to scirocco, and she at once rallied. That day I was able to have my lecture on the Quirinal and Viminal—all new ground. There was a large gathering in spite of weather, so many people had asked to come. I have yielded to the general wish of the party in arranging weekly meetings at 10 A.M., but it makes me feel terribly ignorant, and—in the intervals of tending Mother—I am at work all the week instructing myself upon the subject of my lecture.”

“Feb. 19.—The Mother is still sadly weak, and always in an invalid state, yet she has not the serious symptoms of the winter you were here. She is seldom able to be dressed before twelve, and can do very, very little—to read a few verses or do a row of her crotchet is the outside. I scarcely ever leave her, except for my lectures. I had one on the Island yesterday. The weather is splendid and our view an indescribable enjoyment, the town so picturesque in its blue morning indistinctness, and St. Peter’s so grand against the golden sunsets. As usual, the Roman society is like the great net which was let down into the deep and brought up fish of every kind.... The Mother is quite happy and bright in spite of all her misfortunes, but we have had to feed her like a bird in her blindness. I wonder if you know the lines of Thomas Dekker (1601)—

‘Patience! why, ’tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues, ’tis nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e’er wore earth about Him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;
The first true gentleman that ever breathed.”

To Miss Wright.

“Rome, Feb. 27.—My life this winter has been one of constant watching and nursing; the Mother has been so very powerless and requires such constant care: but she is, oh! so sweet and patient always. You need not pity me for not going out; after the day’s anxiety I find the luxury of the evening’s rest so very great.

“My Friday lectures now take place regularly, and I hope they give pleasure, as they are certainly crowded. I am amused to see many ultra-Catholics come time after time, in spite of my Protestant anecdotes. How I wish the kind Aunt Sophy were here to share these excursions.”

On the 12th of March I spent a delightful afternoon with a young artist friend, Henry Florence, in the garden of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, drawing the gloriously rich vegetation and the old cypresses there. My Mother was tolerably well, and the air, the sunshine, and the beauty around were unspeakably enchanting. “I never saw any one enjoy things as you do,” said Florence, and I spoke of my thankfulness for having the power of putting away anxieties when they were not pressing, and of making the utmost of any present enjoyment, even though it be to “borrow joy at usury of pain.”409 “Perhaps it may be the last day,” I said. It was. There is an old proverb which says, “The holidays of joy are the vigils of sorrow.” That night my dearest Mother had the terrible paralytic seizure which deprived her of the use of her left arm and side, and from which she never recovered.

To Miss Leycester.

“Rome, March. 16, 1870.—My darling Mother is to-day in a happy peaceful state, no longer one of suffering, which is—oh! such rest to us. She is now able to articulate, so that I always, and others often, understand her.... I sleep close by upon the floor and never leave her. On Monday night we were pleasantly surprised by the arrival of Amabile, the maid from Pisa, who is quite a tower of strength to us—so kind, gentle, and strong. Mrs. Woodward comes and goes all day. Every one is kind and sympathising.”

“March 23.—Mother talks constantly of Albano and her great wish to be there amongst the flowers, but for many weeks, perhaps months, this must be impossible.”

“March 28.—It has been the same kind of week, alternately saddened by the strange phases of illness, or cheered by slight amendments; but Mother has had many sad nights, always worse than her days, without rest even for a minute. Her mind is only too clear. She will translate hymns, ‘Abide with me,’ &c., into Italian; the great difficulty is to keep it all in check. From 4 to 10 P.M. the nervous spasms in the paralysed arm are uncontrollable, and she can only endure them by holding tight to my arm or Lea’s. All yesterday, however, I was away from her, tending poor young Sutherland, who has been dreadfully ill at the Hôtel de Londres of typhoid fever, and who is quite alone and helpless.”

“April 3.—The Mother goes on very slowly, but I hope has not had an unpleasant week. She never seems to find the time long, and always looks equally placid and happy. Physically she is certainly more comfortable now she is entirely in bed. Her chief trouble is from the returning vitality of the poor arm; the muscles knot all round it, and move on slowly by a quarter of an inch at a time, as the life advances: passing the shoulder was agony, and I dread the passing the elbow. Meantime, the rest of the arm is an independent being, acting by its independent muscular action, and is obliged to be constantly watched, as it will sometimes lay its heavy weight upon her chest, once clutched her by the throat and nearly strangled her, at others annoys her by stealing her pocket-handkerchiefs! She has been able to hear a psalm and some prayers read aloud every evening, and occupies herself with her own inexhaustible stores of mental hymns and verses incessantly. Mrs. Woodward’s daily visit is one of her little pleasures, and she has also seen Mrs. Hall several times.

“My young cousin Edward Liddell410 returned lately from Naples, and on Monday became very ill of fever, pronounced typhoid, and likely to become typhus and very infectious, so, as he had no one else to look after him, I have been nursing him ever since. It was so fortunate for me that Mother was really better at this time, or I do not know what we could have done, as though he had one good nurse, she was quite worn out, and there was no other to be procured. So now we take it in turns, four hours at a time, and I chiefly at night, when she goes home to her children. I am writing in the darkened room, where Edward lies powerless, with all his hair cut off and his head soaked in wet towels, almost unable to move, and unable to feed himself. I am sorry not to be able to go out while Marcus Hare is here, and he is much disappointed. He arrived suddenly from Naples and embraced me as if we were still children.”

“April 10.—My dear Mother is much the same. It has been a peaceful week with her, though there is no improvement.... The paralysed arm is quite useless, and has a separate and ungovernable individuality. This is why she can never be left alone. Its weight is like a log of lead, and sometimes it will throw itself upon her, when no efforts of her own can release her. Odd as it sounds, her only safe moments are when the obstreperous member is tied up by a long scarf to the post of Lea’s bed opposite and cannot injure her. Mentally, she is always quiet and happy, and I believe that she never feels her altered life a burden. She repeats constantly her hymns and verses, for which her memory is wonderful, but she has no longer any power of attention to reading and no consecutive ideas. All names of places and people she remembers perfectly. As Dr. Winslow says, some of the organs of the brain are clearer than ever, others are quite lost.

“As the fear of infection caused him to be left alone, I have been constantly nursing Edward Liddell. All last week his fever constantly increased, and he was so weak that he could only swallow drops of strong soup or milk, perpetually dropped into his mouth from a spoon. Had this been ever relinquished, the feeble flame of life must have become extinct. Last Monday morning I had gone home to rest, when the doctor hastily summoned me back, and I found new symptoms which indicated the most immediate danger; so then, on my own responsibility, I telegraphed for Colonel and Mrs. Augustus Liddell (his father and mother), and soon had the comfort of hearing that they were en route. That evening the alarming symptoms returned with such frightful vehemence that both nurse and doctor thought it impossible that he could survive the night. Then and for three nights after I never left Edward for a moment, bathing his head, feeding him, holding him, and expecting him every instant to die in my arms, and in the day only I returned to pay Mother visits. Anything like his sweetness, gentleness, thankfulness, I never saw in any one, and his perfect readiness for heaven made us feel that it was the less likely that his life would be given back to us; and you may imagine, though I had scarcely known him before, how very close a cousinly tie has been drawn in these hours of anguish. He received the Sacrament on Thursday. On Friday there was a very slight improvement, but more delirium. For four days and nights he lay under a vast poultice of snow, which had to be replenished as often as it melted, and making snow with a machine has been perhaps the most laborious part of my duties. Each night I have watched for the faint streak of dawn, wondering if he could live till morning, and feeling as if I were wrestling for his life. Yesterday morning, when I knew his parents were coming, it was quite an agony of suspense; but they arrived safe, and I was able to give him up living to his mother’s care. I have had every day to write to Mrs. Fraser Tytler, to whose daughter Christina he had not been engaged a month, and of whom he has thought touchingly and incessantly.

“I am not much knocked up, but thankful even for myself that Mrs. Augustus Liddell is come, as my cough is so much increased by having to be so often out on the balcony at night, up to my elbows in the snow manufacturing. I do not think I could have held out much longer, and then I do not know what would have become of Edward.”

“April 17.—Last Sunday I had so much more cough, and was so much knocked up with my week’s nursing, that kind Lady Marian Alford insisted on taking me early on Monday in her own carriage to Albano for change. It was like travelling with the Queen, everything so luxurious, charming rooms, and perfect devotion everywhere to ‘la gran donna da bene,’ her personal charm affecting all classes equally.

“Lady Marian had a very pleasant party at Albano, Lord and Lady Bagot and their daughter, Mr. Story,412 Miss Boyle,413 Miss Hattie Hosmer,414 and Mr.415 and Lady Emily Russell. The first afternoon we drove along the lake to Lariccia, where we went all over the wonderful old Chigi palace, and then on to the Cesarini garden at Genzano, overhanging the lake of Nemi. The next morning we went to the Parco di Colonna and Marino, and then in a tremendous thunderstorm to Frascati, where we dined in the old Campana Palace, returning to Rome in the evening. I like Mr. Odo Russell and his simple massive goodness extremely. I hear that Pius IX. says of him, ‘Non é un buono cattolico, ma é un cattivissimo protestante.’ Miss Hosmer had said to him, ‘You’re growing too fat: you ought to come out riding; it will do you no end of good;’ to which he replied in his slow way, ‘No, I cannot come out riding.’—’And why not?’ said Miss Hosmer. ‘Don’t you know,’ he said, ’that I am very anxious to be made an ambassador as soon as possible, and, since that is the case, I must stay working at home.’

“‘I like midges, for they love Venice, and they love humanity,’ said Miss Mary Boyle.

“On Wednesday, finding both my patients better, I acceded to Marcus’s entreaties and went with him and some friends of his to Tivoli for the day. Most gloriously lovely was it looking! My companions scrambled round the waterfalls, whilst I sat and what Robert Peabody calls ’water-coloured’ opposite the Cascatelle. In the evening we went to the Villa d’Este and saw the sun set upon the grand old palace through its dark frame of cypresses.

“This morning I went for the first time to see the bishops of the Council; rather a disappointing sight, though they are a fine set of old men. Some of the American costumes are magnificent.

“Monday is the end of Edward’s twenty-one days’ fever, and I am still very anxious for the result. As he says, I feel rather, since the arrival of his parents, like a hen who has nursed a duckling which has escaped: but I go every day to look at him.”

“April 30.—It is no use worrying oneself about the journey yet. It must always be painful and anxious. On returning to America, Dr. Winslow’s last words to me were, ‘Remember, if she has any fright, any accident, any anxiety, there will be another seizure,’ and in so long a journey this can scarcely be evaded. She must have more strength before we can think of it. Her own earnest wish is to go to Albano first, but I dread those twelve miles extra. We always had this house till May 15, and hitherto there has been no heat.

“On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, Mother was carried down by two women in her dressing-gown, wrapped round with shawls, to a little carriage at the door. They were perfectly still sunny days, no bronchitis to be caught. The first day we only went round the Pincio, the second to the Parco di San Gregorio, the third to the Lateran and Santa Croce: she chose her own two favourite drives.

Journal.

“May 3, 1870.—Walked with Miss J. Pole Carew and her governess from the Villa Albani to Sant’ Agnese to look for the blood-red lily, seven feet high, which smells so terribly that no one is able to pick it. The governess (Miss Nicholson) said how the twisted palms carried in the Roman Catholic ceremonies seemed to her like a type of their faith. So much would be beautiful and impressive in the lives of the martyrs and the memories of the early Church, if, like the palms, so beautiful when they are first brought to Rome, they were not twisted and overladen, to the hiding and destruction of their original character.”

To Miss Leycester.

“May 8.—Last Sunday we drove to the Villa Borghese, which is now in its fullest most luxuriant summer green. When we came back, the Tombola was taking place in the Piazza del Popolo, so that gate was closed, and we had to go round by Porta Salara. The slight additional distance was too much for Mother, so that she has been unable to be up even in her chair for several days. This will show you how weak she is: how terrible the return journey is to look forward to.

“She certainly never seems to realise her helplessness, or to find out that she can no longer knit or do the many things she is accustomed to.... She likes hearing Job read, because of the analogy of sufferings, but she does not at all admire Job as a model of patience! Hymns are her delight, and indeed her chief occupation. She has great pleasure in the lovely flowers with which our poorer friends constantly supply us, especially in the beautiful roses and carnations of the faithful Maria de Bonis (the old photograph woman), who is as devoted as ever.”

“May 15.—The weather has been perfect. In all our foreign or home experience I do not recollect such weeks of hot sunshine, yet never oppressive; such a delicious bracing air always. The flowers are quite glorious, and our poor people—grateful as only Italians are—keep the sick-room constantly supplied with them.

“But, alas! it has been a very sad week nevertheless, and if I once allowed myself to think of it, my heart would sink within me. My dearest Mother has been so very, very suffering; in fact, there have been very few hours free from acute pain, and, in spite of her sweet patience and her natural leaning towards only thanksgiving, her groans and wails have been most sad and the flesh indeed a burden.... You will easily imagine what it is to me to see this state of intense discomfort, and to be able to do nothing to relieve it; for I am quite convinced that nothing can be done, that medicine must be avoided as much as possible in her worn-out system, and that we must trust entirely to the effect of climate and to a returning power of taking nourishment. Dr. Grigor told her that it was a case of most suffering paralysis, usually producing such dreadful impatience that he wondered at her powers of self-control. But from my sweetest Mother, we never hear one word which is not of perfect patience and faith and thanksgiving, though her prayers aloud for patience are sometimes too touching for us to bear. She has not been out for ten days, as she has really had no strength to bear the lifting up and down stairs, and she has seen nobody except our dear Mrs. Woodward and Mary Stanley.”

To Miss Wright.

“Rome, May 22, 1870.—The Mother can recover no power in her lost limbs, in which she has, nevertheless, acute pain. Yet, deprived of every employment and never free from suffering, life is to her one prolonged thanksgiving, and in the sunshine of her blessed state of outpouring gratitude for the silver linings of her clouds, it is not for her nurses to repine. In her case daily more true become the lines of Waller—

‘The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.’

But when even her short excursions to the Pincio or Villa Borghese produce the most intense exhaustion, no stranger can imagine how we can dream of attempting the immense homeward journey. Still, knowing her wonderful power of will and what it has accomplished, I never think anything impossible, and all minor details of difficulty become easier when one has a fixed point of what must be. We shall at any rate try to reach Florence, and then, if she suffers seriously and further progress is quite impossible, we shall be on the way to Lucca or Siena. If we ever do reach Holmhurst, of course it will be for life, which makes the leaving this more than second home very sad to me.

“I have had many pleasant friends here this winter, especially the Pole Carews, who are a most charming family. Latterly also I have seen much of Mrs. Terry, who is a very interesting and delightful person. Since the world has drifted northwards, I have seen more of the few friends who remain, and with the Terrys have even accomplished a very old desire of going to Bracciano. It is a beautiful drive across the Campagna, and then comes the ascent into the steep old town, and under the many gates and fortalices of the castle, to a courtyard with painted loggias. Armed with an order from Princess Odescalchi, we went all over the rooms with their curious ugly old pictures and carving, and sat in the balconies looking down upon the beautiful transparent Bracciano lake, twenty miles in circumference, all the mountains reflected as in a mirror. Mrs. Terry is charming: after we had talked of sad subjects she said—‘But we have spoken enough of these things; now let us talk of butterflies and flowers.’ In spite of all other work, I have sold £75 worth of sketches this winter, chiefly old ones, so am nearly able to pay our rent.”

To Miss Leycester.

“Rome, May 26, 1870.—The Mother is better for the great heat, thermometer standing at 85°, but Rome always has such a fresh air that heat is never overpowering, and in our delightful apartments we never suffer, as we can have so much variety, and if Mother does not go out, she is moved to the balcony overhanging the little garden at the back, where she sits and has her tea under a vine-covered pergola. If we are permitted to reach Holmhurst, I fear all will not be benefit. I much dread the difficulty there will be in keeping Lea from being wholly engrossed again by household affairs, and I cannot see how Mother could do without her almost constant attendance, which she has now. Also, we shall greatly miss the large bedroom opening into a sitting-room, where I can pursue my avocations, able to be with her at the faintest call, and yet not quite close to the groans.... But all this is long, long looking forward: there seems such a gulf between us and England.... Yet we think of attempting the move next week, and on Friday sent off six large boxes with the accumulations of many years, retaining also a list of what must be sent back if we never reach England.

“The Signorina and Samuccia, Clementina and Louisa, Rosina and Madame da Monaca, have all been to say good-bye, and all kiss Mother with tears on taking leave, overcome by her helpless state and sweet look of patience.”

“May 29.—Emmie Penrhyn’s letter was an especial pleasure to the Mother, and what she said of the centurion’s servant, grievously ‘tormented.’ Certainly she is grievously tormented. The pain really never ceases, and the individual motion of the helpless arm is terrible.... I think with misery of the disappointment the return to Holmhurst will be to her. She cannot realise that it will not be, as it has always been, the home of her well months, talks of how she shall ‘frolic out into the garden,’ &c. I feel if we ever reach it, it is going, not to England, but to Holmhurst for life.... We have been to the cemetery under Caius Cestius, and the sentinel allowed her little carriage to pass across the turf, so that she was able to look once more upon the well-known grave, embosomed in its roses and aloes. Yesterday we went to take leave of the old Miss Haigs at their beautiful villa. The three old ladies embraced Mother, and presented her, like three good fairies, one with roses, another with geraniums, and the third with two ripe strawberries.”

“Florence, June 1.—Monday was a terribly fatiguing day, but Mother remained in bed, and was very composed, only anxious that nothing should occur to prevent our departure, and to prove to us that she was well enough. At five Mrs. Woodward came and sat by her whilst Lea and I were occupied with last preparations. At 7 P.M. Mother was carried down and went off in a little low carriage with Mrs. Woodward and Lea, and I followed in a large carriage with Miss Finucane and the luggage. There was quite a collection of our poorer friends to see Mother off and kiss hands. At the railway the faithful Maria de Bonis was waiting, and she and Mrs. Woodward stayed with Mother and saw her carried straight through to the railway coupé which was secured for us. We felt deeply taking leave of the kindest of friends, who has been such a comfort and blessing to us, certainly, next to you, the chief support of Mother’s later years. ‘Oh, how beautiful it will be when the gates which are now ajar are quite open!’ were her last words to Mother.

“The carriage was most comfortable.... Mother slept a little, and though she wailed occasionally, was certainly no worse than on ordinary nights. The dawn was lovely over the rich Tuscan valleys, so bright with corn and vines, tall cypresses, and high villa roofs. She was carried straight through to a carriage, and soon reached the succursale of the Alleanza, where the people know us and are most kind. In the afternoon she slept, and I drove up to Fiesole, where I had not been for twelve years, with Mr. and Mrs. Cummings, American friends.”

“Bologna, June 5.—I fear, after my last, you will be grievously disappointed to hear of us as no farther on our way. We can, however, only tell from hour to hour how soon we may be able to get on, and I find it entirely useless to make plans of any kind, as we are sure not to be able to keep them. On Tuesday a great thunderstorm prevented our leaving Florence, and on Wednesday and Thursday Mother was in such terrible suffering that it was impossible to think of it. On Friday evening there was a rally, and we came on at once, Mrs. Dallas helping us through the difficulties of the Florence Station, and Mr. and Mrs. Cummings following us here. I think I mentioned that Dr. Grigor said travelling at night, when there was no sun, was the only chance of her reaching England alive. Mother begs I will tell Charlotte that ‘No words can describe her sufferings or my anxieties, but that she has been brought through wonderfully hitherto, and that she still hopes to reach England—in time.’”

Journal.

“Bologna, June 5.—Mr. Cummings says the great Church of S. Petronio here reminds him of the great Church universal—so vast the space, and so many chapels branching off, all so widely divided that in each a separate sermon and doctrine might be preached without distressing its neighbour, while yet all meet in the centre in one common whole, the common Church of Christ.

“An old American lady in the train had passed a summer at Vallombrosa. She said it was a place where to live was life and where one could be happy when one was unhappy.”

To Miss Leycester.

“Susa, June 8, 1870.—The Mother continued in a most terribly suffering state all the time we were at Bologna—agonies of pain which gave no rest. Yesterday afternoon it was so intense that she implored me to try the railway as a counter-irritant, and we set off at half-past ten at night. But the train shook fearfully, and the journey was absolute torture to her. We have never had such a painful time. Lea and I were obliged to sit on the floor by turns, holding the poor hand, and trying to animate her courage to bear up, but her cries were terrible. We reached Turin at 5 A.M., where, in spite of all promises to the contrary, she had to be carried all round the station; but fortunately for the next hour the train was easier and she suffered less. She was carried by two men out of the station, and down the wet muddy road here, where she has a good room, and soon fell asleep from exhaustion. We arrived at 6.30 A.M., and shall stay till to-morrow morning. Her state is certainly one of incomparably more suffering than at Rome, and she feels the change of climate dreadfully.”

“Aix-les-Bains, June 9.—Last night, to my great relief, Colonel and Mrs. Cracroft and Miss Wilson arrived at Susa, and were the greatest possible help to us. We had obtained a permesso for the Mother to be taken straight through to the Fell railway carriage, and her little procession started at 7 A.M., and she was carried from her bed to her seat in the railway. The Cracrofts sat all round us in the carriage, which was much better than strangers, and Miss Wilson was most kind in keeping her hands bathed with eau de Cologne, &c. She suffered much for the first two hours, but the train was wonderfully smooth and easy, so that really the dreaded Mont Cenis was the least distressing part of the journey. About the middle of the pass she revived a little, and noticed the flowers, which were lovely—such gentianellas, auriculas, large golden lilies, &c. At S. Michel she bore the being carried about tolerably, so we were able to come on here, and arrived about four. Mother desires I will say to Charlotte, ‘Hitherto the Lord hath helped me.’”

“Macon, June 12.—No farther on our way than this. Mother was rather less suffering on Friday, and she bore the move from Aix and the dreaded change at Culoz better than we expected, but in the latter part of our four hours’ journey she was fearfully exhausted, and arrived here (at the hotel looking out on the Saone and the wide-stretching poplar plains) in a sad state.... It is impossible to move on yet.

“Yesterday, while she was sleeping, I drove to Cluny, the queen of French abbeys. A great deal is left, and it is a most interesting and beautiful place. I also saw Lamartine’s little château of Monceaux, described in his ‘Confidences.’ All his things and his library were being sold under the chestnut-trees in front of the house. I just came up in time to buy the old apple-green silk quilt420 from the bed of his saint-like mother, described in ‘Le Manuscrit de ma Mère.’”

“Montbard, June 13.—Mother was so anxious to attempt coming on, that we left Macon at half-past eleven to-day, arriving here at four. To our dismay, when she had been taken out of the carriage and laid flat upon the platform, and the train had gone off, we found the station hotel closed. However, she was well carried on a chair down a lane to the so-called Hôtel de la Poste—an old-fashioned farm-house in a garden of roses; everything clean, pretty, and quaint; no sound but cocks and hens crowing and cackling; delicious farm-house bread, butter, and milk. Montbard is the place where Buffon lived in a very picturesque old château and gardens. Mother seems revived by the intense quiet and fresh country air. The old landlord and his wife are quite pictures—such clever, kind old faces, reminding one of La Sarte in ‘Citoyenne Jacqueline.’”

“Paris, June 14.—This morning was like a respite! Mother lay so quiet that I was actually able to draw as in the old days, which now seem in the far distance; and I took a little carriage to the lovely cloistered château of Fontenay, which I had long wished to see, and where I had luncheon with the charming owner, Madame de Montgolfier, and her two sons, people who own immense factories in the valley and devote their whole lives to the good of their workpeople. On my return I found Mother so far better that we could prepare her for the one o’clock express. She had a bath-chair to the station, and bore it well; but she was terribly tried by the five hours’ journey, and being very ill carried at Paris, arrived at the hotel utterly prostrated. We hope to go on to-morrow, but all is most uncertain.”

“Dover Station, June 16.—We are here, with intense thankfulness. Mother looked so ill and aged this morning we did not hope to move her, but she had a sudden rally in the middle of the day, so at 6 P.M. we were able to prepare her, and had her carried through the station to a carriage before the mob of people came.... We dreaded arriving at Calais, but she was carried in an arm-chair to the steamer, which was fortunately at the near quay and no steps. Of course our little procession was the last to arrive, and every place was taken; but Miss Charlotte Cushman,423 who had comfortably established herself in the cabin, with a calm dignity which is irresistible at once directed the men to put Mother down in her place, and went up on deck.

“The sea was like glass—lovely moonlight and sunrise, and we seemed to be at Dover before we left Calais. A sailor carried Mother in his arms to the railway carriage, in which we were allowed to go as far as the station platform, and here we are. A porter has fetched cups of tea, and we have four hours to wait.

“We shall be glad of a visit from you as early as you like to come next week. I should not like you to defer coming long, as, though I have no special cause for apprehension, still in Mother’s critical state every day is precious. You will find her terribly altered in all respects, though the mind and memory are quite clear at the moment. None of her doctors give any hope whatever of amendment; but you will understand the position much better when you see it, only I am anxious that you should help me to face what is inevitable, instead of striving after what cannot be. Let us seek to alleviate suffering, not struggle after an impossible cure which may hasten the end.”

To Miss Wright.

“Holmhurst, June 17.—I know you will truly rejoice with and for us that we have arrived in safety, and that my poor suffering Mother has her great wish of seeing her little home once more. You will imagine what the journey has been, as she is now utterly helpless, nearly blind, and never free from acute suffering in the spine and arm, which is often agony. At Rome it was generally thought quite impossible that she could survive the journey, and nothing but her faith and patience, and her self-control, have enabled us to get through it. We never could make a plan, but just seized the happy moment when she was a shade better, and at once pushed on a step. She was, of course, carried everywhere, and people were wonderfully kind; we had always somebody to go with us and smooth the difficulties of the railway stations—either old friends or people who were at my lectures at Rome and met us accidentally.

“When we arrived, all the old servants were terribly overcome to see their beloved mistress carried in so changed and helpless. She is still very ill, but unspeakably thankful to be here, and to feel that the journey is done. My life is, and must continue to be, one of constant watching.”

“July 21.—Our letters are now our only intercourse with the world beyond the gates of Holmhurst, which I never leave; but indeed I can seldom leave the house before 8 P.M., when I walk round the fields while Mother is prepared for the night. Though it is now the only thing I ever think of, it is very difficult to occupy and cheer her days, for she cannot bear any consecutive reading. Sometimes I read, and tell her what I have read as a kind of story. She is seldom up before 3 P.M., and then is carried down to the lawn in her dressing-gown, and up again at four, when she is sometimes able to look at a book for a few minutes. That which is oftenest in her hand is the little ‘Invalid’s Friend’ which you gave her, and she desires me to tell you how often she finds comfort in it.... For the last fortnight we have been entirely alone, which has been really best for her, as, though she has enjoyed seeing those she loved, each departure has made her worse.

“I write much at my ‘Walks in Rome’ in her room, and my ancient history is so imperfect I have plenty to study, which acts as a sort of mental tonic.”

From my Journal (The Green Book).

“June 26.—My darling often talks to me in her hymns. To-night, when I left her, she said with her lovely sweetness, ‘Good-night, darling.

“Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven your morn will bless.”’

“‘I never wish to leave you,’ she said the other day. ‘I never wish for death; always remember that. I should like to stay with you as long as I can.’ And another day, ‘I must call you “my daughter-son,” as Mrs. Colquhoun did hers: as long as I have you, I suppose I can bear anything; but if you were taken away, or if I had never had you, my life would be indeed desolate: I could not have lived on.... I try so not to groan when you are here, you must not grudge me a few groans when you are out of the room.’”

“July 18.—‘I had such a sweet dream of your Aunt Lucy last night. I thought we were together again, and I said, “How I do miss you!” and she said she was near me. I suppose I had been thinking of—

“Saints in glory perfect made
Wait thine escort through the shade.”

I think perhaps I had been thinking of that. Dear Aunt Lucy, how she would have grieved to see me now!’”

“July 19.—‘Yes, I know the psalms; many in your Uncle Julius’s version too. Many a time it keeps me quiet for hours to know and repeat them. I should never have got through my journey if I had not had so many to repeat and to still the impatience.’”

To Miss Wright.

“Holmhurst, July 31, 1870.—I continue to work on steadily at my book in the sick-room. I have just got Murray’s Roman Handbook, and am amazed to see how much better it is than I expected; but I am glad I have not seen it before, as, though I have already given even all his newest information, I have told it so oddly differently.

“The sweet Mother continues much the same. She is carried out each fine afternoon to sit for an hour near the weeping ash-tree on the lawn, and enjoys the sunshine and flowers.... In this quiet garden, and never going beyond the gates, everything seems very far off, and I am beginning to have quite a sympathy with the hermits, and to wonder the race does not continue: it is certainly more reasonable than that of the monks. A great peace seems to have fallen upon us. As I see my helpless Mother’s quiet happiness, and share it, I think of Richard Crashaw’s lines—

‘How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which Thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In Pity’s soft lap lie a-sleeping!
Happy she who has the art
To awake them
And to take them
Home, and lodge them in her heart.’”

From my Journal (The Green Book).

“August 8.—It is inexpressibly touching to me how Mother now seems to have an insight into my past feelings which she never had before, and to understand and sympathise with childish sufferings which she never perceived at the time, or from which she would have turned aside if she had perceived them. To-day, after her dinner, she said most touchingly, watching till every one went away and calling me close to her pillow—‘I want to make my confession to you, darling. I often feel I have never been half tender enough to you. I feel it now, and I should like you to know it. You are such a comfort and blessing to me, dearest, and I thought perhaps I might die suddenly, and never have told you so. I cannot bear your being tied here, and yet I do not know how I could do without you, you are so great a blessing to me.’

“And oh! in the desolate future what a comfort these few words will contain! But I said—‘No, darling, I am not tied: you know it is just what I like. I know you could not do without me, but then I could not do without you, so it is just the same for both of us.’”

“August 26.—To-day is the anniversary of my adoption, what Mother used to call my Hurstmonceaux birthday. She remembered it when I went to her, and said touchingly—‘God be thanked for having given me my child, for having preserved him, for having strengthened him. May he live to His glory, and may I die to His praise.... Pray that He may forgive the past, watch over the present, and guide the future.’ Later she said—‘It is very seldom that a woman’s future is settled at thirty-five, as mine was. I was not only a widow, but my adopting a child showed to all the world that I should never marry again.... I can only make a meditation,’ she said; ‘I have no strength to make a prayer.... I have long been obliged to pray in snatches—in moments.... I am so glad that I know so many psalms, hymns, and collects; they are such a comfort to me now. I could think of nothing more, but these I dwell upon.... Sometimes when I can think of nothing else I take the Lord’s Prayer, and lie still to make a meditation upon each separate clause.’ When I left her at night she said fervently—‘Good-night, my own dear love, my blessing: may I be your blessing, as you are mine.’”

In our quiet life, the news of the war in France, the siege of Paris, &c., reached us like far-off echoes. My mother cared little to hear of it, but shared with me in anxiety as to the fate of the excellent people we had so lately left at Montbard and Fontenay, which were overrun by the Prussians. On September 8 the Empress Eugenie took refuge at Hastings, and two days after walked up the hill past our gate. She was joined at Hastings by the Prince Imperial. I little thought then that I should afterwards know him so well.

Journal.

“Sept. 10, 1870.—Lea has just been saying, ‘You may go and count the trees to-day, for I’ve nothing for you for dinner. The butcher’s never been, good-for-nothing fellow! he’s gone gawking after that Empress, I’ll be bound.’”

Almost all my Mother’s nieces and many old friends came to see her in the summer, generally staying only two or three days, but her dear cousin, Charlotte Leycester, came for the whole of September. While she was here at Holmhurst I was persuaded to go away for two days, and went to see Dean Alford at his cottage of Vine’s Gate in the Kentish Hills. He was more charming than ever, and more eccentric, never wearing stockings, and shoes only when he went out. I was miserable, in my short absence, with anxiety, which cost me far more than the refreshment of change could replace; but I was led to go to see the Dean by one of those strange presentiments for which I have never been able to account. It was my last sight of this dear friend, with whom I have been more really intimate than with perhaps any one else, in spite of the great difference of age and position. Dean Alford died in the following winter, but it was at a time when, in my own intense desolation, all minor sorrows fell dumb and dead. But his grave, in St. Martin’s Churchyard at Canterbury, is always a very sacred spot to me.

I must record a visit which we received soon after my return home, as it led to a friendship which was one of the great pleasures of many following years. One morning, as I was sitting in my Mother’s room as usual, a card with “Mrs. Grove, Oakhurst,” was brought up to me, and, as I opened the drawing-room door, I saw an old lady with the very sweetest and dearest face I ever set eyes upon, in a primitive-looking hat and apron, and with a basket on her arm, and I fell in love with her at once. She came often afterwards to see my Mother, who greatly appreciated her; and after my Mother’s sweet life passed away, it is difficult to say how much of my home interest was associated with Oakhurst, with the ready sympathy and old-fashioned knowledge of this dear Mrs. Grove, and with her daughter, Mrs. Baillie Hamilton, and her two grand-daughters, now Mrs. Spencer Smith and Mrs. Hamilton Seymour. Alas! as I write this,424 the dear Mrs. Grove, in her great age, is herself rapidly fading heavenwards—but so gently, so surrounded by the love which her own loving-kindness has called forth, that death is indeed coming as a friend, gently and tenderly leading her into the visible presence of the Saviour, in whose invisible presence she has so long lived and served.

Journal (The Green Book).

“Holmhurst, Oct. 20, 1870.—Mother said to-day, ‘I always think that walking through the Roman picture-galleries is like walking through the Old and New Testament with the blessed company of apostles and martyrs beside one.... I am so fond of that prayer “for all sorts and conditions of men,” not only for my invalid state, but it is all so appropriate to the present time—the petition for peace and unity, &c.’”

“Oct. 23, Sunday.—‘Alas! another Sunday in bed,’ said Mother this morning.

“‘But, darling, you need not regret it; all the days are Sundays to you.’

“‘Yes; but to-day I woke early, and have said all my little Sunday hymns and psalms.’

“Truly with her, ‘Les prières de la nuit font la sérénité du jour.’”425

“Oct. 26.—‘My dear child is never cross to me, never; and always appears just at the very moment I want anything.’”

To Miss Wright.

“Holmhurst, Oct. 28, 1870.—I am so glad you have been here, and can fancy our perfectly quiet, eventless life, the coming and going in the Mother’s sick-room, and her gentle happiness in all the little pleasures which are spared to her. Since you were here she has been not so well, from the wet and cold, I suppose, the sight dimmer and the other powers weaker; but the symptoms are ever varying, and, when it is thus, I almost never leave her—watch her sleeping and try to amuse her waking.

“To-day my absent hour was sadly engaged in attending the funeral of my dear old friend, Mrs. Dixon,426 who died quite peacefully last Saturday, a long illness ending in two days of merciful unconsciousness. She was buried at Ore, in Emma Simpkinson’s grave. Many deeply mourn her, for few were more sincere and cordial, more affectionate and sympathising.”

Journal (The Green Book).

“Nov. 1, 1870.—My darling has had two months of comparative freedom from pain, with many hours of real pleasure, in which she was often carried down and sat out in her bath-chair amongst the flower-beds in the sunshine. Sitting under the ash-tree shade, she has been able to see many friends—Mrs. Wagner, Mrs. Grove, old Mrs. Vansittart Neale at ninety, and Lady Waldegrave. Charlotte Leycester was here for six weeks, and the Mother was then so far better that it was a great source of enjoyment to both the cousins. Since then she has ailed more frequently, and has had occasional recurrence of the old pain in her arm. I have sat constantly writing in her room, laying aside ‘Walks in Rome’ for a time, and devoting myself to writing the Family Memorials. For the dear Mother has wished me to continue the work she began long ago of writing the life of Augustus and Julius Hare. I represented that, as one of these died before I was born, and I had never appreciated the other as she had done, it would be impossible for me to do this, unless she would permit me to make her, who had been the sunshine of my own life, the central figure of the picture. At first she laughed at the idea, but, after a day or two, she said that, as, with the sole exception of Charlotte Leycester, all who had shared her earlier life had passed away, she could not oppose my wish that the simple experience of her own life, and God’s guidance in her case, might, if I thought it could be so, be made useful for others. And, as she has accustomed herself to this thought, she has lately taken real pleasure in it. She laughs at what she calls my ‘building her mausoleum in her lifetime,’ but has almost grown, I think, to look upon her own life and her own experience as if it were that of another in whom she was interested, and to read it and hear it in the same way. She has given me many journals and letters of various kinds which I might use, and has directed the arrangement of others. I have already written the two earliest chapters of her married life, and read most of them to her, but she stopped me at last, saying that they interested her too deeply. She frequently asks now—‘Are you writing the Memorials, or only “Walks in Rome”?’ and it is a proof how clear her understanding still is, that some weeks ago she wisely directed me, if the work was ever carried out, to evade all wearying discussion by consulting no one, and that I should on no account show it to any one of the family, especially the Stanleys, till it was finished, when they might judge of it as a whole.

“Sometimes the dear Mother has herself been able to write some of her ‘Ricordi,’ as she calls them, and, with her trembling hand, has filled a whole little volume with the recollections of her youth, but this has often been too much for her.... After her tea at four o’clock, I have generally read some story to her till she has gone to bed, and after that a chapter and some hymns. There is a passage in one of George Eliot’s autobiographical sonnets, in which, referring to her mother, she speaks of ‘the benediction of her gaze’; how often have I experienced this!”

“Nov. 4.—Last night I read to the Mother Luke xvii. and a hymn on ‘Rest’ which she asked for. When I was going to wish her good-night she said—‘I do hope, darling, I am not like the ungrateful lepers. I try to be always praising God, but I know that I can never praise Him enough for His many, many mercies to me.’ I could not but feel, in the alarm afterwards, if my dearest Mother never spoke to me again, what beautiful last words those would have been, and how characteristic of her. Oh, goodness in life brings us near to God: not death! not death!

“At 2 P.M. I was awakened by the dreadful sound which has haunted me ever since the night of March 12 in the Via Gregoriana—of Lea rushing along the passage and flinging open the door—‘Come directly’—no time for more words—and of running through the dark gallery and finding the terrible change—another paralytic seizure—calling up John and sending him off to Battle for the doctor, and kneeling by the bedside, consoling her if possibly conscious, and watching for the faint dawn of visible life, that the first words might be tender ones, the first look one of love,... and it was so—that my darling’s first words were something tender, indefinite, but spoken to me. The entire unconsciousness was not long. When the doctor arrived the face was almost natural, but he saw that it had been a regular seizure. By 8 A.M. she was nearly herself again, and anxious to know what could have happened. She had been frightened by seeing the doctor. She appeared to have no pain, and there is no additional injury to the powers. To-day has been a constant watching, rather a warding off from her of any possible excitement than anything else.... In all the anguish of anxiety, I cannot be thankful enough for what we have, especially the freedom from pain.”

“Nov. 9.—No great change—a happy painless state, the mind very feeble, its power gone, but peaceful, loving, full of patience, faith, and thankfulness.”

“Nov. 16.—And since I wrote last, the great, the most unutterable desolation, so long looked for, so often warded off, has come upon me. Oh! while they can still be attained, let me gather up the precious fragments that remain.

“On Thursday the 10th my darling was much better, though her mind was a little feeble. I felt then, as I feel a thousand times now, how extraordinary people were who spoke of the trial my darling’s mental feebleness would be to me. It only endeared her to me a thousandfold—her gentle confidence, her sweet clinging to me to supply the words and ideas which no longer came unsought, made her only more unspeakably lovable. On that day I remember that my darling mentioned several times that she heard beautiful music. This made no impression on me then.

“Friday the 11th, I sat, as usual, all morning in her room correcting my book. I forget whether it was that morning or the next that my darling on waking from sleep said that she had had such a pleasant dream of her childhood and Adderley and ‘old Lady Corbet,’ who first taught her to ‘love what was beautiful.’427 At 2 P.M. Mother was up, and sat in her arm-chair by the fire. She was partly dressed, and wore her pretty old-fashioned cap with the strings tied in a bow on the top of the head, and a little red cloak which Miss Wright had given her: I remember thinking she looked so pretty, and telling her so. I was out at first, while she wrote a little letter to Fanny Tatton,428 and talked to Lea about the texts she had been reading. At four, she had her tea, and then I sat at her feet, and my darling talked most sweetly about all the places she had admired most in her life—of Llangollen in her childhood, and of Capel Curig, of her visit to Rhianva, and of many places abroad, Narni with its woods and river, and more especially Villar in the Vaudois, of which I had been making a drawing, which she had desired to have set up that she might look at it. Then she asked to have one of her old journals read, and I read one of Rome, and she spoke of how much happiness, how many blessings, she had connected with Rome also, though much of suffering. She was especially bright and sunny. I remember saying to her playfully, ‘Take a little notice of me, darling; you do not take enough notice of me,’ and her stroking my head and saying, ‘You dear child,’ and laughing.

“At six o’clock my sweetest one was put to bed.

“Afterwards I read to her a chapter in St. Luke—‘Let this cup pass from me,’ &c., and sat in her room till half-past nine. When I went downstairs I kissed her and said, ‘Have a good good night, darling.’ I cannot recollect that she spoke, but I remember looking back as I opened the door, and seeing my sweet Mother lying on her side as she always did, and her dear eyes following me with a more than usually tender expression as I left the room.

“I have often thought since of a sentence in Carlyle’s ‘Life of Sterling’—‘Softly, as a common evening, the last of our evenings passed away, and no other would come to me for evermore.’

“When I went upstairs again at half-past ten, I went, as I always did, to listen at her door, and, hearing a noise, went in. Terrible illness had come on and continued for hours.... The next thirty-six hours I never left her for an instant, and they all seem to me like one long terrible night. I remember very little distinctly, but at eight on Saturday morning she was certainly much better. The doctor came at ten, and she was able to speak to him. He looked very grave over the lowness of her pulse, but she continued better for some hours, and slept a great deal in the afternoon. Towards evening I thought her not so well, though the doctor, who came at half-past nine, considered her state much less anxious. I was then possessed with the feeling that our parting was very near. Lea also called me downstairs to hear the extraordinary sound that was going on. It was indeed strange. It was as if hundreds of thousands of crickets were all chirping together. They appeared everywhere in swarms on the hearths downstairs. The noise was so great that I felt if it continued we should be driven out of the place: it was quite deafening; but they only came that night, they never were heard before, and the next day they had totally disappeared.429 I persuaded Lea to lie down on her bed, where she soon fell asleep. All through the night I sat by my darling on the pillow. I think the last thing she said was that the other arm, the well arm, pained her very much, and we feared paralysis, but more pressing symptoms diverted attention. At half-past one I called Lea again. I shall never know in this world whether my Mother was really conscious, if she even knew anything either of her own great physical suffering, or of what passed that night. I believe God helped me to say and do all she would have wished. Each hour I was more sure of what was coming. Towards dawn, kneeling on the bed, I said some of the short prayers in the Visitation of the Sick, but she was then fading rapidly, and at last I repeated the hymn ‘How bright those glorious spirits shine,’ which we had always agreed was never to be used except as the solemn sign that our parting was surely come. I am not sure if my darling knew that she was dying before: I am sure, if she could still hear, that she knew it then. I am sure that she was conscious at the end and that she speechlessly took leave of us. Her expression was calm and serene, but very grave, as if she realised for the first time that I might not travel with her into the solitude she was entering. It was about a quarter of an hour before the end that all suffering ceased, her paralysed side seemed to become quite well; the lame hand, which had been so tightly clenched since the 13th of March, unfolded then upon the 13th of November, and gently met the other in prayer. The eyes were closing, but opened once more—as a look—a look of youth and radiance, stole over the beloved features at the last, when there was no struggle, only just a gentle sigh or two. Lea, who was leaning over the bed on the other side, held her spectacles to the mouth. There was no breath. I could scarcely believe that she was gone. I still held her in my arms. But oh! in my unutterable desolation I could give God thanks that the end was like this. The first stroke of the church-bell sounded as she passed into the real life.

“When the sweet eyes closed and the dear face lost its last shadow of colour, I kissed my own Mother for the last time and came away. The first snowflakes of winter were falling then. They do not signify now: no snow or cold can ever signify any more.

“But oh! the agony, the anguish!

“And since then her precious earthly form has been lying, with her hands folded on her breast as if she were praying—the dear lame hand quite well now. The room is draped with white and filled with flowers. Two large white camellias stand at the head of the bed and overshadow her pillow, and on the table, draped with white, are her own particular objects, her bronze wolf, her little gold tray with her spectacles, smelling-bottle, &c., and all her special hymn-books. At first when I went in, in my great agony, I did not draw down the sheet. But now I draw it down and look at my dearest one. There is a look of unearthly serene repose upon the worn features, which is almost too beautiful.

“‘Days without night, joys without sorrow, sanctity without sin, charity without stain, possession without fear, satiety without envyings, communication of joys without lessening, and they shall dwell in a blessed country, where an enemy never entered, and from whence a friend never went away.’430

“But yet—oh my darling! my darling!”
To Miss Leycester.
“Sunday morning, Nov. 13.—My darling Mother has entered into the real life.

“She grew gradually weaker hour by hour, and I think she suffered less. She knew me always, and liked to keep her eyes constantly fixed upon me, but she could not speak. At half-past nine, she seemed sinking, and I repeated over to her, as she desired me to do when she was dying, the hymn ‘How bright those glorious spirits shine.’ I think she heard it.... Soon after she opened her eyes and gave me a long, long look of her own perfect lovingness, then turned to Lea, to me again, and we heard a few gentle sighs. I had just time to ring the bell close to my hand as I sat on the pillow, and as John and Harriet431 (who had been waiting in the passage) passed sobbing into the room and stood at the foot of the bed, my sweet darling gently breathed her last in my arms, once more—quite at the last—opening her eyes, with a look of perfect bliss, as if gazing at something beyond us. It was so gentle a breathing out of her spirit, we scarcely knew when it was over. She died in my arms, with my kiss upon her forehead, at half-past ten. I know how tenderly my Mother’s dearest, most tenderly loved friend feels for me, and that I need not ask her to pray for my Mother’s poor child Augustus.”

“Nov. 14.—It seems so strange to look out of the window and see the same sheep feeding in the same green meadows, the same flowers blooming, and yet such a change over all. I feel as if it were I who had died yesterday.

“What a long, long day it was! A thousand times I was on the point of running into the room to say some little loving word to her who has been the recipient of every thought, every pleasure for so many, many years, and then the crushing blank, the annihilation came all afresh. Indeed, I feel it afresh every quarter of an hour, and when I am calmed after one thing in which my great desolation is especially presented to me, something else calls it all forth again. Oh, my darling! my darling! can it be? oh! how can it be?

“The dear earthly form lies with its hands sweetly folded as if she were praying. I go in often. I am always going in; but it does not remind me of her, though it is most peaceful, and the servants and others have the greatest comfort from looking at it.

“It is as a dream that yesterday morning, quite after it was over, I could say ‘The day before yesterday my darling did this, my darling said that.’ On Friday she was so bright, so happy, only her memory a little astray, but I was already forming a thousand little schemes for supplying this lost power, so that it should not be apparent to others, and to me nothing, I felt, could ever matter if the sunshine of my dear Mother’s sweet presence was with me under any change.”

“Tuesday, Nov. 15.—Your most dear letter has come.... How much, even in the first anguish of my desolation, I have felt what it would be to you also. You will always be most tenderly entwined with her sacred memory; indeed, I can scarcely think of you apart. For the last few years especially your companionship has been her greatest joy, and in your absence she has never passed many hours without speaking of you, never any, I think, without thinking of you. The grief she most dreaded was that she might have to mourn for you, for I think she rightly felt that—great as the sorrow would be—your physical powers would enable you to bear the separation better than she could have done.

“This morning I feel a little better, and can dwell more upon my darling’s being perfected, upon the restoration of all her powers, upon her reunion to those she loved in former times of her life; and I have a perfect treasure-store in my journals for years of her sacred words of blessing, and advice, and thought for me, many of them, I know, intended to be my comfort now.

“I will send you many of the letters about her. I wonder why people should dread letters of sympathy. To me the letters are nothing, but what I long for is not to hear that people sympathise with me, but to know how they loved her.

“To-day it is thick snow. Oh! she would have been so ill; now she is not ill.”

“Tuesday evening, Nov. 15.—To-day a change came over the dear face—a look of unspeakable repose and beauty such as I never saw on any face before. The servants told me of it, and so it was; it is the most wonderful expression—serene, solemn, holy beauty.

“All the letters are a great—not comfort—nothing can ever be that, but I like to see how she was loved, and I look forward to them. There were thirty to-day, and yet I thought no one could know. What comes home to one is simple sympathy. One cannot help envying the people who can be comforted in real sorrow by what one may call Evangelical topics. It seems so perfectly irrelative to hear that ‘man is born to trouble,’ that ‘it is God that chasteneth,’ &c.

“I recollect now that on Saturday morning I was obliged to send off some proof-sheets.432 She asked what I was doing, and then said, ‘I shall so enjoy reading it when it is all finished, but I must have my little desk out then, because I shall not be able to hold the book.’ We have only just remembered this, which proves that there must have been a slight rally then. It was all so short, so bewildering at last, that things will only come back gradually.

“I shall be glad when the incessant noise of workmen433 downstairs ceases. It is so incongruous in the house now, but could not be helped. My darling did not mind it; indeed it seems to me, on looking back, as if she never found fault with anything; often she did not hear it, and when she did, ‘I like that pleasant sound,’ she said.”

“Nov. 16.—There were forty letters to-day, many wanting answers, so I can only write a little, but it is a comfort to me to send you any memories of those precious last days as they occur to me, and as the first mist of anguish clears up, so many things recur.

“You asked about Romo. Indeed it overwhelms me to think of it. The dear little beast is so touching in his attempts to comfort me. He comes and licks my hand and rubs himself against me, as he never was in the habit of doing. In the first sad moments after the dear eyes closed, Lea, by an old Northern custom, would send down to ‘tell the dog and the bees’ (the bees would have died, she thinks, if they had not been told), and Romo understood it all, and did not howl, but cried plaintively all morning.

“I forget whether I spoke of the music. For the last four days my darling had said at intervals that she heard beautiful music. Thursday and Friday I thought nothing of it; on Saturday it began to have a solemn meaning.

“I have been to-day to Hurstmonceaux. It was necessary. There was deep snow the first part of the way, but beyond Battle no snow at all, leaves still on the trees, and quite a summer look. It was more overpowering to me than I expected to pass Lime, and I almost expected to see her come across the field and open the wicket-gate to her beloved walk to the school. The Haringtons434 were most kind in placing Hurstmonceaux Place at our disposal for the funeral, and removed all scruples about it by saying how really thankful they were to be able to show their affection for the Mother in that way. I went up twice to the church. The road thither and the churchyard looked most beautiful, and the spot chosen, on the edge towards the level, with the view she always thought so like the Campagna. I am allowed to enclose a little space, which will contain my grave also.

“I called on Mrs. W. Isted,435 and found her quite overpowered, sitting with my darling’s photograph. ‘It is not only her own loss, dearly as I loved her, but the deaths of all my others come back to me, which she helped me to bear.’”

“Nov. 17.—Do you know that through a mist of tears I have been forced to go on sending off proof-sheets of ‘Walks in Rome’? One of the last things she spoke of was her hope that I would not let her illness hinder the book. The dedication to her, already printed, will seem touching to those who read it. She herself read that when the first volume was finished. But her great pleasure of the last few weeks was in the chapters of the ‘Memorials’ which I was writing of her Alton life. To continue them with the copious materials she has left will now be my one great interest. She has left me perfectly free to make what use I like of all, and one day made me write down from her dictation an expression to that effect. The Alton life is certainly the most perfect ideal of a country clergyman’s life that can well be conceived.”

“Nov. 19.—I cannot leave home yet.... Leycester, Mamie, and many others have written, as she always said they would, that their hearts and houses are open to receive me, but this must be later. Indeed, I shall cling to all she loved, and in the ever-living remembrance of her shall be able to love all. I had even a kind note from Mrs. Maurice436 to-day: she said I should.

“Henry Papillon came yesterday, touchingly wishful to look upon the dear face once more, and he was even more struck than I expected with its immortal beauty.... To-day was a great wrench. This morning the precious earthly form was sealed away from us.”

“Nov. 22.—I went through yesterday in a dream. I did not realise it at all. Lea left Holmhurst in an agony of sobs and tears, but I did not; I had so often thought of it, I seemed to have gone through it all before, and then I had already lost sight of my darling.

“Lea, John, Johnnie Cornford, and I went in the little carriage first; Harriet, Anne, Rogers, Joe, and Margaret Cornford437 followed her. We reached Hurstmonceaux Place about half-past twelve. In half-an-hour they all began to arrive: each and all of my dear cousins were most kind to me.”

Journal (The Green Book).

“Dec. 4, 1870.—I have been unable to write in my journal, the hundred and ninety-two letters which I have had to answer have taken all the time.... And I live still. I used to think I could not live, but I am not even ill; and yet how my life is changed, all the interest, all the happiness, all the sunshine gone, only the systematic routine of existence left.

“My poor Lea is already beginning to be interested in her chickens and her farm-life, and to think it all ‘such a long time ago.’ But to me it seems as if it had only just happened, and the hour in which her sweet eyes closed upon me has swallowed up all the hours which have come since, and is always the last hour to me.

“I think it was about the third day afterwards that Lea came into my room and told me that the look of wonderful beauty and repose which appeared at the last had come back again to the dear features. And so it was. It was the sweetest look of calm, serene repose. The colour had all faded out of my darling’s cheeks, which had lost every sign of age, and were smooth and white as if they were chiselled in marble. Her closed eyelids, her gently curving mouth expressed the sweetest restfulness. The dear lame hand, quite supple at last, had closed softly upon the other. And this lovely image of her perfected state was lent to me till the last, when the beloved features were closed away from me for ever.

“It was on the Saturday that Lea and I went in together for the last time. Lea cried violently. I was beyond tears. We covered away together all that was dearest to us on earth. I placed a lock of my hair in her hands, and laid her favourite flowers by her. Monday a day of rain and storm-cloud. I shall always associate the road to Hurstmonceaux with the drive on that winter’s morning with swirling rain-clouds, and the waters out on the distant Levels gleaming white through the mist. Coming down the hill near Boreham how many memories of my dearest one came back to me,—of her anxiety to put me out to walk at Standard Hill,—of her admiration of the three pines on the hill-top; and then, near Lime, of walks with her on dewy summer mornings, when I went with her in my childhood to pick ground-ivy and violets in the fields behind Lime Cross.

“The coffin lay in the centre of the drawing-room at Hurstmonceaux Place, upon a high raised stand draped with white. All around it hung a lovely wreath of flowers from Holmhurst, and at the foot masses of flowers kindly sent by the present owners of Lime. Mrs. H. Papillon438 had sent a beautiful cross of white chrysanthemums, and some one else a wreath, and in the centre, linking all with a reminiscence of her sister Lucy, lay a bunch of withered violets from Abbots Kerswell. Here, over the coffin of her whose life was perfect peace, the two great enemies in the parish of Hurstmonceaux shook hands and were reconciled.

“At two the eighteen bearers, all chosen from labourers whom she had known, filed in in their white smock frocks and took up the precious burden. Lea and I followed immediately, then Leycester, Vere, and Emmie Penrhyn; Arthur, Augusta, and Mary Stanley; Morgan and Mamie Yeatman; Dr. Vaughan, Frederick Fisher, Mrs. Hale, and a long line of neighbours, clergy, and servants, walking two and two.

“Down the well-known avenue and lanes, the bearers advanced, looking like a great band of choristers. I saw nothing, but some of the others remarked that as we came away from the house a beautiful silver cloud and rainbow appeared over it.

“Arthur and Augusta left the procession at the foot of the hill and passed on before; so he met us at the gate.

“In the centre of the chancel, where I had seen the coffin of Uncle Julius, there the coffin of my own darling lay, but it was covered with no gloomy pall, only garlanded with flowers, the garlands of her new life.

“At the grave, Lea stood on one side of me, Emmie on the other. Arthur read most touchingly, and in the words of that service one was lifted up, not drawn down: but indeed I felt it very little, I only saw it in a dream.

“Afterwards I think they all came up and kissed me. Then they went away, and Lea and I walked back alone through the shrubbery to Hurstmonceaux Place, and so came home.

“To our most desolate home.

“On the Saturday after we went to Hurstmonceaux again. The Sunday services at the church were most beautiful. In the morning ‘How bright those glorious spirits shine’ was sung, and in the evening, almost in the dark, ‘Pilgrims of the night.’ Mr. Munn439 preached on ‘Bury me with my fathers—in the cave of Machpelah,’ &c., speaking of how she was brought from a distant place, and how, in foreign lands, her great wish had been to be laid at Hurstmonceaux, and so to what I wished of the peculiar connection of my darling’s life with Hurstmonceaux, and of how the different scenes in the parish which called up the remembrance of her sweet words and acts connected with them, might also call up the recollection of those truths to which her gentle life was a living witness. When Lea and I went out to the grave afterwards, we found two poor women—Mrs. Medhurst and Mrs. Harmer—standing there dressed in black, and the little mound covered with flowers.

“I saw it once again next day, and made a little wall of holly and ivy round it. Oh, my darling!—and then we returned here again, to the ordinary life, only the door of the sacred chamber stands open, and the room is cold and empty, and my heart and my life are desolate. ‘The sanctuary of sorrow’ seems to me an expression full of significance.”

To Miss Leycester.

“Holmhurst, Dec. 1, 1870.—Madame de Staël shows how she must have suffered when she wrote—‘Le reveil, quel moment pour les malheureux!’ To-day is the first of a month in which my darling has no share: each day there is something in which I seem to part with her afresh. My life is so changed that it seems impossible to believe that it is such a short time since I was so happy—only, between the present dumb blank and the happy time are those terrible thirty-six hours of illness, and in the thought of them I am more than satisfied that she cannot go through them again. Each minute of those hours comes back to me now so vividly—the acuteness of the numb misery, which really had no hope, with the determination that she should see nothing but smiles to the last, for my whole life afterwards would be long enough for tears.

“Poor Lea sits with me now for an hour every day after tea, and we talk of every moment of those last days.

“It is most bitterly cold: she would have been so ill.”

“Dec. 17.—Mrs. Tom Brassey passed me to-day, riding with a party. She made them go on, and stopped to speak to me, then burst into tears, and spoke most feelingly of old Mr. Brassey’s death, to whom I believe she was truly attached. Then she revealed the enormous wealth to which they have fallen heirs. They expected to have no more, as the father had already given each of his sons an immense sum, but old Mr. Brassey has left six millions! She feels the awful responsibility of such a heritage, and spoke admirably and touchingly—said she trusted each of the three brothers would set out with the determination to spend it worthily of their father, and then of all their plans already made for the good of others. It seemed odd to come back from discussing all this to the great anxiety as to whether my income would amount to £500, and if I should be able to live on at Holmhurst.

“It is actually five weeks this evening since my darling was here, and we were entering upon the utter anguish of that last night. Sometimes the agony comes back to me, so that I am obliged to do something which requires close attention to set it aside; but at other times—generally—I can think with composure of the five weeks she has spent well, and warm, and happy.”

Mrs. Arnold to Augustus J. C. Hare.

“Dingle Bank, Nov. 21, 1870.—You will be in such deep grief that I hardly know how to write to you; and yet I so loved the dear Mother you have lost, so reverenced her goodness and sweetness and holiness, that I cannot but hope you may like a few words from me of truest sympathy, and indeed I can feel for you. To those at a distance it is the thought of a dear friend transplanted from earth to heaven, but to you there is the thought of the daily companionship, the loving nursing, the perpetual consciousness of what you were to her. In this, however, in the sense of the continual help and comfort and love that she received from you, will be your great consolation.

“I have never lost the impression made on me by her own more than resignation when she spoke to me at Rugby of her own separation from what was dearest to her upon earth—there seemed such joy in his happiness, such a realising of it to herself, that earthly clouds and shadows disappeared.

“I will not say more now, but for her dear sake, and that of my long and affectionate interest in you, I hope you will sometimes let me hear of you.”

Lady Eastlake to Augustus J. C. Hare.

“7 Fitzroy Square, Dec. 4.—I have seen a notice in the Times which has sent a pang through my heart, and hasten to tell you how intensely I feel for you. None but those who know the bitterness of a great sorrow can really sympathise with you, for only they can measure the length and breadth of the suffering. I know of no consolation but the conviction that God knows all and does all, and that He will reunite in His good time to the Beloved One. Sorrow is a mighty force, and its fruit ought to be commensurate: we sow truly in tears, but the reaping in joy is, I believe, reserved for another state. Still there is much to be done by sorrow’s husbandry even here, and assuredly were the fruits of the Spirit to be attained without suffering, God would not put His poor children through it.

“I fear that life must look very joyless before you, and that all things for a time must seem altered, your very self most so. I can only say be patient with yourself, and take every mitigation that offers itself. I should be very glad to hear from you when you have heart and leisure. You have seen me in bitter anguish, and will not be shy of one who has drunk of that cup to the very dregs. God’s holy will be done!”

Footnotes

1 See Lord Chesterfield’s Letters.

2 Dr. Johnson, “The Idler,” No. 84.

3 Epitaph at Hurstmonceaux.

4 Principal of New Inn Hall, and afterwards Rector of Hurstmonceaux.

5 The 4th Earl of Crawford.

6 In her marriage contract (of 1792) with Lord Edward Fitz Gerald, Pamela was described as the daughter of Guillaume de Brixey and Mary Sims, aged nineteen, and born at Fogo in Newfoundland. In Madame de Genlis’s Memoirs, it is said that one Parker Forth, acting for the Duke of Orleans, found, at Christ Church in Hampshire, one Nancy Sims, a native of Fogo, and took her to Paris to live with Madame de Genlis, and teach her royal pupils English. An Englishman named Sims was certainly living at Fogo at the end of the last century, and his daughter Mary sailed for Bristol with an infant of a year old, in a ship commanded by a Frenchman named Brixey, and was never heard of again.

7 Edward Fox Fitz Gerald died Jan. 25, 1863: his widow lived afterwards at Heavitree near Exeter, where she died Nov. 2, 1891.

8 I have dwelt upon the first connection of Madame Victoire Ackermann with our family, not only because her name frequently occurs again in these Memoirs, but because they are indebted to notes left by her for much of their most striking material. I have never known any person more intellectually interesting, for the class to which she belonged, than Victoire. Without the slightest exaggeration, and with unswerving rectitude of intention, her conversation was always charming and original, and she possessed the rare art of narration in the utmost perfection.

9 Francis Hare and his father had both been born abroad.

10 See the chapter called “Home Portraiture” in “Memorials of a Quiet Life.”

11 Edward Leycester had taken the name of Penrhyn with the fortune of his father’s cousin, Lady Penrhyn of Penrhyn Castle. His wife was Lady Charlotte Stanley, daughter of the 13th Earl of Derby.

12 Second daughter of Sir John Stanley, afterwards 1st Lord Stanley of Alderley, and niece of the Rev. Edward Stanley, Maria Leycester’s brother-in-law.

13 Edward Stanley, Rector of Alderley and afterwards Bishop of Norwich, had married my mother’s only sister, Catherine Leycester (“Kitty”), who was seven years older than herself.

14 “Maurice was by nature puzzle-headed, and, though in a beautiful manner, wrong-headed; while his clear conscience and keen affections made him egotistic, and, in his Bible reading, as insolent as any infidel of them all.”—Ruskin, “Præterita.”

15 R. Holt Hutton.

16 The child was only three.

17 George Herbert.

18 This half-aunt of mine was living in 1894, having long been the widow of the Rev. F. D. Maurice. I had not seen her for more than thirty years before her death. I could not say I adored all the Maurices: it would have been an exaggeration. So she did not wish to see me.

19 The Rev. R. Chenevix Trench, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin. The fact was, his were very pleasant children, and therefore I liked them; but I was expected to like all children, whatever their characters, and scolded if I did not.

20 My uncle Julius Hare’s Recollections.

21 From the notes of Francis Hare’s life by Madame Victoire Ackermann.

22 See Crabbe Robinson’s Diary.

23 He died Rector of North Creake, April 1894.

24 Merry Wives of Windsor.

25 Afterwards Mrs. Chatterton.

26 Ann, Viscountess Hill, died Oct. 31, 1891.

27 Recollections of Canon Venables, his sometime curate.

28 Long afterwards I learned that it is recorded in legal proceedings, how Giles de Fienes (of Hurstmonceaux) brought a suit against Richard de Pageham for the violent abduction of his wife Sybil, daughter of William Filiol, on August 30, 1223. I suppose Richard employed the gipsies as his intermediaries.

29 She had told Landor so.

30 The Rev. Adam Sedgwick, Prebendary of Norwich and Woodwardian Professor of Geology, died Jan. 27, 1873.

31 Mrs. Vaughan.

32 De Quincey says that Wordsworth was the only poet he ever met who could do this, and certainly it is my experience.

33 To be without (a husband) is bare but it’s easy.

34 Harriet survived all her sisters for many years, as the wife of Edward Plumptre, Dean of Wells. She died in 1890. A charming account of her has appeared in Boyd’s “Twenty-five Years at St. Andrews:” I thought her most unlike it.

35 Actual cases.

36 Memoires de “Madame,” Lettre du 18 Juillet 1700.

37 R. Browning.

38 He afterwards married my cousin Lady Elizabeth Yorke.

39 Robert Smith, who afterwards married my connection Isabel Adeane.

40 Afterwards Lord Radstock.

41 Son of the Bishop of London, Alfred Blomfield, afterwards himself Bishop of Colchester.

42 Afterwards 4th Earl of Mount Edgecumbe.

43 Afterwards 14th Lord Saye and Sele.

44 This account is not the least exaggerated. I remember the storm as one of the most awful things I ever saw. At this time and long afterwards I was always very ill in a thunderstorm.—1894.

45 Dr. Whately.

46 This eccentric Lord Shrewsbury lived in great pomp at Alton Towers, with an intense parade of magnificence. Once a large party staying there included a French Countess of very noble lineage. One day after breakfast he went up to her in his courteous way and said, “Madame, what will you be pleased to do to-day? will you walk, or ride, or drive?”—“Oh, it is a delightful day, I should like to drive.”—“Then, madame, would you prefer an open or a close carriage?”—“Oh, an open carriage, if you please.”—“And, madame, how many horses will you have?”—“Oh, four-and-twenty horses of course,” she said laughing, “you know I never go out without four-and-twenty horses.” The afternoon came, and at the appointed hour Lord Shrewsbury came to the lady and said, “The carriage is at the door, madame, the horses are there, but I must apologise for having only one outrider.” She rushed to the window, and, to her horror, saw a carriage to which four-and-twenty grey horses were harnessed, each pair being furnished with a postillion. Utterly terrified, the lady declared that nothing should make her drive with them, but her fellow-guests assured her she must. So at last she got in, and the twenty-four horses took her for a short drive in the park. Then Lord Shrewsbury had pity upon her, and twenty-two were unharnessed, and she finished her drive with a pair.—Mr. E. Hussey’s Reminiscences.

47 A very kind friend of mine, afterwards Precentor of Lincoln.

48 William Wentworth Buller of Strete Raleigh in Devonshire.

49 Hon. R. J. Harris Temple, eldest son of the second marriage of the second Lord Harris with Miss Isabella Helena Temple of Waterstown.

50 “No man who has once heartily and wholly laughed can be altogether irreclaimably bad.”—Carlyle, “Sartor Resartus.”

51 There is really no end to the absurd calumnies which I have heard circulated during my life about dear old Mr. Landor, the kindest, most refined, most courteous, and most genial, though most irascible of men. But nothing that ever was said about him was so utterly absurd as Mr. Adolphus Trollope’s statement that he neglected the use of the letter h in conversation. I lived with him in close intimacy for years, and I never once traced the slightest indication of his ever dropping the aspirate; indeed, no one was more particular in inculcating its proper use.

52 The vaults of St. Martin’s Church have been emptied since.

53 Hugh Stuart Brown.

54 Eldest daughter of Vice-Admiral Sir Courtenay Boyle, brother of the 8th Earl of Cork. The brothers had married sisters, daughters of W. Poyntz of Midgeham—our distant cousins.

55 Née Caroline Amelia Poyntz.

56 Miss Mary Boyle died in 1890.

57 Mrs. FitzGerald’s.

58 My Uncle Wentworth married the Countess Marie Benningsen, whose father was one of those who murdered the Emperor Paul of Russia. They had four children.

59 Thomas à Kempis.

60 “Walks in London.”

61 Parnell, “Rise of Woman.”

62 August 4, 1851.

63 A well-known starting-point in the valley below where the Holborn Viaduct now is.

64 Seventh daughter of the 1st Lord Ravensworth, whose wife was my grandmother’s only sister.

65 Grandson of my adopted grandfather’s elder brother.

66 Madame de Staël.

67 Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, 5th son of George III.

68 The 8th Earl of Denbigh, as Lord Feilding, married, 1st, Louisa, daughter of David Pennant, Esq., and Lady Emma Pennant.

69 The whole of this account was corrected by Lord Feilding, then Earl of Denbigh.

70 “He spoke of the twin brothers George and James Macdonald as two simple, single-minded, and veracious men, and more than this, as eminently godly men. He described how the healing of their sister occurred. She had lain for long bedridden and entirely helpless. One day they had been praying earnestly beside her, and one of the brothers, rising from prayers, walked to the bed, held out his hand, and, naming his sister, bade her arise. She straightway did so, and continued ever after entirely healed, and with full use of her limbs.”—J. C. Shairp, “Thomas Erskine.”

71 Cecil, widow of the 7th Marquis.

72 Under Dean Powys.

73 How seeing many people and characters makes one sympathise with the observation of the Duchesse d’Orleans: “En fait de dévotion, je vois que chacun suit son humeur; ceux qui aiment à bavarder veulent beaucoup prier; ceux qui ont l’âme libérale veulent toujours faire des aumônes; ceux qui sont gais pensent très bien servir Dieu, en se rejouissant de tout, et en ne se fachant de rien. En somme, la dévotion est, pour ceux qui s’y adonnent, la pierre de touche qui fait connaître leur humeur.”

74 Grote’s History was coming out at this time, and I had got into terrible disgrace with the Stanleys from knowing nothing about it.

75 The Spitz dog.

76 There are 6000 Béguines in Belgium, nuns bound by no vow, and free to return to the world if they wish. While they wear the habit of their Order, they live in a colony, but in separate houses, and devote their whole lives to temporal works of mercy.

77 Carl Friedrich Meyer, for some time German secretary and librarian to Prince Albert.

78 Louisa, eldest daughter of Sir William Clinton of Cokenach.

79 Louisa Dorothea, widow of Lieutenant-General Sir William Clinton, was daughter of the 1st Baron Sheffield, and younger sister of Maria Josepha, 1st Lady Stanley of Alderley. We had always visited her on the way to Norwich.

80 Afterwards (1878) Master of Balliol. He died October 1893.

81 Dr. Plumptre.

82 Authoress of “Sickness, its Trials and Blessings,” &c.

83 Afterwards Canon of Windsor.

84 Mother of Mrs. Marcus Hare.

85 William Henry Milligan, afterwards of the Ecclesiastical Commission Office.

86 Minor Canon of Westminster (1894).

87 Eldest son of Sir J. Barrow.

88 Fourth son of Sir Robert Sheffield of Normanby in Lincolnshire.

89 Kingsley’s “Saint’s Tragedy,” which Uncle Julius had read aloud to us, and afterwards Montalembert’s Life, had made me very familiar with her story.

90 An old monastic farm on the Levels, between Hailsham and Eastbourne. The internal interest of the Wartburg has long since been “restored” away, and its rooms blaze with gilding and colour.

91 See p. 289.

92 I was altogether a disappointment to Professor Jowett. I did not get on in the line in which he wished me to get on, and in what I was able to do in after life he had no interest whatever. He dropped me after I left Oxford. I seldom saw him again, and he never knew, perhaps, how grateful I felt for his long-ago kindness. Professor Benjamin Jowett died at Headley Hall, in Hampshire, October 1, 1893.

93 Of Eccles Greig, near Forfar.

94 It would be impossible to discover a more perfect old “gentleman” than Dr. Plumptre, though he was often laughed at. When he was inquiring into any fault, he would begin with, “Now pray take care what you say, because whatever you say I shall believe.” He had an old-fashioned veneration for rank, and let Lord Egmont off lectures two days in the week that he might hunt—“it was so suitable.”

95 Dr. Hawkins.

96 Dean Gaisford.

97 Walter Berkeley, 4th son of the 1st Viscount Portman.

98 This was so at that time: now it would be thought nothing of.

99 Wife of John Henry Parker, the publisher, a peculiar but excellent person.

100 The portrait of Mrs. Hare Naylor by Flaxman, now at Holmhurst.

101 Afterwards Mrs. Owen Grant.

102 Coleridge.

103 The High Church author, son of my father’s first cousin, Charles Shipley.

104 I have always thought that Sir John Paul must have been rather mad. After he had done his best to ruin all his family, and had totally ruined hundreds of other people, he said very complacently, “This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.”

105 My mother in her youth had often visited the ladies at Plas Newydd—Lady Eleanor Butler (ob. 1829, æt. 90) and Miss Sarah Ponsonby (ob. 1831, æt. 76). They always wore men’s hats and waistcoats, short petticoats and thick boots.

106 William Owen Stanley, twin brother of Edward-John, 2nd Lord Stanley of Alderley.

107 “Quite untrue, probably.”—Note by the Dean of Llandaff, formerly head-master of Harrow, who read this in MS.

108 Hon. Carolina Courtenay Boyle

109 The declaration had already been made in private to Lady Stratford de Redcliffe at Constantinople.

110 Rectors of St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, and St. Barnabas’, Pimlico.

111 Daughters of the Dean of Bristol.

112 Daughter of my great-great-uncle T. Lyon of Hetton.

113 How little those who idolise him in theory attend to the precept of their beloved Luther: “If anywhere Sunday is made holy for the mere day’s sake,—if any one anywhere sets up its observance as a Jewish foundation, then I order you to work on it, to dance on it, to do anything that shall remove this encroachment on Christian liberty.”—Table-Talk.

114 Count Aurelio Saffi died 1890, and is buried at Forli.

115 Princess Charlotte of Belgium.

116 Since well known from the tragic death of the Crown Prince Rudolph.

117 Now a crowded resort of royalty.

118 In 1895 I retain the lakes of Gosau in recollection as amongst the most beautiful places I have ever visited.

¹¹⁹ From “Northern Italy.”

¹²⁰ From “Central Italy.”

¹²¹ From “Central Italy.”

¹²² From “Central Italy.”

¹²³ From “Days near Rome.”

124 Teresa, Princess Borghese, survived by two years the ruin of her house, and died July 1894.

125 Whose beautiful tomb, by Miss Hosmer, is in the Church of S. Andrea delle Fratte at Rome.

126 Whose fine portrait of himself is in the Uffizi at Florence.

¹²⁷ From “Days near Rome.”

¹²⁸ From “Southern Italy.”

129 The familiar term expressing “a rascal of a boy.”

¹³⁰ From “Southern Italy.”

¹³¹ From “Southern Italy.”

¹³² From “Central Italy.”

¹³³ From “Central Italy.”

¹³⁴ From “Northern Italy.”

135 Ruskin, in his “Præterita,” describes his father’s astonishment when he brought the maid of honour’s petticoat, parrot, and blackamoor home, as the best fruit of his summer at the court of Sardinia.

¹³⁶ From “Northern Italy.”

137 Walter Savage Landor was tried for libel at the suit of a lady, to whom he had once shown great kindness, but of whom he had afterwards written abusively. He fled from England to evade the severe fine imposed upon him, which, however, was afterwards paid.

138 Wordsworth, Lines written in Thomson’s “Castle of Indolence.”

139 She had passed some time at Neuchâtel with her father in 1818, and had seen much of the society there.

140 The Marquise de Gabriac was daughter of the Maréchale Sebastiani, and only sister of Madame Davidoff.

141 He died at Lille, July 1891, aged 85.

¹⁴² From “Paris.”

143 This story of the dream was only told me by the Duchess Wilhelmine of Cleveland in 1887.

¹⁴⁴ From “Paris.”

¹⁴⁵ From “Days near Paris.”

146 A year afterwards I had occasion to visit Panizzi upon other business, and I shall never forget the sharpness with which the astute old man, recollecting the Archdeacon’s letter, and entirely refusing to recognise any other claim upon his time, turned upon me with, “Well now, what do you know?—how many languages? what?—answer at once;” and I could with difficulty make him understand that I did not want the clerkship. Sir A. Panizzi died April 8, 1879. It was this Antonio Panizzi who had the honour of being hanged in effigy by the Government of Modena, after having escaped from an imprisonment (which would doubtless have ended in his corporeal execution), for his efforts for the regeneration of Sicily. He was declared liable for all the expenses of the process, and the Cabinet of Modena, in all simplicity, wrote to him in his security at Liverpool calling upon him to pay them!

147 Ten guineas for a sheet, containing twenty-four pages of the close double-columned type of Murray’s Handbooks.

148 John, 2nd Earl Brownlow.

149 Of Hunstanton, eldest son of Mrs. Wynne Finch.

150 Second son of the 5th Earl Stanhope.

151 Now Sackville of Drayton Manor.

152 Fourth son of Sir Adam Hay of King’s Meadows.

153 Fourth son of Sir Hedworth Williamson of Whitburn, and of the Hon. Anne, 2nd daughter of the 1st Lord Ravensworth.

154 Eldest son of Sir Charles Wood, M.P., afterwards Viscount Halifax, and of Lady Mary, 5th daughter of the 2nd Earl Grey.

155 Hon. Mrs. Cradock, wife of the Principal of Brazenose—formerly a Maid of Honour.

156 Maria Josepha, daughter of the 1st Earl of Sheffield, and widow of the first Lord Stanley of Alderley.

157 Grandfather of the first Lord Knutsford.

158 Mrs. Pelham Warren died in Nov. 1865.

159 Mrs. Thornton, a most kind and admirable person, died Jan. 1889.

160 Mrs. Dormer went to live at Flamborough in Yorkshire after the death of her husband, and died there, Oct. 1892.

161 Afterwards 14th Baron Saye and Sele.

162 His handwriting was so illegible, that printers charged half-a-crown a sheet extra for setting up each sheet of his “copy.”

163 The universally beloved Henry Octavius Coxe, Bodley’s librarian and Rector of Wytham, born 1811, died July 8, 1881.

164 The Countess Valsamachi, formerly Mrs. Reginald Heber, was one of the three daughters of Dean Shipley, and first cousin to my father.

165 Mr. Thomas Erskine died March 28, 1870, having survived both his sisters.

166 Miss Clementina Stirling Graham died at Duntrune, August 23, 1877, aged ninety-five.

167 Earl of Dalhousie.

168 My college friend Frederick Forsyth Grant.

169 This is described in Lord Auckland’s Correspondence.

170 In May 1860.

171 Fénélon.

172 The voice which passed the lips of Madame de Trafford was often like the voices of the Irvingites.

173 Sometimes Madame de Trafford spoke of her spirits as “Les Maricots.”

174

“L’asciar l’amico!
Lo seguitai felice
Quand’era il cielo sereno:
Alle tempeste in seno
Voglio seguirlo ancor:
Ah cosi vil non sono.”

—METASTASIO.

175 Principal of New Inn Hall at Oxford.

176 Our cousins through the Shipleys and Mordaunts.

177 Grandson of Helena Selman, my great-grandmother’s only sister.

178 I wrote to Sir George Grey several times after this meeting, but never saw him again till 1869 in Miss Wright’s rooms in Belgrave Mansions.

179 Sydney Smith’s daughter.

180 Prescott, Washington Irving, Sir J. Stephen, Leigh Hunt, De Quincey, Macaulay, Hallam.

181 Ritter, Humboldt, Arndt.

182 De Tocqueville.

183 Afterwards Dean of Lincoln.

184 The Rev. W. J. Butler, then Dean of Lincoln, and his wife, died within a few weeks of each other in Jan. 1894.

185 Wife of the Rev. William Gaskell, Unitarian minister of the Chapel in Cross Street, Manchester. He died June 1884, aged eighty. She died very suddenly in Nov. 1865.

186 It is right to say that a very different account of Count de Salis is given by many of his descendants from that which I wrote down from the narrative of Dr. Hawtrey.

187 Mrs. Fane de Salis told me (in 1891) that her mother-in-law had described to her being with Miss Foster on the Pincio when the handsome guardsman, Count Mastai, came courting.

188 Hazeley Court.

189 Maison Helvetia.

¹⁹⁰ From “South-Eastern France.”

¹⁹¹ From “South-Eastern France.”

¹⁹² From “Northern Italy.”

¹⁹³ From “South-Eastern France.”

¹⁹⁴ Rev. J. L. Petit.

195 From “Northern Italy.”

196 Susan, 5th daughter of Thomas Lyon of Hetton, married the Rev. J. Fellowes of Shottesham.

197 The heroine of the wreck of the Forfarshire, Sept. 5, 1838.

198 Only son of John, 10th Earl of Strathmore, and Mary Milner.

199 Mary Eleanor Bowes, 9th Countess of Strathmore.

200 Paulina, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Jermyn.

201 Mrs. Clutterbuck was Marianne, youngest daughter of the Hon. Thomas Lyon of Hetton, my great-grandmother’s youngest brother.

202 Afterwards Lord Wilfred Seymour.

203 Arthur Stanley’s account.

204 Montesquieu.

205 Notably the ballad of “Featherstonhaugh,” which Sir Walter inserted as ancient in his “Border Minstrelsy,” introducing one stanza in the poem of “Marmion” itself.

206 My great-great-uncle, Thomas Lyon of Hetton, younger brother of the 9th Earl of Strathmore, married Miss Wren (grand-daughter of Sir Christopher), heiress of Binchester.

207 Mr. John Clayton survived till July 1890, leaving personalty valued at £728,000, and real property supposed to be worth £20,000 a year. The last member of his generation, the universally beloved Mrs. Anne Clayton, died October 30, 1890.

208 Rev. J. Collingwood Bruce, author of “The Roman Wall,” &c. He lived till 1893, and is commemorated by a tomb in St. Nicholas, Newcastle.

209 Mr. Andersen had two daughters, my great-great-grandmother Mrs. Simpson, and the Marchesa Grimaldi, great-grandmother of Stacey Grimaldi, who was at this time trying to establish his claims to the Principality of Monaco.

210 Bradley was inherited and sold by Lord Ravensworth, and its pictures removed to Eslington.

211 The living of Blanchland was afterwards given by the Governors of Bamborough to Mr. Gurley on his marriage with my cousin, Mary Clutterbuck.

212 The widow of Reginald Heber.

213 The curious old muniment room at Ripley is now modernised, indeed destroyed.

214 Dr. John Thomas, Bishop of Peterborough, and afterwards of Salisbury—some time tutor to George III.

215 General Scott had married the Hon. Alethea Stanley, sister of Mrs. Marcus Hare

216 It was rebuilt on a large scale in 1893.

217 Well known from the ballad of “The Death of Parcy Reed.”

218 See the ballad of “Chevy Chase.”

219 Sir Charles Trevelyan, Sir Walter’s cousin and heir, who read this, asked me to add a note, and to say that though it is quite true that Sir Walter was a miser, he was only a miser for philanthropic purposes. He gave £60,000 at once for a railway which he thought would benefit the district in which he lived, and his charities, though eccentric, were quite boundless.

220 Paulina, Lady Trevelyan, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Jermyn, died in 1866. Sir Walter married afterwards a Miss Loft, and survived till 1879, but I never saw him again.

221 1888.—Alas that I should have to add a note to say that the mummy-case has been since discovered not to have belonged to a queen at all, but to the court-jester!

222 Charlotte, eldest daughter of Lord Stuart de Rothesay, married (1835) Charles John, afterwards Viscount and Earl Canning and Governor-General of India, and died at Calcutta, Nov. 18, 1861.

²²³ From “The Story of Two Noble Lives.”

224 His great-grandmother, Lady Susan Lyon and my great-grandmother, Lady Anne, were sisters.

²²⁵ From “South-Eastern France.”

226 The celebrated Porson was given to such utter fits of absence that he forgot he was married and dined out on the very day of the ceremony.

²²⁷ From “South-Eastern France.”

²²⁸ From “North-Eastern France.”

229 Now (1895) pulled down.

²³⁰ From “North-Eastern France.”

²³¹ From “Days near Rome.”

232 Rev. E. Kershaw, afterwards chaplain to Earl De la Warr.

233 Caroline, daughter of Richard, Lord Braybrooke, widow of the first Lord Wenlock.

²³⁴ From “Days near Rome.”

²³⁵ From “Days near Rome.”

236 All Mrs. Julius Hare’s family of her generation have passed away: all to whom the story of my child life as connected with her could give any pain.

²³⁷ From “Southern Italy.”

238 Placed on the doors of Catholic churches and chapels.

239 He died on the 17th of the following September.
“Oh, let him pass! he hates him much
That would upon the rack of this rough world
Stretch him out longer.”—King Lear.

²⁴⁰ From “Northern Italy.”

241 Adèle, Madame Davidoff. See pp. 65, 115.

²⁴² From “South-Eastern France.”

243 The Venerable Gaspare del Bufalo, to whose influence the foundation of the Order of the Precious Blood was due.

244 Don Giovanni Merlini of the Crociferi.

245 Mary Pierina Roleston, Superior of the Order of the Precious Blood in England.

246 Alas! after the Sardinian occupation of Rome, the Soras, then Prince and Princess Piombino, were induced to sell all the grounds of Villa Ludovisi, the noblest ornament of Rome; its magnificent groves of ilex and cypress were cut down, and hideous stucco houses built over its site.

247 Lady Wenlock died May 1868.

248 “The Remains of Mrs. Richard Trench,” by her son Richard Chevenix Trench, Dean of Westminster, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin.

249 The Rt. Hon. George Grenville, father of Catherine, Lady Braybrooke.

250 I give, of course, the words of Pierina.

251 Paray le Monial, now so constant a resort of pilgrimages, was, up to this time, almost unknown.

²⁵² From “South-Western France.”

253 These were the very early days of Arcachon.

254 Born Julia Hare of Hurstmonceaux, a first cousin of my father.

255 Edwin Dashwood was the son, and the first Mrs. Story had been the daughter, of Emily Hare of Hurstmonceaux, sister of Mrs. Taylor.

²⁵⁶ From “South-Western France.”

257 Her brother and sister, who had died long before.

²⁵⁸ From “South-Western France.”

259 This I afterwards carried out in six unpublished volumes of the Memoirs of the Hare Family.

260 Spenser, “Faerie Queene.”

²⁶¹ From “South-Western France.”

262 Wife of Sir George Robinson of Crauford.

²⁶³ From “South-Western France.”

²⁶⁴ From “South-Western France.”

²⁶⁵ From “South-Western France.”

^265a From “South-Western France.”

266 Now terribly modernised and spoilt.

267 “What is a miracle? Can there be a thing more miraculous than any other thing?... I have seen no man rise from the dead: I have seen some thousands rise from nothing.”—Carlyle.

268 I do not think that this characteristic anecdote is preserved elsewhere.

269 Emma, widow of King Kaméhaméha IV., who died Nov. 30, 1863. She was born Jan. 2, 1836, being daughter of George Naca, a native chief, and of Fanny Yong. Charles Rooke, a rich doctor, adopted her, and left her all his fortune. Having seen three kings succeed her husband, and been equally honoured and respected by all, Queen Emma died in March 1885.

²⁷⁰ From “Walks in London.”

²⁷¹ From “The Story of Two Noble Lives.”

²⁷² From “The Story of Two Noble Lives.”

273 Colonel Alexander Higginson of the Grenadier Guards, celebrated for his silence, was keeping the door. He said not a word in answer to all her entreaties, but dropped his sword as a barrier in front of the Queen.—Note from Mrs. Owen Grant, niece of Colonel A. Higginson.

274 Caroline, daughter of Francis I., king of Naples, widow of the Duc de Berri, younger son of Charles X.

275 The Duc de Bordeaux (Comte de Chambord).

276 The Archduchess Marie Therese, daughter of Francis IV., Duke of Modena.

277 Louis Henri Joseph, Duc de Bourbon, father of the Duc d’Enghien, the last member of the House of Condé, who fought a duel with Charles X. in 1776. He married Marie Thérèse d’Orleans in 1770.

278 Marie Amelie, Duchesse d’Orleans, afterwards Queen of the French, was daughter of Ferdinard I., king of the Two Sicilies, and sister of Francis I., father of the Duchesse de Berri.

279 The Duc de Bourbon left Madame de Feuchères two million francs, the château and park of St. Leu, the château and estate of Boissy, and all their dependencies: also a pavilion at the Palais Bourbon, valued at fifteen million francs.

280 Elizabeth, wife of Philip Yorke, 3rd Earl of Hardwicke, and daughter of James, 5th Earl of Balcarres.

281 Colin, 3rd Earl of Balcarres.

282 Anne, only daughter of Sir Robert Dalrymple of Castleton.

283 The tune which then existed. The Hon. Mrs. Byron, a friend of Lady Anne Barnard, afterwards gave the words to Lieutenant William Leeves, 1st Foot Guards, who composed the air to which they are now sung, in imitation of old Scotch music. Lieutenant Leeves afterwards took orders and became Rector of Wrington in Somersetshire, where he was the intimate friend of Mrs. Hannah More, who lived in his parish. He died in 1828.

²⁸⁴ From “The Story of Two Noble Lives.”

285 Augusta, daughter of George, 4th Earl of Glasgow.

286 Lucia, eldest daughter of Lord Dover.

287 Second daughter of the 1st Earl of Ellesmere.

288 Maria, daughter of Sir Joseph Copley of Sprotborough.

289 Hamilton, daughter of Walter Campbell of Shawfield, younger sister of Lady Ruthven.

290 My third cousin, George, 2nd Earl of Durham.

291 Beatrix, second daughter of the Marquis of Abercorn. She died Jan. 1871.

292 Mary, widow of the 5th Lord Ruthven, and daughter of Walter Campbell of Shawfield.

293 Catherine, daughter of Archdeacon Spooner. Her memoirs were published by her husband, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in 1879.

294 Daughter of the 4th Duke of Portland, afterwards Viscountess Ossington

295 Lady Anne Anson, second daughter of the 1st Earl of Lichfield.

296 Afterwards 7th Earl of Aberdeen.

297 Fourth daughter of the 7th Earl of Wemyss.

298 The “custom more honoured in the breach than the observance.”—Hamlet.

299 William Henry, 1st Duke of Cleveland, who died in 1842.

300 Adam, fourth son of Sir Adam Hay of Haystoun, who had been one of my greatest friends at Christ Church. He died May 1871.

301 Lady Constance Talbot, daughter of the 19th Earl of Shrewsbury.

302 Daughter of the 7th Earl of Leven.

303 A Roman friend, brother of Sir Michael Shaw Stewart.

³⁰⁴ From “Central Italy.”

305 Madame Victoire Ackermann. See vol. i.

³⁰⁶ From “Central Italy.”

³⁰⁷ From “Central Italy.”

308 His mother was Susan, daughter of William Leycester, my mother’s first cousin. She was murdered during the Indian Mutiny, with her husband and child.

309 The famous S. Francesca Romana had been a member of the Ponziani family.

310 The Rev. Henry Arbuthnot Feilden married Ellinor, one of the daughters of Edmund Hornby, Esq., of Dalton Hall in Lancashire—a very old friend and connection of our family. Her sister Charlotte afterwards married my first cousin—Oswald Penrhyn.

311 Mr. Leycester Lyne, celebrated as a preacher and for his follies in playing at monasticism. His mother was a Leycester of White Place, descended from a younger branch of the Leycesters of Toft.

312 Afterwards Lady Rathdonell.

313 Thérèse de la Rochefoucauld, wife of Prince Marc-Antonio Borghese.

314 Francesco II.

315 Marie Thérèse Isabelle, daughter of Archduke Charles of Austria.

316 Marie, daughter of Duke Maximilian of Bavaria.

317 Princess Mathilde of Bavaria.

318 Foundress of the Order of the Precious Blood.

319 Prince Camillo, who married a princess of Savoy-Carignan.

320 The mystery of Madame Victorine was never cleared up. In the summer of 1867 she suddenly expressed a wish to leave, though full of gratitude and affection for my sister, and she implied that she need no longer continue in service. Probably she has returned into the sphere of life from which she evidently came. She called herself Victorine Errard.

321 A celebrated convent in Rome, where the French nuns have a school, which is very popular.

322 Because it was on the day before the Crucifixion that Our Lord said “This is my body,” &c.

323 King Francesco II., died December 1894.

³²⁴ From “Days near Rome.”

³²⁵ From “Days near Rome.”

326 Frederick, Viscount Kilcoursie, son of the 8th Earl of Cavan.

³²⁷ From “Days near Rome.”

³²⁸ From “Florence.”

329 Queen Emma died in 1885.

330 Jean Baptiste Marie Vianney.

331 All this picturesque side of Cannes has since been spoilt and vulgarised.

³³² From “South-Eastern France.”

³³³ From “South-Eastern France.”

334 Afterwards Sir Antonio Panizzi.

335 Emily, only daughter of Sir Charles Taylor of Hollycombe, afterwards Lady Brougham and Vaux.

336 The name of his daughter, who died in 1839.

³³⁷ From “South-Eastern France.”

³³⁸ From “South-Eastern France.”

³³⁹ From “South-Eastern France.”

³⁴⁰ From “South-Eastern France.”

³⁴¹ From “Biographical Essays.”

342 See vol. i. p. 359.

343 See Shakespeare, “Measure for Measure.”

344 Mrs. Whewell.

345 See vol. ii. p. 6.

346 Mrs. C. Vaughan. Dr. Vaughan was now Vicar of Doncaster.

347 Frances Vere, 2nd wife of Sir Edward Blackett of Matfen, and daughter of Sir William Lorraine.

348 Rev. Henry and Mrs. Liddell of Easington.

349 Née Aventina Macmurdo. See vol. ii. p. 18.

350 Daughter-in-law of Mr. and Mrs. Dalzel. Their son, a very distinguished young man, died before them.

351 Mrs. Dalzel died in October 1871.

352 Charlotte, eldest daughter of Robert Adamson, Esq., and widow of Sir Godfrey Vassall Webster, Bart.

353 As taken down from the narration of old Mr. Frewen of Brickwall, an intimate friend of the Webster family, who generously bought in all their family portraits at the time of their ruin, and kept them till they had the power of redeeming them.

³⁵⁴ From “South-Eastern France.”

³⁵⁵ From “South-Eastern France.”

³⁵⁶ From “Northern Italy.”

³⁵⁷ From “Central Italy.”

358 Mme. Victoire Ackermann. See vol. i.

359 Such was a constant cause of detention in early days of Italian railways, though it seems impossible now.

360 For the Queen Dowager, who died of the cholera at Albano in the summer of 1867.

361 Contessa Carolina di S. Giorgio.

362 See vol. ii. p. 86.

363 Of the Japanese martyrs.

364 It is therefore not fair to say that the desecration of the Roman churches has only occurred since the Sardinian occupation.

365 The Hon. Carolina Courtenay Boyle, maid of honour.

366 My cousins, Lord and Lady Bloomfield, and the Dowager Lady Barrington, with her daughter Augusta, were spending the winter in Rome.

367 This beautiful villa and its lovely grounds have been entirely destroyed under the Sardinian Government.

368 “Look at a pious person, man or woman, one in whom the spirit sways the senses: look at them when they are praying or have risen from their knees, and see with how bright a ray of divine beauty their faces are illuminated: you will see the beauty of God shine on their faces: you will see the beauty of an angel.”—Savonarola, Sermons.

369 There is a passage in Rudyard Kipling which exactly describes my mother’s state at this time. “The mind was quickened, and the revolving thoughts ground against each other, as millstones grind when there is no corn between.”

³⁷⁰ From “Northern Italy.”

371 Prince Lucien, son of the Roman Prince Charles Lucien (nephew of Napoleon I.) and of Zenaide, only child of Joseph, King of Naples and Spain.

372 Emma Simpkinson reached England before us, but was then rapidly waning heavenwards. She spent the last few weeks of her life at St. Leonards, where we had the great comfort of being able to cheer and watch over her, and she is buried in the cemetery at Ore.

373 Afterwards Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.

³⁷⁴ From “Northern Italy.”

³⁷⁵ From “Northern Italy.”

376 Afterwards Sir Arthur Blackwood, Secretary to the Post-Office. He died 1893.

377 “The Saint of St. Peter’s.” See vol. ii. p. 429.

378 The maid of our old friend Mrs. Chambers of Hodsock Priory.

379 She showed her clearness of mind by mentioning this picture, which she had not seen for years; but much trouble afterwards resulted from this clause in her will.

380 Letter of Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, which would have been used at Guildford had the trial proceeded.

381 Statement of Pierina to Miss Stanley.

382 Statement made by Pierina to Monsignor Paterson, and repeated by him before the trial to Miss Stanley and my solicitor.

383 Mrs. Alfred Montgomery died at Naples in January 1893.

384 It was touching to us, and like Esmeralda’s forethought, to find a clause in the will stating that in case of her former maid, Clémence, dying first, the annuity should be continued to her crippled helpless mother-in-law (whom Esmeralda had never seen), in order that Clémence might die without any burden on her mind.

385 Every precaution had been taken by Esmeralda to prevent her fortune from falling to her brother Francis. In case of my dying unmarried, everything was to go to her cousin Charles Williamson; and in case of his death without children, to his brother Victor Williamson.

386 At this point the agitation of Mary Stanley, who had been my informant, was so great, that she startled the court by something like a shout of denial.

387 As Flora Ackermann, Madame Limosin had been brought up in my father’s family, and, with her sister Victoria, had been treated like his own children.

388 Now (1895) every one who took part in the trial at Guildford is dead, except the priests, and, I believe, the Abbess Pierina. The person whom Francis Hare had married during the last months of his life vanished, immediately after his death, into the chaos from whence she had come.

³⁸⁹ From “South-Eastern France.”

³⁹⁰ From “South-Western France.”

³⁹¹ From “The Story of Two Noble Lives.”

392 Lady Anne Barnard died in 1825.

393 Her son-in-law, Mr. Hodgson Hinde.

394 Mariage.

395 I never saw Mrs. Arnold again: she died in the autumn of 1873.

396 In the following year a siege by the Germans made Toul a familiar name throughout Europe.

³⁹⁷ From “North-Eastern France.”

³⁹⁸ From “North-Eastern France.”

399 I little foresaw then the immense service these notes would be to me in writing the Life of Baroness Bunsen herself eight years after.

⁴⁰⁰ From “Northern Italy.”

401 The approach to Mantua has since been altered, and is now commonplace.

⁴⁰² From “Northern Italy.”

⁴⁰³ From “Northern Italy.”

⁴⁰⁴ From “Northern Italy.”

⁴⁰⁵ From “Central Italy.”

⁴⁰⁶ From “Central Italy.”

407 The Spina has since been rebuilt and spoilt by the Sardinian Government.

408 The great dikes of the Arno had burst a long way off, so that the flood came upon us from behind. Only the eastern bank of the Arno was flooded.

409 Monckton Milnes.

410 Eldest son of Colonel Augustus Liddell and grandson of my great-aunt Lady Ravensworth.

⁴¹¹ From “Days near Rome.”

412 William Story, the sculptor and poet.

413 Miss Mary Boyle, celebrated for her dramatic powers.

414 The sculptress.

415 Afterwards Ambassador at Berlin.

⁴¹⁶ From “Days near Rome.”

⁴¹⁷ From “Days near Rome.”

⁴¹⁸ From “Florence.”

⁴¹⁹ From “Northern Italy.”

420 Now at Holmhurst.

⁴²¹ From “South-Eastern France.”

⁴²² From “South-Eastern France.”

423 The well-known and admirable American actress.

424 In April 1880.

425 Diderot, “Sarrasins.”

426 Eldest sister of my old Harrow master, and of Emma Simpkinson, often mentioned in these Memoirs. In my childhood she lived at Hurstmonceaux.

427 “When the thoughts of youth return, fresh as the scent of new-gathered blossoms, to the tired old age which has so long forgotten them, the coming of Death is seldom very distant.”—Ouida, “In Maremma.”

428 A much-loved cousin and friend; her mother was a Grey, and my Mother’s first-cousin.

429 This is said often to happen in case of a death. At Holmhurst it was most remarkable. They never appeared after that night till the night of October 18, 1882, when my dear old nurse was dying. I have been laughed at for narrating this, but the noise of crickets at a death is spoken of in Ecclesiastes xii. 5—“And the grasshopper shall be a burden, because man goeth to his long home.”

430 Jeremy Taylor.

431 Harriet Bentley, Lea’s niece—her much-attached housemaid.

432 Of “Walks in Rome.”

433 Putting up a heating apparatus in the passages.

434 The tenants of Hurstmonceaux Place, the old home of the family.

435 A poor woman at “Lime Cross,” constantly visited by my Mother.

436 My father’s half-sister, who had seldom treated me even with humanity.

437 All old servants.

438 A neighbour and the wife of an old college friend.

439 Rector of Ashburnham.