LIBRARY UNiyE*$»rY •f CALIfotNU ^\ I '1-' HIKTON WOODHOUSE BOURNEMOUTH ^^/'.>^ ^-t-^^ ^ ^ /^ji^^^C^U.,^ LIBRARY, UNIVEJfSJTY •f CALIfO»NIA 1_ / ^-^ \ PAST, PRESENT, & FUTURE. VOL. I. CLUc^ - PAST, 'JM- ^ P R E SENT, FUTURE. U- — ^""^ " Un ijoids invincible, une force invincible nous enti-ainent . . . . Mille traverses, mille peines nous fatiguent et nous inquietent dans la route . . . il faut marcher, il faut courjr, telle est la rapidlte des annees. On se console pourtant, parce que de temps en temps on rencontre des objets qui nous divertissent, des eaux courantes, des fleurs qui passent. On voudroit s'arreter : marclre, marche ; Et cependant on voit tomber derriere soi, tout ce qu'on avait passe ; fracas effroyable, inevitable ruine !'"— Bossitet : Marche de la Vie. IX TWO VOLUME!?. VOL. r. LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO. STATIONERS' HALL COLRT I80O. , . r~ • — Tl^l? PREFACE. The First Part of this book contains the story of a life. The Second Part mostly contains familiar letters on various sub- jects ; chapters illustrating those subjects interspersed with the letters. The Third Part will speak for itself. The writer of these pages is aware of the dulness of many of the pages of this work; but a life from youth to age, if true to life, cannot be expected to be one continued novel or romance. 613 VI PREFACE. In life, as in nature, there is much occasional dulness and "prosiness — the rains and the fogs of life — many an un- happy moment, like the storms and the tempests — sometimes great prosperity, like the gleams of sunshine, — and these things falling on particular dispositions or characters make stories or romance — partially, severally, but not continually — no two persons ever feeling or actmg alike under given circumstances, which may be the reason, and entirely account for, why there is so little sympathy in human nature, — as this same prosiness, dulness, unhappiness, or prosperity, acts on what the great orators and preachers call the hidden life^ and works out the ways of PREFACE. Vll Providence in His way, and as He intends and chooses. The number of French words brought into these pages calls for some excuse. Unfortunately, there are numerous words and phrases in the French language, suited to every-day life, that come to the mind sooner and more agreeably than English words; English being a stern, strong language, that will neither bend nor lend itself at a moment's warning, as French does: and that is like the modern representation of the Englishman on the French stage — the very type of stiffness, however grand, good, or sublime; and the French lan- guage affords words that fill up the viii PREFACE. space well, between the sublime and the ridiculous. The writer has followed Dr. Johnson's advice, who, having on some great occa- sion made use of the French word penetre^ said, in his defence, to his audience, " Use the word that best expresses the idea that you want to give." PAST. Tard resoime ce qui tot resoima Heur et maLhexir devient chanson. VOL. I. PAST. CHAPTER I. " Coming events cast their shadows before tliera." A LETTER. "I RECEIVED your letter on Thursday, just as I was sent for out of town to attend a dying friend, and my mind has been so engrossed by the sad scene I have been engaged in, that I have not been able to bring it to worldly cares and thoughts since that time. " Some years back, your letter would have made me the happiest of beings: neither the cares of this world, nor, if I B 2 4* PAST. must write the truth, the thoughts of another world, could have prevented my mind from dwelling on it. I then be- lieved in a liking which you so strongly inferred ; and I do not now mind acknow- ledging, when aU is over between us, that a confession of your feelings would then have transported me with joy. "I am thus sincere in owning to a pre- ference nursed and fostered by my own foolish imagination, because you so openly acknowledge a repressed passion kept down during many years from motives of pru- dence and worldly considerations. " I have not, then, been so entirely wrong in having returned a liking, which, alas, (yet, why should I say, 'alas?') your own conduct has now totally destroyed. " During five years I sacrificed all to a vain hope that I was loved PAST. 5 by one to whom I had long given my heart. I refused better offers; I dis- pleased my best friends; I made those Avho cared for me anxious as to my future fate in hfe ; my pride was humbled to the dust ; I doubted my ovm powers, my own value. You heard it said that I was sought by others, your equals. This devotion I received with a very mixed feeling; at one time, of ministering to your pride — at another time, of trying to forget you. But I could not forget you. "Meanwhile, you demurred — you calcu- lated whether fortune or fashion would authorize your choice of me. This came to my knowledge ; it was told me in strong terms — in very humbling terms — in very strong terms. It grieved and vexed me ; but I forgave it — as women do forgive, when they love. b PAST. "At last, you followed (I do not say you loved) a woman, my superior in what the world calls advantages. She preferred a richer rival. "And now you have thought it necessary to write me a justification of your conduct, in makincr me an offer of marriao:e. I can only answer, that I am perfectly aware that it would be more dignified of me, and more in accordance with all maxims of worldly prudence, not to enter into these details in a letter to you. But it is better for me to tell you the truth — the entire truth of past years; as you may thus know the motives from which I act, and not attribute my conduct to other motives, which might arise in your mind. You can, then, judge how my esteem and affections have with time become so gradually and entirely estranged. PAST. 7 " Many a woman feels and acts as I do ; but few women, from some cause or other, own the truth ; and still less write it, as I do. "Adieu, and for ever, . Cavendish Square, Tvssday. Thus it is with fluctuating life. The events most desired do not occur; or, if they do, it is at a period when circumstances have so totally changed, that not only do they not give pleasure, but often cause a great deal of pain ! The writer of this apparently severe letter was a very pretty woman, graceful, pleasing — gifted by nature in beauty, talents, and disposition. Cecil Latimer had entered that awful year of London life, and of woman's life — her thirtieth year. She had been one of the most beautiful of 8 PAST. the dark-eyed beauties of England. It was true that her glossy hair no longer curled naturally round her delicately chiseled features — that her complexion no longer glowed with tints, as bright as the visions of youth — too bright and beautiful to last; still, enough remained for Cecil to be one of the prettiest persons that could be seen auj-where. Her brown eyes, shaded with long dark eye-lashes, would, at moments — it might laughingly be said of them — almost light up a room ; and the light was not only vivid, but soft and gracious. The mouth and nose were formed to perfection : there were no pout- ing lips, that looked caprice; but her mouth opened, as if speech were thought, and thought were truth. She was the middle size of woman, neither tall nor short — a form all symmetry, and propor- PAST. y tion, to the fingers' ends. No one who had once seen Cecil ever forgot her appearance. Her glossy hair "gleam'd in the sunlight, lending gold to gold ;" and this hair gave her the name in Italy of the "pretty Vene- tian" — so much did she resemble the dark- eyed, fair-haired creatures that Titian and Georgione painted and loved. There was a look in that hair as if the rays of the western sun had partially lighted up a darker ground, a spirit on that hair quite peculiar — it was a change of auburn;* and her eyes seemed to belong to dark hair. Cecil used to say, that she wondered who had got her hair ; that Nature had made a mistake, and that she had got * " Here, in lier hairs, Tlie painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh t'intrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs." Merchant of Venice. b3 10 PAST. some other person's. The softness in her countenance formed as piquant a con- trast to the decision of her mind; and one expected to hear from that pretty mouth, Italian — not pure Italian, but Venetian or Sicilian words of fondness, such as are heard in the sunny South. But the character of the woman, and the turn of thought, were English — pure English, decided Eno^lish. Not the English of the salons of Paris or London, or the English of Lady B 's dramng-room, or of Lady C 's coterie, or the language talked at D Castle, or the minaudiere phrases used in certain societies ; but the language of truth : the language of one who had read, but was no blue-stockino; ; the lano-uao-e of one who O ' Do had felt deeply, yet was no philosopher; the language of one who was rehgious, PAST. 11 yet set up for no saint; tlie language of one who knew the world, yet lived above it. With regard to this letter, the writing of it was the most decided action of Cecil Latimer's life; and as such, she deter- mined to keep it a secret. Her best friend would only have said " that it was written in a pique," or that an untranslatable Parisian phrase gave the meaning of it, " que c'etoit un depit ;" and in most cases of London or Paris life, it might have been a " depit ;" for there, a feeling of vengeance might have prompted the writer of such a letter — but with Cecil it was not so. In England, motives are seldom known, or if guessed at, wrongly guessed, or guessed according to the fashion of the moment, which a good deal governs both actions and opinions. The 12 PAST. letter would have been supposed to be the effect of calculation ; so far from cal- culation, the feelings were deep, bitter, and strong, that prompted the writing of it; those feelings came home to Cecil's reason after the letter was received that prompted this reply ; she felt thus, and it followed that she acted thus, and that she must act thus; and she deter- mined on explaining the motives of her conduct to Lord Delamere, more for the satisfaction of her own mind than from any feehng of how it might act on one whom she was never likely to see again. This determination was in her character of straightforwardness, and perhaps an- other woman would either not have stooped to it, or would have risen above it, or would have married some one else, immediately after resolving to forget him. PAST. 13 However, no two persons either are alike or act alike — a truth that the world always forgets, or will never allow in this centiuy of positiveness and calculation. As for Lord Delamere, he had all through life contrived to forget what he did not choose to remember; and that power served him on the present occasion, for after receiving Cecil's answer, he cast it from his thoughts entirely. 14 PAST. CHAPTER II. " C'est un sujet inepuisable de reflexions que les differentes combinaisons de la destinee liximaine sur la terre; il se passe dans I'mterieure de I'ame mille accidens, il se forme mille habitudes qui font de chaque individu un monde, et son Iiistoire. Connoitre un autre parfaitement seroit I'etude d'une vie entiere; qu'est ce dont qu'on entend par connoitre les bommes, les gouverner, cela se peut, — mais les comprendre, Dieu seul le fait." — Madame de Stael. To understand the motives which caused Cecil to write the letter with which this manuscript begins, it is necessary to go back to past times, which may account for the whys, whens, and wherefores of a woman's mind. She was the daughter of Colonel Latimer, who had fallen in the PAST. 15 Peninsular war. On her father's side, she had but one relation, a very strange uncle, whom she had never seen ; on her mother's side, she belonged to a very numerous family of uncles, aunts, and cousins. Her mother. Lady Alice Latimer, died when Cecil was an infant ; and after the decease of both father and mother, she was left with scarcely any provision further than what could defray the expenses of her educa- tion. Her mother was a sister of the Duke of Brandon, and the Conyngsby family had been for the last two or three genera- tions continually before the public. Even in reading the old gossiping chronicles of the days of Horace Walpole, it might be seen that, for the last hundred years, the Conyngsby name has always been con- nected with debts, divorces, and duels ; as it has also been, in more honourable ways, in 16 PAST. war, ill battle, and in the strife of politics ; in short, in everything going forAvard for good and for evil, private and public, the name of that family continually appears. Sometimes a ConjTigsby was a favoui'ite of the public, and advantageously " il s'est fait parler de lui;" at other times Fortune turned her back on her hero, and the approbation that began with cheering, ended ^yith. throwing stones. Unfortu- nately, the same phrase might often be applied to the ladies of the family, and *' elle s'est fait parler d'elle" bears quite another interpretation. Times, however, were changed; virtues and vices were changed — exchanged, bartered for other virtues and vices; but fashion, as severe as justice, but more corruptible, contrived often to turn the scale in favour of her followers of the name of Conjoigsby. PAST. 17 These adventures, however, took place in past times, and belonged more to the pedigree and to the blood of the house of Conyngsby ; and when Cecil grew up, the leading characteristic of the family was selfishness, and their motto might have been, " Hypocrisy is the homage that vice renders to virtue." They had always been Tories in political life, and in the old state of politics, previously to the Re- form Bill, had had a good deal of parlia- mentary influence, and could, from their number, command many votes, and, from keeping altogether, their steady politics gave them a certain degree of both power and respectability in public life. But there was one member of the family — the Duke's next brother — Lord Eresby, who had inherited his mother's title and property, quite unlike the rest of 18 PAST. his relations; his profession, which was that of diplomacy, had caused him to live abroad and away from his family early in life ; and both heart and head had gained from this separation of interests : he was distinguished for his high feelings of honour, and his love of domestic life. Luckily for Cecil, she fell into the hands of this kind-hearted, amiable man. Cecil had been educated at school, where the mistress, being a woman of an excel- lent character and understanding, she escaped the evils of a school education; and when she was seventeen. Lord Eresby being appointed to the embassy at Turin, his wife, a very sick, very indolent, and very good-natured woman, took compas- sion on her unprotected state, and offered Cecil a home with them abroad. Cecil soon became absolutely necessary PAST. 19 to the comfort of the family. She nursed her uncle in his fits of the gout; she attended Lady Eresby in her not very well days — which were most days; she educated her cousins, who were younger than herself; she wrote the letters; she received the company when Lady Eresby preferred remaining in her own room. Everything turned upon Cecil; and Cecil was a slave — but a willing slave. Thus matters went on for seven years and more, while Cecil's bright eyes shone like the stars in the firmament, and she resembled very much one of those refined and gay nosegays gathered in a garden at Genoa ; and what those Genoese nosegays were, those who have seen them may remember : there was the rose ; there was the rich cape jessamine, like ivory; there was the double lilac violet ; there was the 20 PAST. little bit of yellow cassia; the rich car- nation, mth its broad inside of green harmonizing gradually to a white and pink colour ; there were always some buds of orange-flower, the purple heliotrope, and a rose-geranium, now out of fashion in England. PAST. 21 CHAPTER III. " My days are passed 'mid radiant tilings, Glorious as Hope's imaginings ; Statues but known from shapes of the earth By being too lovely for mortal bii-th ; Paintings whose colours of life were caught From the fairy tints in the raiabow wrought ; Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening close ; Language so silvery, that every word "Was like the lute's awakening chord; Skies half svmshine and half starlight, Flowers whose lives were a breath of deHght, Leaves whose green pomp knew no withering, Fountains bright as the skies of the spring. And songs whose wild and passionate line Suited a soul of romance like m i ne." L. E. L. The Eresby family passed their winters at Turin, and their summers at Genoa; 22 PAST. and those days, the happiest days of Cecil Latimer's life, fled swiftly. Lord Eresby's daughters grew up, married, and went away ; and Cecil, who was not seen without being admired, or known without being loved, remained with her uncle and aunt. Many were the offers of marriage made to La Seqilianina^ as the Italians pronounced the name of Cecil, whose surname was totally sunk and forgotten in this soft and silky appellation, and whose " richis- sima cappellatura bionda e dorata" made their great admiration. But some objec- tion was always made to the hero of the ofi'ers. Lord Eresby did not much approve of either a foreigner or a Catholic for Cecil; and Cecil found every one either too dull to like, or too trifling to esteem. The truth was, that Cecil's life PAST. 23 was a busy life, and a happy life, and she had no inclination whatever to think of any change; and, as a Frenchman said of the home at the Turin Embassy, after he got back to Paris — " On etoit si bien, labas!" Lady Eresby was one of those common- place characters so often seen, that pass in the world, and that exercise but little influence either on the hearts or heads of those surrounding them; but a consti- tutionally good-natured woman: a word led her — a word disarmed her; and the last word governed her extreme in- dolence. One day, when she was wide awake — which was not every day, what with the climate, and ether, and eider- down quilts — she called Cecil to her sofa, and the conversation began thus : "Cis, my dear, do sit down; never 24 PAST. mind those invitations; I want to talk to you about yourself. Mrs. JNIilbanke has been saying to me that all this refusing is very foolish — very foolish, indeed. You know that you have but two or three thousand pounds in the world; and what can become of you, if you don't marry — so Mrs. Milbanke says — and that you will be obliged to go and live over the china-shop in Baker-street ; as one of your aunts. Lady Dorothy Conyngsby, poor thing! is now obliged to do. You really should decide upon some one. There is the French Ambas- sador, who has been devoted to you these three years; and here is Sir William Mansfield comino- back to see us ao:ain, and try whether you have changed your mind about him. It is not necessary to like persons so very much; you don't PAST. 25 suppose that I liked your uncle when I married him nearly as much as you like Nivernais, to whom you are always talking; indeed, I did not like him at all, yet, you see, we go on very well. Now do, dear Cis, make up your mind about one or the other of these men ; it is not every girl who has the choice of two husbands. Sir William Mansfield is very rich, and wiU make an excellent husband ; and so Mrs. Milbanke says, and that it is quite nonsense in us allowing you to go on in this manner." " Drops, like round and orient pearls, Stood now within the pretty flowret's eyes. Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail." But the pretty flowret answered very firmly, " My dear aunt, I feel very grateful to you for your kind care of me ; but indeed I cannot marry either M. de VOL. I. C 26 PAST. Nivernais or Sir William Mansfield. M. de Xivemais perfectly knows my mind on the subject; he is very good, and amiable, and very much attached to me, and I am sorry for it, for I see that it makes him unhappy; but I should as soon think of marrying my grandfather as a man of that age. As for Sir WiUiam Mansfield, I think liim a tire- some person ; you heard what the Russian General said, the other nisfht, about him ; and I thought it quite true : he said that rich Englishmen, who have a station in life to support, marry as if they were furnishing their houses. ' Une femme, c'est un meuble, chez-vous,' he said. Sir WiUiam has bought the fine Correggios at Rome, and the Pietre-dure cabinets and tables at Florence ; and now, at Genoa, he is ready to buy me, as he PAST. 27 would buy a picture. He is not at all the sort of person I should wish to inarr}^; and I had rather work for my bread than be the slave of a man I don't like. This is a very painful subject, and I entreat you to name it no more." " I will not, my dear," said the good- natured Lady Eresby ; and the conversa- tions on marriage always ended in the same manner. Cecil Latimer's hours of unhappiness were yet to come. That evening, after dinner, there was a difference of opinion as to a passage in Shakspeare; the volumes were consulted, and each person was repeating their favourite verses. Lord Eresby, Cecil, one of the attaches, and a young Englishman, sauntered out into a wood adjoining the villa at Genoa, where, placed amongst the dark . ilex c 2 28 PAST. trees, was a very pretty statue of Cupid. Lord Eresby was probably thinking of something that Lady Eresby had com- municated to him respecting Cecil, for he began repeating to her — " A certain aim he took At a fair vestal And loosed Ms love-shaft smartly from his bow. As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quenched in the .... watery waste. And the beautiful votress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy free. Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell : It feU upon a little western flower, Before, milk-white, now purpled with Love's wound; And maidens call it ' Love in Idleness.' " Lord Eresby contented himself with the verses, and did not further pursue the subject, but stopped to look at the statue of Cupid with his bow and arrow, his eyes bandaged. Under the statue PAST. 29 some former possessor of the wood had inscribed : " Tel que tu soia, voici ton maitre, II Test — il fut, ou il le sera." The young Englishman remarked, " What French nonsense those lines are !" Mr. Vernon admired the lines. They were Voltaire's ; and he said that it was impossible to find words in any language better chosen, better expressed, more concisely or suitably. Lord Eresby agreed that the words were appropriate, but he added, " There is a stiU greater master than Cupid — he who gives strength to the hand that pulls the bow, and who causes it to be strong or powerless — that master is called Cir- cumstances." " You mean Destiny," said Mr. Ver- non. 30 PAST. " I call it Providence," said the young Englishman. " We do not differ in fact — we only differ in terms," said Lord Eresby ; " you remember what Bacon says of testimony : ' Testimony is like the arrow out of the bow, the strength of which depends on the hand which draws the bow.' The sentiment is the same, although the personages are different ; one being a grave witness, come to years of dis- cretion — the other a capricious child, who never can come to years of dis- cretion." They continued to differ, and applied to Cecil for her opinion, as to the accordancy of the statue and the in- scription, and whether or not our actions are in our own power. Cecil said that she thought that our PAST. 31 actions were in our own power when our eyes are open; "But you see that Cupid is blind — ^he shoots at hazard; the wound may be deep, or it may be but a scratch, or the arrow may fall to the around." " You are right, Cecil," said Lord Eresby ; " and come, in a circuitous way, to my conclusion. The blindness of Cupid is Circumstance. Bind down the wings of the eagle with chams, and he cannot rise ; that is Circumstance to the eagle, at least. To-morrow, I wiU have inscribed on the opposite side of the pedestal — ' Love looks not witli the eyes, but ^-itli the mind. And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted bhnd, Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste ; Wings and no eyes figure unheeding haste : And therefore is Love said to be a child, Because m choice she is so oft beguiled." 32 PAST. "Come, let us go into the house; we shall have a bad storm shortly." An awning was placed on a high terrace that communicated with the drawing-rooms of the house that Lord Eresby occupied at Genoa, and from thence an extensive view was seen of the bay and harbour of the town, and of the surrounding scenery. On this terrace, the family were in the habit of passing their evenings, and on their return home they watched from thence the progress of a burrasca, or storm, that broke magnificently over the bay. These burrasques come on so swiftly in the ^lediterranean, and finish so abruptly, that they have been compared to the tears and smiles upon the face of a child — the smiles arriving before the tears are well wiped away. At a dis- PAST. 33 tance, the thunder growled ominously; then a more prolonged clap announced the coming of the wind, which arose on the sea, like a whirlwind; the larger vessels were driven from their anchors; tlie little fishing-boats ran into creeks, beneath the shelter of the taller rocks; the trees in the vineyard rocked to and fro, and were bent down and broken; the sea ran mountains high ; the sky was heavy, black, and lowering; and every now and then, the forked lightning de- scended on the waters, and by intervals hghted up the whole horizon; and then the bells of the churches rang to prayers — in bad storms, an old religious custom prevailing all along the shores of the Mediterranean, to ward off the evil spirits in the regions of air, and bid them cease from moving in the tempest c 3 34 PAST. and troubling the elements; and at the same time the bells summoned those persons bound to the mariner by love or by ties, to address their prayers to the Madonna and the saints in heaven, to succour those at the mercy of the winds and waves. A small vessel was seen in the dis- tance, in fearful danger, strivmg to make its way into the port. As it beat about in a tremendous sea, its arrival seemed more than uncertain ; the peril in which it was placed, as well as something peculiar in the appearance of the vessel, made it an object of interest to the lookers-on at Lord Eresby's. The sails were black, or nearly so; there it was, like a spectre-ship, sailing right against the hurricane ; some called it the "Phantom Ship." What was it? English, PAST. 35 or Prussian, or American ? It was settled to belong to this last-named country. At last, the vessel was safe in port; the thunder became more distant and subdued; the flash less vivid; the rain less overpowering; and frequent heavy- drops glittered and hung on the branches of different -coloured grapes, and the numerous graceful festoons of vines sus- pended from the olive-trees. The storm ceased, and sunshine again broke forth from the blue heavens; and all nature was again smiles and joy. Then the people and the birds began to sing in the adjoining gardens and vineyards, and that long drawl was heard — pre- paratory to its settling into song — that the peasants indulge in, in Italy, singing in recitative while di'essing the vines. 36 PAST. olive-trees, or Indian wheat. After- wards came a mournful air, at that time a favourite with the people on the shores of the Mediterranean and the Adriatic, the concluding lines of which were always taken up and echoed from vineyard to vineyard by a chorus of voices : " O come passano I di felici E non ci resta Che 1 sospirar ! Pass ; il contento L' amor, la gioia E quel eh' e peggio La vita ancor." So much had been said about the " Phantom Ship," that Lord Eresby sent down to the harbour to inquire what the vessel was, and received for answer, that it was an English yacht, belonging to PAST. 37 Lord Delamere ; and as Lord Eresby was acquainted with Lord Delamere, he wrote to him to come that evening to the Em- bassy, where there was to be a concert. He accordingly came, and passed almost the whole of the fortnight that he remained at Genoa at Lord Eresby's house. Lord Delamere was very hand- some ; he thought CecU excessively pretty; but that was all. She was not charmed with him; he had the manner towards her of a man who was trying to find a fault, rather than having any wish to please, or like her. However, he carried off the suffrages of all the other women of the society; but whether it was that knowledge which made Cecil know intuitively the evil to come before it came, or from some unexplained cause. 38 PAST. Cecil did not feel at ease with him ; there was something in his looks and character that awed her ; and when the rest of the family were singing his praises and lamenting his departure, she laughed at them, and said he resembled the dark sails of his vessel. PAST. 39 CHAPTER IV. " Nor stand so much on your gentility Wliicli is an airy, and mere borrowed thing, From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, Except you make or hold it." — Ben Joxson. The following summer Lord Eresby's health visibly declined. He left Turin with his family to go to England, for me- dical advice ; but he did not reach England ; he died in Switzerland. After which, Cecil accompanied Lady Eresby to Eng- land, who required all that care and sup- port which she received from Cecil's good heart, as well as from her gratitude and 40 PAST. sense of duty. The day that they landed at Dover was a mournful day, and Cecil felt it deeply, and tried to bury her de- sponding thoughts and raise the drooping spirits of the invalid. In Lord Eresby, she had lost her only protector and friend : her home was gone from her with him, and she could not conceal from herself that Lady Eresby could not long survive him. Cecil's spirits entirely sank ; she had gathered enough concerning the numerous connexions of her mother's family, to know that little happiness or comfort could be looked for from them. Where could she go ? — to whom was she to look for help ? — her old schoohnistress was dead, and she knew no one in England, having gone from school to Lord Eresby's house ; and when she recollected, in moments of child- hood, the Duke and Duchess of Brandon, PAST. 41 and her other aunts and uncles, the re- membrance was anything but agreeable. Amidst all these painful reflections, England and its evils would creep into her mind; its gloomy character and climate, and from what she could learn, an artificial and heartless existence such as she had never been accustomed to. She felt a certain want of sympathy with everything in England. The coldness, both bodily and mental, froze her very soul, and for days and days she thought that she must have been insane not to have secured a home in warmer regions in all senses of the word. These reflections were very sad to one young and beautiful; besides the melan- choly of the past and that of the present, she had all possible apprehensions and anti- cipations of evils to come. Cecil had not 42 PAST. known anything of the discipline of life ; things were to be endured that till now she had never thought of; and the Angel with the flamino^ sword was now beofin- ning to pass over her head, and teach her some of the world's hard lessons. Cecil attended the closing months of Lady Eresby's life with the devotion of a daughter, and when the last sad duties were finished, she did indeed feel desolate, and lingered on as long as she was per- mitted to do so alone, in the temporary abode that had been provided for them by the family on their first arrival in Eng- land. Cecil was now left to the compassion of her relations, known in the world as a very dissipated and heartless family — a truth which by this time she had heard from every one. At last, the Duke, her uncle, PAST. 43 came to see her, his brother on his death- bed having written to ask him to take some charge of Cecil, "who had been to him," he wrote, " more as a daughter or a friend than a niece," and Cecil was in- vited to remain at Ell Castle for the en- suing autumn and winter. On arriving at Ell, Cecil discovered that a dispute had already occurred on her account between the Duke and Duchess of Brandon; the Duchess refusing to re- ceive a young lady who had attained the ftdl age of womanhood, and, as she said, "had been fool enough not to provide herself with a home of her own;" but the Duke, for once, was determined. He told the Duchess that she need not take Cecil out in London, but that either he must give his niece a home for the pre- sent, or make a provision for her support. 44 PAST. The Duchess, who was fond of money, then aquiesced; and the Duke added, in his careless manner — "The girl's a very pretty girl, and will soon pick up some one." A large party were assem- bled at Ell for the autumn. Of these persons, Cecil had no previous knowledge, and not one person amongst them could she feel any sympathy with. It was true that not one of them showed her the smallest kindness or consideration; they seemed, as it were, to feel for themselves, to act for themselves, and to live on the defensive with each other; at the same time a spirit of camaraderie ran through the whole society, as to ton, manner, and intellect; they had a certain set of ideas, which was considered the fit order of things — a serious word or remark pro- voked a smile of pity or derision! — it PAST. 45 was the remark of a saint, and not one that would suit the Duchess of Brandon's notions. The language of books was thought that of the pedant or blue stock- ing, and provoked another smile — the Duke would think it ridiculous — " he did not like a reading lady !" Certain rules were set up and held as bad and good taste, and were not to be infringed towards those who were the arbiters of ton ! The language was a sort of free- masonry, spoken both by men and women ; it was slang, and only comprehensive to those initiated in its secrets. There were also certain old flirtations that had held firmly together, and which were con- sidered, from Time, as respectable, like the marks of age on the oak tree ; and if any virtues were held in repute, they were negative virtues. 46 PAST. Cecil found it very difficult to reconcile herself to the manners of England, ac- customed as she was to the good-natured softness of the Italians. She had to re- collect what would not have been ad- mitted at EU, that she had been used to associate with all that were distinguished in Europe in intellect or mental ac- quirement;- for the Embassy at Turin had been equally open to the traveller, the artist, and the scientific or literary per- son; not only had she been accustomed to the mixed society of all nations, but to the peculiar society of the Genoese women — perhaps, at once the highest bred, the highest born, the most accomplished, and the most refined women in any country. The language of a Madame D zzo, of a B — g — le, of a Duchesse D g, and many others, would occur PAST. 47 to her mind and ear often; and the contrast of recollections was unpleasant — in the soft, gracious Itahan words and inflections, or the tres-spirituesse^ epigram- matic, although well-bred French sen- tences, that ehcited other sparks of fire that responded to them, with the flat dull monotony of the present ; when she recollected all the persons with whom she had habitually been used to associate, she could neither understand what the assumption of superiority in the Ell set was founded on, nor what was the neces- sity for placing a mask all day long upon every thought, unless that thought was too selfish, too stupid, or too trifling to appear. The younger members of the family had a profound contempt for those older than themselves ; and a want of heart in 48 PAST. an artificial atmosphere is still more dis- agreeable in a pretty face than with those who are supposed to have passed through the world's fire. There were several young girls, between the ages of fourteen and seventeen, preparing for coming into life — what is termed in England coming out, by which is understood preparing for having a home of their own. All works of ima- gination were forbidden to be read by these young persons, in the dread that they might become self-willed, have oj^inions of their own, or grow romantic, and that romance might prove detrimental to the family wealth, interest, or connexion. The mothers said, that it was downright wickedness to let these girls read novels or romances. The consequence was that a train of deception followed these injunc- tions, practised by those whom Dr. John- PAST. 49 son calls "the frail prating creatures." The novels were procured, without choice as to story or tendency ; they were smuggled, read at night, or in secresy; and one of the rising beauties of the Conyngsby house boasted that she had carried a French novel to church in her muiF, read it through service and sermon, and that the governess was foolish or blind enough to have been taken in by this piece of deceit. As a modern philosopher (Mr. Taylor) has declared that, without fear and without joy msdom cannot exist — wisdom being a mixture of both; and the "svisest of monarchs having written, that the /ear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; so at Ell there never was any beginning of wisdom, and as there is no such thing as an end without a beginning, so was there neither a beginning nor end VOL. I. D 50 PAST. of this fair novel-reader's msdom ; her story — a sad, fatal, wretched story — cannot he here related ; but has proved how over- calculation in education and worldly in- terests often defeats its own purposes. The motto of the society, the watchword at Ell, was calculation — but a calculation founded on illiberal, low-minded prin- ciples; and notwithstanding the cama- raderie^ real friendship was not to be found amongst them. A want of faith, one in the faith of another, surprised the good heart of Cecil, as much as her lively fancy surprised the dull monotony of their in- tellects. The routine of amusements were settled, and dull as the minds of those persons who took a share in them; the surface of all, it is true, looked smooth enough ; but it was not polished — really po- lished; the exterior might be bright, but PAST. 51 it was cold and hard as the very marble of their sumptuous halls and magnificent staircases. Cecil's relations soon discovered that she had notions, views of life, ideas of decorum and propriety, as well as of happiness, at variance with their o^^^l. They gradually began to look upon her as a spy ; the women said " that it was a pity that Miss Latimer had lived so much abroad, it turned to n(j good — people never were satisfied after- wards.'' However, amongst her relations, Cecil learnt a new virtue — prudence ; and hers was — " A prudence undeceiving, undeceived; That nor too much, nor yet too little beheved, That scorned unjust, suspicious, coward fear, And, without weakness, knew to be sincere." d2 52 PAST. But, along with her growing prudence, Cecil lost much of her lightness of heart ; gravity took possession of her — she passed much of her time alone in her own room, and she, too, calculated; but they were calculations of a different sort from those of the persons by whom she was sur- rounded. Could it be possible for her^ she tliought, with her inadequate means of subsistence, to go and reside at Genoa ? Would her few hundreds support her in independence? She repeatedly asked her- self whether she could get away? and then she might once more be happy, once more see some one whom she could love or like, once more know friendship, kind- ness, or sympathy : once more have some one to talk to, some one to confide in. How she did sigh for an independence ! her bright spirit was chilled by the arti- PAST. 53 ficial existence of a chateau-life, with no one to care for, and neither interest nor interests ; and she pined for liberty as the mountaineer pines for his native moun- tains. The walls of her room, at Ell, were thick walls, and she incessantly amused herself vnth singing the romance of the imprisoned Spanish Captive, beginning and ending: " I cannot love this England ! — let me hence remove ! Alas ! alas ! this England, I cannot, cannot love." But, like the imprisoned bird in the cage, she beat her wings against the bars in vain. TVhat was to be done? PAST CHAPTER V. " A qui doit-on sa premiere education H A sa nourrice. Et la seconde ? Au hazard. Et la troisieme P A I'amovir." Lord Delamere came to Ell. He had always seen the faults clearly of the in- dividuals composing that party, both as to every-day life, and also in public life ; but he was too much a man of the world to care about those faults, or to let them interfere with his own ideas. On the contrary, he made them subservient to his own wishes. Habit and politics bound PAST. 55 him to the Duke and Duchess : he came to Ell as often as he pleased. English friendships, to do them justice, are not capricious; there is little of the nature of passion in them, generally speaking, and the word engouement is un- translatable in our language. It follows that the great mass of that thing called friendship is made up of indifference and habit ; and the consequence of these very cool ingredients is, that the friendships are lasting and constant : this is a truth which may not be quite pleasing to inves- tigate, and that might be followed by others equally disagi^eeable. Madame de Stael divides mankind into two classes: those who feel enthusiasm, and those who ridicule and despise it. Lord Delamere was of the latter class; but great knowledge of the world, tact, 56 PAST. and observation, made him often conceal his real sentiments, or made him substi- tute for ridicule that most respectable thing, strong reason — which always scares away imagination. He really did not comprehend, and totally disclaimed, that imagination which is a substitute for society, and that will bear a person through the petty ills and torments of life untouched by its worldliness and unsullied by its vices : that he understood not. His great personal beauty, and a certain high-born and intellectual appear- ance, did not carry this impression with it of a disdain of the undefined and un- profitable. He had received not only a cultivated, but a learned education. In literature, his was a classical mind; not the least a romantic mind. If he criticised Shakspeare, he thought of PAST. 57 Shakspeare as Johnson did; the scenery of nature he cared but little for — "A primrose by a river's brim, A yellow primrose was to him, And it was notliing more." If he thought about the world, he formed his code of laws and notions about the world; it was his world he thought of, and not that of Solomon, Burleigh, La Rochefoucault, or Madame de Stael. He had made his debut in the world as if he were about to enter a hostile country ; and was always on the watch, until he had become the soul, intellect, and voice of his society, and reigned as despotically as his extreme indolence would allow of his doing. When Lord Delamere arrived at EU, he Tvas in one of those profound fits of D 3 58 ^ PAST. ennui that sometimes came over him; from this state of ennui nothing roused him but hunting, and for that purpose he came to Ell, profoundly bored with his existence, and with what foreigners call " the spleen" — a complete malady of the mind. Occupied with his spleen, he began to talk to Cecil, to try and forget it. Cecil was not only very pretty, but she was new, which was of more conse- quence — for of pretty women there were enough everywhere. She was not only very pretty and new, but she was full of talent, imagination, and spirit, with opi- nions of her own, and a certain independ- ence of mind that ran in direct rebel- lion to the doctrines at Ell. She was therefore totally unlike the women by whom she was surrounded — as unlike as were her eyes and hair to theirs. Lord PAST. 59 Delamere was curious to know " what soul belonged to such bright eyes," and he had not been used to much soul in women ; however, had either of these two persons known what they were about, they would have flown from each other. Lord Delamere, on account of Cecil's want of fortune ; for he, in his wisdom, looked upon a poor marriage as he would upon ruin at play, or any other sort of ruin — a folly; and Cecil would have flown from him, 1 je- cause no woman likes to set her heart where no heart is. However, heart was not yet in question. Cecil was charmed at last to meet with some one who under- stood her, who had known the persons she had known, and who could enter into her ideas of things and persons : a sort of con- fidence was necessarily established between them, which would have been more like 60 PAST. friendship, had not Cecil's beauty been so striking, and Lord Delamere so handsome. This love, therefore, began Avith a sort of half-liking ; on his side as a relief from an ennui that pressed on his brain, for heart he had none — on her side, in giving her thoughts in confidence to a man who certainly was never in the habit of repeat- ing any words or thoughts entrusted to his keeping. Matters went on thus during a long winter of frost and snow ; and Cecil ceased to think the imprisonment at Ell so very terrible. The Duchess became more gra- cious in her manner to Cecil, asked her to pass the spring with her in London, and the Duke exerted himself so far as to tell his niece that Lord Delamere was not a man to marry, and that she need not think of that. PAST. 61 Spring at last arrived, and they went to London. The country friendship cooled, and a person — one of the world's favourites in all senses of the word — fell in love with Cecil, in one evening, at a ball; and on hearing the probability of its ending in a marriage, Lord Delamere showed such marks of feeling, that Cecil's heart was melted, and she thought that he hked her very much indeed. At last, in an ambiguous sort of way, he per- suaded Cecil of his attachment to her; at the same time telling her that he was going abroad, but should shortly return. It was not that he was a man who dealt in words with two meanings — " the traitor's shield and shaft;" but he was governed by habit and by indolence. He went abroad, and Cecil unfortunately was aware that she liked him enough 62 PAST. to prevent her marrying any other per- son. So passed two years. A third year came, and Cecil and Lord Delamere were always together. Afterwards, there was a coolness; then tears were shed. Then a complete reconciliation took place, one memorable evening; and then more tears were shed.* Amongst Cecil's friends — for now that she was kno-\vn, she had friends — was Lady Arlington, a salamander of a woman, who lived in a brazier that would have consmned a more quietly - constituted person : a Avitty, amusing * " Storm of the heart from troubled fountain gushing, Wild burning tear, From inward passion to the surface rushing Convulsive there — Expressing all the stormy spirit's woe Working below." Discipline of Life. PAST. 63 woman of the world, with an enter- prising spirit, and not one accustomed to be called to account for her words or deeds. She had taken a strong fancy to Cecil, and Cecil to her; and she had long entertained a great dislike, a long- fostered dislike, to Lord Delamere, whom she thought totally unworthy of Cecil. These two matters meeting — that is, the liking and the disliking — she acted with energy in Cecil's case, inviting her to pass that year with her, and what be- tween her cleverness and Cecil's good sense, some progress was made towards getting rid of all notions of Lord Dela- mere's attachment, and of forgetting him altogether. Lady Arling-ton was much assisted in her schemes by a report of Lord Delamere's wanting to marry a certain very rich Lady Katherine Delvin. 64 PAST. The report proved a true report. Lady Arlington triumphed, but she saw that Cecil did not like being talked to about it. She now laid hold of Cecil's pride, and Cecil promised herself never again to think of him ; but — " En pensant qu'il faut qu'on oublie, On s'en souvieut." PAST. 65 CHAPTER YI. The next year, Cecil was again vdth Lady Arlington : in her house she became acquainted with Lord Ravens- leigh, who was, according to London phraseology, " the best match going." He was just the very sort of man that a fanciful or a fastidious woman might not like ; good, upright — but occasionally tiresome ; well-looking, but not at all like a hero de roman; full of reading, information, education, and common sense — but if women listen to sense, they think they have a right to expect un- 66 PAST. common sense ; enormously rich, gene- rous, and a marquis; expecting that man, woman, and child, should have the same ideas that he had himself ; habituated to judge persons after him- self; if he forgave them for those faults he had in his own character, he con- demned them for not possessing the virtues he possessed himself, and with little indulgence for extraordinary per- sons or extraordinary cases. Lord Ravensleigh's friendship for Lady Arlington proved, however, that he could make exceptions; for no two persons could be less alike. Those were the days when political opinion exercised a strong influence on private life and in society. There was a Tory administration : Lord Ravensleigh was a Tory — Lady Arlington was a Whig; and a woman a Whig, and PAST. 67 in opposition, appears, in keen politics, always a more natural state of things than a woman a Tory. A woman's wit becomes brighter when in opposition than when on the defensive ; reason and caution beino; more called for on the defensive than "v\-it; and although a good govern- ment and a rational state of things may be perfectly compatible with silence, silence is not calculated for a showy politician. Lady Arhngton was a great talker; with her, talking was the joy of life, and silence was only her state when suffering under the martyrdom of ennui. " A^Tiat is the use of silence?" she would say; "it cures nothing ; you sit growling and gTumbling under your grievance, which stares at you night and day, like the nightmare. It is the state of a soul in jeopardy; better talk it out with some one who will 68 PAST. understand it; but do not talk sense to Lady N , or chiffons to your lawyer." The likeness between Lady Arlington and her friend, Lord Ravensleigh, was not stronger on any other subject than on politics ; yet, notwithstanding, this friend- ship had held firmly together for years, each party being fully satisfied that they were always happier in each other's company than in any other, whether as friends or adversaries. Lady Arlington loved to be contradicted; her spirit rose on discussion. She loved an adversary. Lord Ravensleigh was a good listener — a silent man, until warmed on some subject, and his cool positiveness and common sense sometimes gained the victory, which she forgave, provided that she was allowed to capitulate with all the PAST. 69 honours of Avit. Both of them had ex- cellent tempers ; and when Lord Ravens- leigh maintained that intellect spoilt a woman, he made her an exception. He did not like women talking like men ; he liked a pretty woman, Men encadrer in point lace or Mechhn, without any yqtj positive opinions beyond the colour of a bonnet or the embroidery on a pocket- handkerchief. He had for some years been looking about for some one who would make a very pretty, very proper Lady Ravensleigh. He had looked for a Lady Ravensleigh much in the same manner as a woman goes to Howell and James's for a wedding present; afraid to fix upon an article that will not be suit- able, and coming away from the shop without being able to make up her mind 70 PAST. whether it is to be the fan, or the bracelet, or the watch, or the clock — or what it is to be. At one time he had nearly pleased him- self ; but he talked to the very pretty girl whom he had chosen — she said something that he did not fancy, and he thought no more of her. Lord Ravensleigh had now seen Cecil Latimer in great intimacy during two years, admiring her beauty ; but without any thoughts of marrying a niece of the Duke of Brandon — a family whom he disliked not only publicly but privately ; still less did he wish for a wife, one who had thoughts and opinions of her own — a woman no longer a very young girl, but full of talent; he^ who liked in woman " no character at all, but black, brown, and fair." So stood Lord Ravensleigh's mind PAST. 71 on the subject of Cecil, when her utter indifference on two or three subjects, that he thought women's heads were full of, and that women's heads are generally full of, struck him as something extraordinary ; and as we are all apt to admire that which we do not understand, his admiration in- creased, and his prejudices, one by one, gave way to his admiration. He accord- ingly determined to propose to Cecil, with- out the smallest idea that he should meet 'svith a refusal. That day was Thursday — " not to-day," he said to himself — to-morrow is Friday, no one proposes oh a Friday — Saturday I am going out of town — Sunday Lady Ar- lington has so many visitors; but Mon- day I ^vill propose. Accordingly on Mon- day, Lord Eavensleigh did propose, and on Monday he was refused. He did not 72 PAST. expect a refusal, he was surprised, piqued, and angry', all his old prejudices against educated Avomen returned in full force upon him. He thought that he had now had enough of " angels, arguers, and reasoners in Heaven." (By-the-bye the phrase is Milton's, who was three times married, and was in favour of divorce, which explains much of " Paradise Lost," as well as of Milton's domestic life.) Lord Ravensleigh withdrew entirely in a pro- voked mood from Lady Arlington's house and society, which had been a sort of home to him for the last two or three years, and, although in nowise a man given to repeating verses unnecessarily, he certainly did repeat the lines of " Ca- rew's Madrigal," written two hundred years back, and that had been sung at PAST. 73 the Concert of Ancient Music the Wed- nesday previous to this event. " No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved lieart to return ; I have searched thy soul within, And find nought but pride and scorn ; I have learned thy arts — and now Can disdain as much as thou." For a long time, no one in the London world would believe in the proposal, or the refusal. At last, through Lady Arling- ton's speaking regrets, it was known to be a fact. Cecil was called a fool, by her friends, and by the world in general. The A, B, C, of the beaten road of disapproval was pronounced against Cecil, by all her own connexions — the Conyngsby famity. Cecil, they said, was a fool, a hopeless fool, an ungrateful fool; it was told her so often, Avith such energy and violence, that she began to be quite convinced that VOL. I. E 74 PAST. she was a fool ; as to her motives, no one inquired, or cared about them, for who cares for motives in the month of May in London? results are all that there is either time or inclination to listen to ; and, had her motives been known, she would have been termed a still greater fool ! Lady Arlington behaved very gene- rously on this subject, which increased Cecil's distress and concern at the defec- tion of Lord Ravensleigh from her house and society. Lady Arlington did not re- proach Cecil; but merely lamented her error of judgment, all the time secretly admiring her rare disinterestedness; how- ever, she never ceased enumerating Lord Ravensleigh' s good qualities and immense rent-roll ; she said that her castle in the air for Cecil had always been Ravensleigh Castle, and that she had wished that she PAST. 75 could have seen in London 07ie fine lady, who would have been a piece of perfection for the others to stare at, envy, or admire, however little they might have understood her merits. A few months after this event, Lord Ravensleigh consoled himself by marrying a very pretty girl out of the nursery, who threw away her wax-doll, of which she was but a larger copy, to buy her trous- seau, and exchanged a firm and precise governess, with joy, for a very good-na- tured and generous husband. At the end of a year or two. Lord Ravensleigh disco- vered that his female baby-house was rather a bore ; had he married earlier in life it would have done better, but he had been for the last two or three years the intimate, amused, confidential friend of two of the most entertaining women in E 2 76 PAST. London — the one young in spirits and wit ; the other young in beauty and talent. Those years had been the most agreeable years of his life ; he acknowledged them as such, and could not help making com- parisons — and, although comparisons may not be always odious, they are often un- pleasant. Every man misses the friend- ship of women — the breaking up of such intimacies, if it is not an affair of the heart, is an affair of the head and the understanding. In one of Lord Ravensleigh's unoccupied moments he opened a book of old plays, and the following lines struck him, as being much like his own domestic existence — " Like the dull mill -horse, in one round they keep : They walk, talk, dine — and fall asleep ; Theii* custom always in the afternoon — He, bright as Sol, and she, the chaste full Moon! Waked with her coffee. Milady first begins, She rubs her eyes, his lordship rubs his shins ; PAST. 77 She sips and smirks, ' Next week's our wedding-day, Married seven years and every hour more gay.' ( Yawns.) ' True, Emmy,' cries my Lord, 'the blessing lies Our hearts in everything so sympathize.' ( Yatcns.) The day now spent, my Lord for music calls ; He thrums the bass ; to which my Lady squalls." Cecil Latimer was, just at that time, gone abroad ; Lord Ravensleigh replaced the book in the book-case, and went to Lady Arlington — cordially renewed with her, and ever after they were the best of friends. 78 PAST. CHAPTER VII. Cecil Latimee's existence was now a most uncomfortable and dependent existence. Sometimes neglected, often misunderstood, cast aside, taken up — sometimes sent for to nurse the sick, sometimes to attend to the old, sometimes in country-houses; then left to solitude; then joining in the fever of London excitement, dressing, visiting, dining; at parties, at balls, at operas ; now and then amused — seldom in moments of satisfaction. Thus, her life proceeded; but Providence works out his way with destinies. PAST. 79 It was Easter — every one was out of town ; Cecil was not well, and wished but to be left to quiet and repose ; and she had asked leave to remain at the Duke of Brandon's with the governess and chil- dren. One morning, a lawyer called, and asked to see her. He said that he had news of importance to communicate, and inquired whether Miss Latimer had any friend or relation to whom he might communicate it! Cecil said that he might commu- nicate any news to her. He then told her that her uncle, Mr. Latimer, was dead ; that he had died in Canada, where he had resided since Cecil was a child, and that property to a very large amount was left to her. No one knew how large an amount, but that it was something very considerable. Cecil then recollected that 80 PAST. her friend Catherine Selwyn's father was a man of business. She gave the lawyer a letter to Mr. Selwyn explaining the cir- cumstances, and for two or three days she heard no more from the lawyer. At last, she was summoned to attend the reading of a will, and, accompanied by Mr. Selwyn, she went to the appointed place. She was not absent from Berkeley Square above two hours, and what a change had taken place in those two hours of her life ! She went forth from her uncle's house a dependent and nearly penniless woman: she returned to that house the greatest heiress of landed property in Eng- land. By Mr. Henry Latimer's will she found herself mistress of the Latimer and Ashdown estates in the midland counties, now free and unencumbered with debt. It was discovered that they had been PAST. 81 entailed, which neither her nor her family had ever surmised the possibility of; and that they were worth about fifteen thou- sand pounds a-year. She had also an estate in London, a large sum of ready money left her by her uncle, houses, mort- gages, and altogether, as far as could be made out that morning, about thirty thousand pounds a-year. Cecil was at first more oppressed by this intelligence than delighted at it. She was one of those persons who did not care for the ambition of fife. The world of balls and parties she was tired of — it wearied her : and she had been exactly in a position to learn the dessous des cartes amidst the very most hollow and trifling of the world's worshippers. At first sight, her wealth seemed only a dread- ful weight of responsibility, rather an in- fliction, and three or four thousand a-year E 3 82 PAST. that would have allowed of her living in- dependently would have much more con- tributed to her happiness. She felt her- self growing grave on many subjects which others treated lightly ; and altogether this new situation of hers called for a con- scientious discharge of duties that she felt herself not quite equal to. She passed two or three days in solitude, quietly thinking over the past, and as little as pos- sible the past as connected with Lord Delamere — that was a painful subject. During this time, Mr. Selwyn worked hard with the lawyers, and he brought Cecil word, that as far as they could tell, her property would amount to a clear thirty thousand pounds a-year, but that as long minorities, entails, and Henry La- timer's residence in America, had caused PAST. 83 the estates to be left pretty much as they were during the last fifty years; it was impossible to say what her wealth might become, or her influence in the counties where those estates were situated. The London world had now returned to town after Easter, and Cecil had put off, as long as she could do so, informing her friends and family of the change in her situation. Strange was the effect that it had upon them ! — their homes, their carriages, their time, and their advice were all now at her disposal ; and at the same time their re- quests and petitions were innumerable. To some of these Cecil lent a good-natured ear; but Mr. Selwyn, who was a sensible man and a shrewd lawyer, saw what was going on, and made Cecil promise that she would not bind herself to anything for the 84 PAST. present. All her uncles united in think- ing that so much wealth and importance ought to be kept in the family. Henry Conjmgsby, Lord William Conyngsby's son, her cousin, they hoped might keep it in the family. He had always had a sen- timental regard for Cecil, and Lord Wil- liam had often come to her to engage her to speak to his son about his thoughtless conduct and wild extravagance. She had accordingly talked to him, and occasion- ally with good results. The family, there- fore, founded their hopes upon Henry Conyngsby, and Lady Arthur Conyngsby, and Lady William, and Lady Charles, and Mrs. Addiscombe, and Mrs. William Ver- non, and the whole tribe of aunts and cousins, harassed her with caresses — her^ whom they had neglected, or whom they PAST. 85 had made use of, but a fortnight before, to nurse a sick child, or assist them in some tiresome occupation. Cecil had a Villa at Chiswick, just at that time unoccupied; there she shut herself up, with Mr. Selwyn and Catha- rine Selwyn — ]\Ir. Sehvyn and Cecil com- ing to to^vn continually, and going to the law chambers in the Temple on business, whither her relations could not follow her ; and in the quiet evenings she turned in her mind, and talked over with her companions, what she would do for the future. Her first idea was to go and reside abroad, amidst flowers and blue skies, but characters written on the wall, as at Belshazzar's feast, appeared to her night and day ; and it seemed to her understanding that they wanted no 86 PAST. prophet to translate them,* or to render the key of their language, and that they meant — Conscience. Cecil had just arrived at that age which enabled her equally to look back and to look forward in life. It was true that the future might not be as fuU of charms as it might have been ten years previously to that time; but those ten years bring wisdom to the wise, and foUy to the foolish, and they make a past and a future — a past to look back to ; a future to look forward to. In another month her house in Caven- dish-square was got ready for Cecil to inhabit, and thither she removed for the * And let tlie counsel of thine own heart stand, for there is no man more faithful unto thee than it. For a man's mind is sometimes wont to teU him more than seven watchmen that sit above in a high tower, Ecclesiasticus, xxxvii. 13, 14. I PAST. 87 remainder of the London season. Various were the opinions as to Miss Latimer's golden lot; various were the surmises, and as foolish as various, as to what might be her future life. She had a few true friends, both men and women, among whom was Lady Arlington; the rest of the world knew not Cecil's character. One person said that she would never marry; another, that it would be the Duke of ; another, that she would marry Lord Delamere; another, that they knew positively that she would live m Italy — that she had always said that she would do so; the gay and the thoughtless talked of her balls and breakfasts ; the thoughtful and reflecting, that her life had been a life of unhappiness and dependence, ending in a piece of great prosperity unsuited 88 PAST. to a woman's powers ; the happy thought that Miss Latimer must be the very- happiest person in the world. Thus each person judges their neigh- bour after themselves, after their preju- dices, after their feehngs, and judges their neighbour's concerns after their own concerns. Cecil Latimer's good fortune lasted the world just four-and-twenty hours to talk of. Lady B said that her graceful manner made her regret that she had not become acquainted with so pleasing a person. Mr. A admired Cecil's eyes, and those long dark eyelashes. " They were not like English eyes," he said. Mr. Dormer asked her age, and was answered nine-and-twenty. " A happy age," he replied ; " she can- PAST. 89 not do better than marry the old Duke of Botherhead ; she is but little more than a third of his age." " I dare say she Avill," said Lord Boreham : " she is a clever woman, and has not served an apprenticeship in the Arlington school for nothing." " Not the least clever in the world," said Mrs. Willoughby; "did you ever know anything belonging to a Conyngsby that had any cleverness? Besides, those fair-haired women are always fools." . "As to her hair," said Mr. L , "that's a matter of taste ; I think it beautiful." " It certainly is as golden as her for- tune," said another; and the conversa- tion on the subject of Cecil ended by the flower of dandyism. Lord Albert Scroope, saying, that had he but known of the contingency of an old uncle, no- 90 PAST. thing should have prevented his marrying Miss Latimer. The truth, however, is generally the last surmised ; and the truth in this instance was, that now the world was at her feet Cecil cared very little for the world. The eyes and thoughts are perpetually occupied in London, and it never occurs to a London person the effect on the disposition of a strong passion — a passion of any sort — running in a still stronger mind, and how it changes the character; a fixed thought becomes from circumstances either a curse or a blessing. Whether it gets the upper hand, or whether it does not get the upper hand, it alters the character of the person.* * Une passion dominante eteint les autres dans notre ame comme le soleil fait disparoitre les astres dans I'eclat de ses rayons. — Chateaubriand. ^-Wk- f^/t*^ Jji^t^^ ^ /^^ PAST. 91 r July was come ; and it was nearly the end of the season. One of Cecil's aunts, who had been more kind to her than the other relations, was dying at Richmond, and Cecil continually went down to see her. One night when she came home, she found a letter from Lord Delamere — a long and explanatory letter as to his conduct to her. The letter altogether hurt and displeased Cecil — hurt her crueUy. On her first readmg of it, she did not like it; and still less when she thought it over, did she like it. The answer that she wrote him forms the first pages of the beginning of this vo- lume. erhaps, it was a hard answer. But it was not a harder answer than the letter deserved. Lord Delamere had a tho- 92 PAST. rough knowledge of women's disposi- tions and tempers. ^^^lat is more, he piqued himself on having that knowledge. He had passed his early life in London drawing-rooms, or country-houses, or foreign society; his latter years in poli- tical life and in clubs. He was supposed to have that cool-headed, cool-hearted, complete, and general knowledge of life that made his opinion sought and fol- lowed. This served him perfectly with the mass of mankind ; and it might have been said of him, as it was of Voltaire : " he cast his penetrating glance all over the surface of things." He had loved Cecil Latimer as much as was in his nature to love; nay, more — he gave her all the esteem he had ever given to a woman's character. He thought better of women than of men, and of Cecil than PAST. 93 of any other woman. He knew her per- fectly; he knew the susceptibility of her disposition, and the straight-forwardness of her ways of thinking; yet, with all this knowledge of womankind, he mistook her character; he mistook her very love for him — ^what it had been, as well as what it now was. Now, his ambition was entwined with the whole history, but it was not in Lord Delamere's character to pass his days in regrets, and love was now over. When he got Cecil's letter, he gave one cold, calm, writhing glance at its contents — read it over ; read it over a second time, and then carefully watched while every vestige of it was burnt and consumed in the flames; and that same night, on a great public question, he made the best speech that he was ever known to make. This was not unmarked 94 PAST. by Cecil, and he intended that it should be marked by her. With all his knowledge of the world, Lord Delamere had to own himself mis- taken. It was a bad move, he said to himself. Had he never written to Cecil — had a judicious friend smoothed the irritability on her mind concerning him — had they met in a year or two, her liking for him would probably have made matters terminate differently; yet who can take upon themselves to say how matters are intended to end in this zig-zag path, called life ! But the truthful nature of Cecil's dis- position would not admit of half measures — of terms of courtesy — of worldly con- siderations — on a subject on which her feelings were harassed. What her love for Lord Delamere had been she now PAST. 95 knew; the fire had burnt out, but the ashes remained to show what it had been, and on that subject no one knew her mind. Lord Byron, who never kept on terms of ci\dlity with his readers, has said, " Curious fool, be still ! Is human lore the growth of human will ?" The love was burnt out, but the ashes that remained were terror — terror of the influence he had had over her mind. Friends, the world, good sense, pride, reason, had all conspired to crush this passion, and had crushed it; but on re- ceiving Lord Delamere's letter, it raised up past times as if they had been yester- day; and all, and everything except those times and the letter, vanished from Cecil's mind. She determined to ^vrite to liim, and 96 PAST. then to banish by some strong measure the whole from her thoughts ; and Avhat- ever were Cecil's feelings of unhappiness in answering that letter, she determined that no one should ever know them. There was in her the woman who rea- soned, and the woman who felt — the woman who had suffered, and the woman who determined not to suffer. Had she been a Catholic, she would have gone to confession; (and, apart from this, the influence that the priest would have exer- cised over that mind becomes another and a most important question to consider;) but she was a Protestant, " and the soul only knoweth its own bitterness ;" and her mind strengthened in its bitterness, and gained in power. So much for Protestantism. Confes- sion is indeed " a mere luxury of the conscience." PAST. 97 If Cecil had confided the history of this letter to friends, what could they have said to her? Merely their own view of the subject, the reflection of their own character and conduct, as if seen in a mirror or looking-glass ; so true is La Rochefoucault's saying, " Nos actions sont conune des bout-rimes, que chacun tourne comme il lui plait;" or they would have made to her the commonplace remarks of life ; that either she did or she did not like Lord Delamere — that she had better wait and see him, before deciding against him — that it was a pity to write thus, &c. Of Cecil her friends would have said that it was a depit^ a caprice — an un- reasonable depit on her part. Cecil would therefore have gained nothing by VOL. I. F 98 PAST. confidence but reproof, for few persons understand even tlieir own friends. But it was an extraordinary ending, both for Lord Delamere and Cecil. She had mistaken the strongest parts of his character — his faults, and made them out virtues; his letter to her made her see this, feel this; she had mistaken his bad temper for feeling — his overbearing pride for firmness of purpose ; he was not a man of much vanity ; and the rainbow shows of things made but little impres- sion on him ; he seized on the permanent, on the lasting. Strong feelings were to him like the fever, like the sicknesses of life ; he never acted on them. The strong worldly reason, the good sense of the question, he would reverence. It was an extraordinary ending; he who had loved Cecil Latimer better than he PAST. 99 had loved any woman (with the excep- tion of Fortune on the wheel,) that his destiny should so dispose of matters as to prevent his beloved showering down gold upon him, he who loved gold, — was one of those endings not to be expected. The event of this letter very much decided Cecil's plans, which were in a fluctuating state when she received it. Her mind had turned to a country life in England, but somehow or other she did not seem yet prepared to enter on it. She felt that she could not, in her present state of mind, turn to a country life ; to its plans, and ameliorations, and tedious- ness — to its agriculture, its horticulture, and its education — to its ambitions, its comfort, and its consolations — to its poor- laws, its vestry-holdings, and its assujet- tissemens — to its hospitahties, its gene^ and f2 100 PAST. its bore — to none of these things could she turn her mind with cheerfulness; — she wanted the stirring life of the tra- veller ; she felt that the time would come when she could with more pleasure bend her mind to a new life, and when she might be of use to her people, and a good landlord to her dependents; but at pre- sent a yacht and a travelling carriage seemed the greatest good — the only good, that she had acquired by her immense inheritance. Fortunately for Cecil, Mr. Selwyn and his daughter were under circumstances that enabled them to accompany her abroad. She had everything prepared for an absence from England of two or three years. The last three months had seemed to Cecil like twenty years of life, and although every opposition possible PAST. 101 was made to her plans of absence, she was determined upon it. However, the lawyers and her relations had very nearly overturned all her projects, and before she departed they gave her many un- pleasant moments; but having made a will, settled her property, and performed many an act of charity and kindness, she felt at liberty. At last, it was all done; and with a physician, an artist, Mr. Selwyn, and Catherine, she set out for Spain, Italy, and the East. The day that she embarked, this great heiress felt as if it was the happiest day that she had had for a very long time. It seemed to her that she had made an escape ; that it was a running away from a variety of evils, distresses, and annoy- ances ; and as she bid adieu to the white cliffs of England, her spirits rose again 102 PAST. to a feeling of freedom and happiness, as the lark sings in rising to the skies. "The ship now launch'd with necessaries stored, Rigg'd, naann'd, well built, and a rich freight on board; All ready, tight, and trim, from head to poop. . . . May heaven from tempests, rocks, and privateers Preserve the heiress !" PAST. 103 I CHAPTER VIII. " It -svas not for the forms, though fair, Though grand they were beyond compare- It was not only for the forms Of hills in sunshine or in storms, Or only unrestrained, to look On wood and lake, that she forsook By day or night Her home, and far "Wandered by light Of sun or star : It was to feel her fancy free. Free in a world without an end ; With ears to hear, and eyes to see. And heart to apprehend." Tatloe's " Philip Vok Abtevelde." What a pleasure is travelling ! The change of air, the change of ob- jects; at once, the change. 104. PAST. At one time, the rich plain, spotted with towns and villages, with the broad winding river, the jutting promontory, with the ruined castle or convent, the distant blue receding hills, varying in hue and colouring every instant — at one moment enveloped in every passing cloud, the next in deep repose and majesty of stillness, — while the plain is covered with flocks and herds, and fields of waving golden corn, and waggons drawn by white oxen, laden with Indian wheat or the produce of the vineyard, and smiling children with blue eyes like the colour of the skies, reaping in the fields, and all the goods and benefits of civi- lization joined to opulent rural life. At another time, the barren mountains, the bleak rock, the pine-tree forest, the roar- ing waterfall, the change either to ac- PAST. 105 tivity or to solitude, or to mental repose ; the cliarm of being out of the world, above the world, away from the world and from people, and escaping from the monotony of every-day life and trivial realities; — the delights of being in the sun, or even in the rain or snow; and then the towns — the people in the towns — the new ideas that the new people give you; — the pictures, the theatres, the music — the new friendships, many a time warmer than the old friendships ! And after all this, the charms of change to the inconstant mind, — or the change for the worshipper of novelty, or for the seeker of distractions^ or for the lover of retirement — the power of leaving all and everything at a moment's warning; — that constant future, that the well-trained traveller indulges in; — that AVill-of-the- f3 106 PAST. Wisp, that makes the constant future ; — that hope of the next day, thing, or person, — that hope, bright, wide, and glowing, as is the glorious horizon seen on descending the high hill on a sum- mer's evening. To this, add all the joyousness of uncontrolled liberty that can be imagined; perhaps all this for one whose future may be cloudy, misty, stormy, and still stronger than anything put together; no occasion for a return to the past for those who have no wish to do so. The traveller's life is indeed a charmed life — one whose youth is prolonged to the age of Methuselah, yet, like all else in this life, human nature tires of it — yet see the traveller by profession, how young he looks ! — he has no cares — ^he has no am- bition — he is like the lark — " type of the PAST. 107 wise ;" or like those birds, which migrate at the approach of winter, and return again when a more genial climate suits their feelings — ^yes, the traveller and the lark are the true philosophers, and beat Bacon, Locke, and Newton, out and out. The travellers' journals were entertain- ing journals, they consisted of a journal of the yacht voyage, of an autumn and winter passed in Spain, Portugal, and Italy, of a spring at Palermo, in the agreeable society of a mixture of nations based on Sicilian hospitality. With that spirited and good-natured people the tra- veller finds a home immediately, for the Sicilians are true citizens of the great world in manner, refined in feelings and language, and as hospitable to strangers as though they were barbarians. The travellers then pursued their course to the 108 PAST. East, and after same montlis' residence at Bagdad, Cairo, and Damascus, returned to Europe. The journals report several Sclavonian visits in the chateaus of Hun- gary and Bohemia, amidst liberal politics and feudal grandeur, of a winter at Vienna, in salons, where shone strings of pearls and superb uniforms; of a spring at Varsovie, amidst the Poles, where many a wild and romantic tale encumbers or enriches, {selon,) the amus- ing journals kept by the travellers. Some of these journals treated of religion, phi- losophy, and science; others of trees, flowers, and political economy. And Cecil having regained on her travels a gay and cheerful view of life, wi'ote mth all the spirit of enjoyment of one alive to the charm and ne^vness of a great variety of scenes and persons. PAST. 109 These journals have been read by many- persons, and it has been observed of them that, although all the party had nearly seen the same scenes, and often conversed with the same persons at the same period of time, yet no two journals take the same view of people or things ; they represent persons and events under different colour- ing, and prophesy different results. From this observation may be deduced both the difficidty of writing a true history, or of getting at any historical facts. Long live romance, and what the world calls illusions ! Each journal is tinged with the colour of the writer's mind and prejudices. The journal of Miss Selwyn, who was a young and pretty girl, was a blush-rose journal, or a hundred-leaved rose ; the artist's was I 110 PAST. written in the seventh heaven, which we conclude was blue, slightly streaked with gold; and the journal of Mr. Selwyn, who had known the world well, was of a rich olive green. The return of Cecil and her party to England was a trying moment to all of them. Cecil felt that she had duties to perform in future, mixed with recol- lections of the past, that she would wil- lingly forget. Mr. Selwyn's family affairs made him thoughtful. Catherine Selwyn was engaged to be married, and was im- mediately to leave her father and Cecil, and go with her husband to India; the physician was to carry on his profession in London, and the artist was to labour for a reputation as an artist — dearly bought in the dark street of a great capital. No PAST. Ill one enjoys the return to the land of their forefathers who has no strong ties of aiFection — when there is neither father, mother, brother, sister, wife, husband, nor child, valued or loved, a return to the ways of England is an infliction of itself, until the time comes that you get used to them. M. de Lamartine describes his feelings more eloquently, when, after a life of hberty in the desert of the East, he finds himself at Constantinople, forced into the tyranny and selfishness of the every-day life of a great town ; so, after uncontrolled liberty, is a setthng into home anywhere, into any home, after the life of the traveller ; but to roam always, — and always, — and always, — is the Hfe of the vagabond ; principle repines at it, and will not subscribe to the French traveller's 112 PAST. definition — " La Patrie — le lieu ou Ton est bien;" but, at the moment of per- formance, that term, " settling down," means, " grinding down." When Miss Latimer returned to Eng- land, Lord Eavensleigh had renewed his old intimacy with Lady Arlington. In her house they frequently met, and tacitly agreed to forget the past. Cecil and Lord Ravensleigh were always perfectly good friends ; and in after-life he was of great use to Cecil, who often followed his advice and opinion on matters that he had studied and understood. Perhaps, he regretted Cecil more than Lady Ravens- leigh, had she known it, might quite have liked; but there was no appearance of anything but friendship ; and many per- sons affirmed that he had never had PAST. 113 any thoughts of marrying Cecil, and that it had only been one of the hundred-and- fifty untruths of London, or, had it been othermse, they could not have been such good friends. I 114 PAST. CHAPTER IX. " Tliink not when woman's transient beauty's fled, That all her vanities at once are dead; Succeeding vanities she stUl regards, And, though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards." Pope. . . . . *' Besides, she hath a prosperous art, When she can play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade." Shakspea.ee. Lady Arlington had in her younger days governed what is called, in a population of some millions, " the world of London." Beauty, riches, the political influence of her husband, had all conspired that she should do so. An excellent hand at an election ; a capital song- writer ; ready at PAST. 115 a witty answer ; courageous at an attack ; quick at an epigram, — such she had been. Times were changed as to her position ; she was now a widow, and poor; her beauty gone — her youth gone. Still, she governed London by other means — her tongue. With the spirit of an Amazon, she called forth her wit to her aid. She said that once, in early life, she had fol- lowed Lord Byron's advice, and that it had succeeded. He said to her on some occasion, "Whoever is not for you is against you; mill away, right and left." Accordingly, Lady Arlington did "mill away, right and left ;" sometimes with the finished tact and grace of a London belle ; at other times, to the letter. Every one wished for her protection; her enmity was dreaded. Still, there was good in her; she hated 116 PAST. her fine-lady existence; she despised many whom she governed; and a cha- racter of truth, candour, and heart, gained her. However, she thought these characters rare; and this was the origin of her liking for Cecil, who might say anything to her she pleased, and to whom she became every day more firmly at- tached; and the very circumstance of Cecil's independence of character, and carelessness as to a world that she^ with all her spirit, could not throw off the trammels of, but crouched to (in her own way) for excitement, applause, and amusement, excited her admiration of Cecil, although in words she never could be brought to admit that it did so. In fact, Lady Arlington was like an actress who cannot leave the stage, where she has been clapped and applauded; and PAST. 117 her wit. procured her that applause late in life, after her beauty was gone. The breath of scandal had never touched Lady Arlington ; she had never had a lover in her life, she said ; and the world said it also. With this reputation of being loverless^ she always had done what she pleased; no tete-a-tete had carried scandal with it ; no journeys, no appointments, had called forth wonder or animadversion. When Mr. Fox was an old man, and when she was a young girl just married, he said that he had never heard such eloquence from the lips of man or woman; and Lady Arhngton liked this traditional praise. Her language was flowing, unceasing, grave or gay, foolish or wise, epigrammatic or pathetic, as she chose to make it. She was not a woman 118 PAST. of much reading; she talked, lived, and heard too much, and she had no time for reading; but what she knew, she knew well. Locke, and Bacon, and Shakspeare, and Milton, she knew by heart ; but her favourite books were the Proverbs of Solomon and La Rochefoucault's Maxims. She was rather a holder up of her own sex; foug-ht their o-rievances with advan- tage. She was an excellent friend where she professed friendship. She was very- fond of Cecil, whom she thought the first of human beings — and proud of her; and Cecil admired her beyond anybody. Cecil used to tell Lady Arlington that she reminded her of Portia; and one evening she said to her, " You would have made an excellent lawyer, and I should like you to go to a masquerade, (those were the days of masquerades, ) as PAST. 119 Portia, in the lawyer's gown, and I would go with you as Nerissa." " Twenty years ago, my dear — not now ; you are yourself much more like Portia than I am. " For the four wiiids blow in from every coast Eenowned salters ; and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, "Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colcheus strand, And many Jasons come in quest of her." By-the-bye, I should like you to open the caskets — I grow very tired of seeing them locked up — do you never mean to have them opened? I am afraid not; not that there is any one good enough for you now — now that you have let Lord Ravensleigh go; what a husband that man makes, just as I said he always would make, to that tiresome little woman ! — she is just like a musical snuff- 120 PAST. box, and has about as much soul; the air changes, but the tones never vary! Believe me, Cecil, a Lady Ravensleigh is a much happier woman than a Lady Delamere." Cecil did not answer, and Lady Arling- ton continued — " I must tell you, you have one great fault — a terrible fault, particularly for one in your position, which, from cir- cumstances, is much more that of a man than that of a woman — you rate in- tellect much too highly ; because your first English life was with great pretenders, and terrible falters off in that matter, you fancy that all the evils of life pro- ceed from the want of it ! /, who have seen the world from my cradle, know it is no such thing. I have seen the world in its storms, and affrays, and lulls. PAST. 121 (perhaps the kiUs are much the worst,) and I can assure you that m nine cases out of ten, intellect eats out the heart; you may know your worldly intellect (mind, I say, icorldlif intellect, not your in- tellectual philosopher,) by the mill-stone that hangs round his neck, and on the brazen plate of which is engraved, ''No heart here^ in such large letters that one must be blind not to read them. See, what has happened in the cases of B and of D ; see what your Talleyrands are! My dear Cecil, I tell you it re- quires a double quantity of heart to aid a great intellect; and if it is a woman, or indeed if it is a man, think what a double portion of heart is — what it entails ! Why it is enough to set the whole house on fire — no insurance office would be rich enough to secure its safety ; that VOL. I. G 122 PAST. double dose of heart has but a bad tune of it in the world, and yet your great in- tellect cannot do without it. You often think that some of my best friends have very little intellect, and have given me to know it ; I think that your good-natured, open-hearted, — simple-minded, — straight- forward creature, — has a better chance of both happiness and reputation in this wearisome and provoking world, than your persons, sharp as edge-tools, who cut deeper than they can cure, and whose minds, like mne on the fret, are soon turned into vinegar. Every one falls a victim in life to some one prejudice, for or against ; I have always seen it so, and this one prejudice, for or against, leads them, like Arachne's web, into a labyrinth of woe and error, out of which they seldom find their way. But now I've preached PAST. 123 long enough, and you look puzzled — pen- sive and thoughtful, and not convmced. " But to return to the caskets ; let us see whom we have got. " There is Mr. Vernon, rich — a poet, — a good speaker in the House, very much in love — with himself; there is Sir Francis Estcourt, who will certainly be prime mi- nister one day or other — but those things you don't care for; there is Lord Mal- travers, handsome, intellectual, and who would break a woman's heart without re- morse (he flatters me very prettily, but I know it) don't let us have him^ I en- treat you." Cecil laughed, and assured Lady Arling- ton that she was perfectly secure from Lord Maltravers. " Then there is your French suitor, the Due de Liancourt, with a pedigTee from g2 124 PAST. Charlemagne, the pedantry of a lawyer's clerk, and the prattle of a lady's maid. Oh ! I had nearly forgotten Blue Beard, who wants you for a fourth wife — I don't approve of that either — you positively must not have Blue-Beard. Did you remark the small key of the closet, in which he keeps his wives, that he wears to his watch- chain? I declare I shiver all over when I look at it ; but the man has a conscience ; I recommended him to read the French novel of " La Barbe Bleu," the other night ; and, do you know, he changed colour, and nearly to blue?" " How could you, my dear Lady Arhng- ton, make any jokes on such a subject? He was very sorry for the death of all these women, so soon one after another, and he will never get over it." " Oh ! that one after another so soon^ is an \ PAST. 125 awkward business ; and, as you say, he will never get over it. I don't like any of these suitors, except Sir Francis Estcourt, and you don't like him. So I say with Portia, ' God grant them all a good de- parture?' I see that the caskets never will be opened, and you would willingly let me expire of curiosity rather than have them opened. However, let us, in the meantime go to Mrs. Addiscombe's party, who propitiates me with roses and venison, and has but one idea, divided in these hard times, out of economy, into two — her dog and her husband; but I must say that the most interesting specimen of her domestic life goes on all-fours. CHAPTER X. " Tliougli all the giddy circle they pursue, And old impertinence expel by new, What tender maid but must a victim fall, To one man's treat, but for another's baU ? When Plorio speaks, what virgin coxdd withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? With varying vanities, from every part. They shift the moving toy-shop of their heart." * * ^ ^ 4p PopI'' " Each, as it suits him, takes a sep'rate road, Their one grand object-^marriage a-la-mode : When titles deign with cits to have and hold, And change rich blood for more substantial gold. And honour'd trade from interest turns aside. To hazard happiness for titled pride." ***** Gaeeick. " While peers and dukes, and all their sweeping train. And garters, stars, and coronets appear, And, in soft sounds, 'your grace' salutes the ear." Pope. The above long quotations from the poets of the day will show that the reigns of PAST. 127 George II. and George III. did not very much differ from that of Queen Victoria. During two years, Cecil led the life that wealth and good looks entitle every one to lead in England, and that those persons who have neither wealth nor good looks equally lead. The life of balls and parties is the most monotonous life in the world — a life that annuls the faculties of the mind, that is more wearisome to the spirit than the life of the desert, and that, as Madame de Stael says of it, requires only strong health of body and no mind. There are, however, some classes of persons for whom this life is admirably well suited ; that of the en- tirely empty-minded person — the question- and-answer person — the person to whom movement, motion, a new house, or a new staircase, objects before their eyes — in short, the magic lantern of life, is all that 128 PAST. is required to make them think, feel, or understand. Another class is that of mothers who have to marry their daugh- ters, and in the general uproar and confu- sion of society can best pursue their pur- poses. Another is that of the person, man or woman, who goes into the crowd to look for the corresponding person that they are in search of. There remains, over and above all these persons, the great mass of man and woman kind, not under these circumstances, and those the very best and the most intellectual of the upper ranks of life. On the Continent, these persons have all their small sets, and it could immediately be known who they are with, or where they are, or to what society they hold ; and if heads of families, and rich, they are generally surrounded by relations and dependents. In Eng- land it is not thus: these persons dis- PAST. 129 appear; they have no social existence; and it is as utterly impossible to say what becomes of them — who they live for — ivhat they live for — as to say what becomes of all the puis — which is a question that has puzzled all the philosophers. If they are not seen, if they are not named, in the public life of England, they are considered as morally dead. If they live, they are hardly worth naming; if they die, it is true they have Christian burial given them ; but you are informed, along with their death, that they have long ceased to live in the world, which means, they did not go to parties, balls, or operas. This is one side of the ques- tion; but there is another side of the question, that in this isolement d^existance^ unknown abroad in continental society, hundreds of thousands of the greatest, G 3 130 PAST. richest, and best-born of this country, live by choice, preferring it, of the two evils, to the slavery of the followers of the world ; delighting in their liberty and independence, and in getting food and sleep unmolested and unnoticed. The Spectator declares that he left his lodg- ings because his landlady asked him how he did, which is no exaggerated picture of the population of a great part of the Enghsh nation. " I am like the woman in Tennyson's ballad — weary of my Hfe — weary — weary!" said Cecil, one day, to Lady Arlington. " This artificial life of Lon- don, for so many long months of the year, tires me. I am a stupid person — a bore not only to others, but to myself; and cannot find anything to say to people, yet I could describe exactly PAST. 131 what makes a person acceptable and liked in London; but I never could be that person. It is, to take the outside — the cream of tilings; leave what is under- neath for those who come after you — pause not ; stay not two moments on the same subject; investigate not; smooth over the gossip ; skim along your subject ; oflide, like those little boats seen on the Serpentine River, that a wave or a gust of wind may overthrow; and to carry on the parallel further, if you are swamped, some one belonging to the Humane Society may pick you up, for no one else will do so : in short, I am quite tired of it all; and but for you, who keep me alive, I would fain be a sister of charity ; or, from pure ennui, pore over books and pictures, and live in peace for the rest of my days, at Ashdown." 132 PAST. " My dear Cecil," said Lady Arlington, " what are you saying in a fit of dissatis- faction ? The great heiress, weary ! — the heroine of Victor Hugo's prettiest ballad, ' La Dame aux Tresses d'Or,' weary ! — the o"vvner of such a pearl necklace, with such a clasp, weary! — the object of so many women's envy, weary ! — the object of so many men's ambition, weary! Talk to me not of weary, I beg of you ! And what would you do at Ashdown? Such a place for a woman like you to go to! It is much too near the manufacturing districts, in these days of mobs and distress. Some day, when you go out to take a drive, you will have a pistol thrust into your carriage, and your purse and watch, or your life, asked for. I assure you that PAST. 133 Mr. Adair tells me that the whole country- is now quite unsafe and unfit for Mrs. Adair to be there — much more for you, who must live in a great country-house by yourself. He says that the people are a bad and worthless population, un- tameable and irreclaimable. And as to book learning, which would be your great resource, what can be the use of growing pale over books, and becoming as yellow as Mrs. Grimsthorpe^ who is grown a perfect fright, since she has taken to be a blue-stocking? What can you want with the arts and sciences ; for have you not the great science of all — the science of the world — at your command? Do you not know enough already ? and if you do not, I can help you: reading, writing, and arithmetic, is more than enough for any woman; and what is the use of 134 PAST. puzzling one's brains and ruining one's eyes with book-learning?" " I assure you, my dear Lady Ailing- ton, nothing would make me lead the life I do lead but living with you ; you have to answer for all my faults and follies." " I do, my dear. Faults, you have none ; and as to follies, none greater than your present ridiculous idea of giving up the world, and living in the country merely because you are out of spirits. I must not let you commit so irretrievable a folly ; for nothing could be so great a folly, with the exception of one that you are never likely to commit — making a foolish marriage. You are not at all the sort of woman who ought to go and vegetate in the country, amidst green trees and green fields; or turn your mind to what a woman never should PAST. 135 turn her mind to — country business. What could you do in a large country house, but bring persons together who do not want to meet, and have little to say to each other? A country house is a dangerous experiment, and a woman must be a great philosopher to try it; and women are but philosophers of the moment." " Here is Miss Latimer very much out of humour -with London," said Lady Arlington to Lord Kavensleigh, who entered the room at that moment. " She is complaining of the 'glissez, n'appuyer pas,' of our London existence; that we never see in the London world what persons think, feel, or understand; that ' le moi' that pervades the whole is as strong as a coat of mail that defies shot or arrow from without, and that it is a 136 PAST. moi that dullifies within, like smoke or opium." " How you have translated my thoughts, without my uttering them," said Cecil, laughing. " What can Lord Ravensleigh think of such a sweeping charge?" "What is the great fault to be com- plained of?" he inquired; "for of httle faults there is no end." "A total want of truth — an indifference to truth," said Cecil. " Civilization and refinement so prevent the expression of any feeling — of anything strong, or clear, or decided in society, that it has put truth away altogether. The most pro- found selfishness and unconcern strike you everywhere; and where any strong feeling is shown, it is so uncommon and out of its place, that it appears as absurd as it is ridiculous." PAST. 137 " This is a strong charge, and I fear has much truth in it. The only answer to be made is, that almost all great capitals are the same. The Russians and M. de Custine will tell you thus of Petersburg; the foreigner who has lived long at Vienna or Paris wiU say the same. It is the evil of the refined society of great towns or great masses of persons; and wherever a thoughtless, confused, or dull state of society exists, indifference on one side brings reserve on the other side, with ridicule held over the head of both parties ; and the more civihzation progresses, the more we become things of steel or iron- manufactured creatures." " Is it not a wearisome state of society to live in for months together?" said Cecil. " The pleasure, however, is great," re- 138 PAST. plied Lady Arlington, " of pulling the wires of the machinery ; and now that I am called on to do it for your amusement, I shall become expert in the management of them." " You are very expert, my dear Lady Arlington; but I think you might try your skill on some persons in vain. What think you of Lady Winterton ? There is the highest produce of civiHzation and manufactures that the country can pro- duce. She is arrived at every possible perfection that this great kingdom can furnish in the moulding of form and metal." " And," said Lady Arlington, " without any creak in the machinery — all well oiled and smooth; and so well done that the joins in the brass plates are not visible. No importation of foreign manufacture PAST. 139 can compete with her; and in this case native manufacture can defy foreign pro- duce. Manchester or Birmingham may well be proud of her ; still, she is but a Birmingham creation, with all her civiliza- tion ; although Lord Winterton may pass her off for a real woman." " It is a piece of mechanism that costs him enormously dear," said Lord Ravens- leigh ; " but to me, the voice betrays the macliinery; you feel it to your fingers' ends ; like a galvanic wire, the inflections are wiry, coppery, and metallic." " It is aU very well to laugh about," rejoined Cecil ; " but one has no sympathy with a world where there is neither warmth nor light. You must have one or the other, or the commerce of life degenerates into a milk-and-water gossip ; and lucky it is if it is milk-and-water." 140 PAST. " I veiy much doubt the mischief of gossip," said Lady Arlington. "I am inclined to think that those ' airy tongues that syllable men's names' are very good things." "And I doubt the mischief even of calumny," added Lord Ravensleigh. " The old wily Cardinal de Retz, who knew causes and effects better than any one, says that all that does no injury is of real use to the person or the cause attacked." " The gossip of the world," said Lady Arlington, " is an Amazonian police ; it costs Government nothing. The expense is defrayed by persons who may be known by certain marks, Avho undertake it for the good of the public, and who carry it on for their own private pleasure, and what is done willingly is generally done well." PAST. 141 " And what are those marks ?" inquired Lord Ravensleigh, laughing, "by which those persons may be known?" " Open that volume of ' Lavater,' and you will see. Look at that print, there is an angle of No. 1, with No. 2, that runs in a curve into No. 3. It is quite easy to comprehend; no theory of a science, but fact exemplified; it is given in a young and pretty face, to show that it is born with the woman,' and not one of your Lady Sneerwells ; but what is termed in these days a pre-disposed subject. This is a model gossipper, not one of your strong robust constitutions ; but one of a jealous disposition, and, as Lady Teazle says, ' so tenacious of reputation that she will not allow any share of it to any one but herself.' Ask her physician? he will tell you that it is puttmg her out of the 142 PAST. world to deprive her of it ; she exists on it quite as much as she does on puree or potage. " " Depend on it, gossip and scandal go on just the same as in Pope or Sheridan's days," said Lord Ravensleigh ; " neither better nor worse ; the only difference is, that in those days the ' lady's scandal o'er her tea' was after dinner, and now it is be- fore dinner ; but scandal and tea were then drank stronger — the refined nerves of these days require both tea and scandal weaker, and the civilization and indiffer- ence that so much strike Miss Latimer in London society has necessarily made them weaker." " Therefore," said Cecil, " the only thing we have to look to is, that civiliza- tion will so progress, as to make gossip so utterly insipid that it cannot be swallowed at aU." PAST. 143 " And then society will not be tenable," interrupted Lady Arlington, " for persons will have something to talk and laugh about — it does no harm." " You think not," said Lord Ravens- leigh, " because you never gave any cause for scandal, and have an intellect that can and will brave the world of gossip, and no affectation in your character; but ask those persons who have given cause for scandal what they think?" " ' Qu'il n'y a pas de longues injus- tices,' as wrote Madame de Sevigne, two hundred years ago," replied Lady Arling- ton. "Madame de Sevigne meant it seri- ously," rejoined Cecil; "suppose you die before you receive justice, or that it is a suit in Chancery?" " Why that is a hard case as you put it." 144 PAST. " There is no doubt," said Lord Ravens- leigli, " that a London life is but a bad life for women's heads, hearts, and health — all suffer ; this life for women is what the army used to be for men during the Penin- sular War ; the public see the conquerors who remain, and forget the dead left on the field of battle ; the victorious remain ; food and excitement keep them up to their business ; but it is only a certain character that bears the wear and tear ; the great mind hates the drawing-room life; the sentimental imagination recoils from it. No wonder that persons complain of the coldness of drawing-room society, when one thinks of who are left to compose it." PAST. 145 CHAPTER XI. Cecil continued to lead the ordinary London life for a year or two ; led on by friends and examples, dinners, parties, balls and operas incessantly succeeded each other; at last, she grew completely tired of it. Lord and Lady Ravensleigh, Lady Arlington, and herself, determined to stay entirely at home ; leave the great Babel of the world, and try and have a society of their own at quiet hours, placing it on the same footing as several houses are open on the Continent, (or were open until the 24th of Febl-uary, 1848) where persons VOL. I. H 146 PAST. meet together in small numbers, and do not think it dull to meet. They said that they would try it, but they did not feel sure that it would answer, either as to j)leasing themselves or their friends. Lord and Lady Ravensleigh accordingly re- mained at home every night, and asked their friends to come to them. Persons thought it dull, and pitied each other for being obliged to look at the magnificent pictures on the walls at Ravensleigh House, or at the four gilt tea-pots on Lady Ravensleigh's beautiful tea-table. Cecil then took it up ; she had just fitted up her house in Cavendish Square with that taste which she was known to possess ; it was the work of foreign artists, after difi*erent things that she had seen abroad ; and the beauty of her house, and her own peculiar position, brought every one whom she had PAST. 147 chosen to invite ; but as soon as they had gratified their curiosity about her, and about the house, they were tired of it ; the whole became, as she said herself, dull, heavy, and a bore. It all did better in Park Lane, at Lady Arlington's, where the furniture was dirty the carpets worn out, and the house ill lighted. They agreed to stay at home by turns, and at last, persons not invited, fancied that what was so very select must be very charming. In vain those who were there told their friends it was duU ; the not being invited became an insult. Lady Arlington laughed at them, and en- joyed it ; but Lord Ravensleigh and Cecil, who had both a great clanship of relations, took the matter seriously, and found it ne- cessary to enlarge their invitations, and the evenings became by degrees totally differ- h2 1 48 PAST. ent to anything that they had dreamt of having — a crowd, an assembly, a mix- ture of persons ; and gradually every per- son of the world was seen in these houses. At last, they found the saying came true, " Que les ennuyeux ne veillent jamais," — translated into English, "Tiresome per- sons cannot sit up, except for a ball." This came to their understandings. At twelve o'clock, their houses were cleared ; every person went off to the ball, or to sleep against the next ball, and the shawls and cloaks were called for and put on^ just as Cinderella's slipper was put off^ at that mao^ical hour of twelve. Then began, for those who remained or who arrived, the most gay and intellectual society that London had seen for many years: " de causerie en causerie," it went on until three or four o'clock in the morn- PAST. 149 ing, as if it were not London. All who were brilliant, agreeable, witty, or amusing, came there, and many to listen to those who possessed those qualifications. They came from the baUs, from the clubs, from the opera, from the Houses of Par- liament ; they came for a cup of tea, for a witty saying, for a glass of iced cham- pagne, or to hear what was going on. For six weeks it was brilliant — too bril- liant to last; it excited much jealousy; it made many enemies: a thousand things were said to have been said there that never were said; and as there is nothing perfect under the sun (or moon), the health of both Lady Ravensleigh and Cecil suffered severely from the lateness of the hours. Lord Ravensleigh took his wife to the south of France; Lady Arlington went to the German spas ; and 150 PAST. Cecil retired to the Avoods and forests of Ashdown, where it was many weeks before she regained her usual health. However, the trio had intended to re- new it late in the season the following year. Providence ordered matters other- wise. Cecil enjoyed society occasionally, excessively — -that is, the conversation of particular persons; but she was begin- ning to see things with a more philo- sophic eye — not, perhaps, with a micro- scope, but with "des lunettes d'approche;" and if you look at the world through any glass, it should be coloured glass — couleur de rose^ or the bright blue of hope. She loved all that was ornament and decora- tion passionately. The furnishing her house amused her of all things; even the sewing on of the Latimer diamonds to a Holbein costume of one of her ancestors, PAST. 151 copied from a picture at Ashdown, which she wore at the ball at court, amused her ; all the world exclaimed at her beauty that night, and that amused her, and pleased her still more. Cecil's good looks wore well ; she was stiU excessively pretty, and at times beautiiul. She had no con- ceit or affectation in her character; she was too sensible not to be fully aware of the value of beauty — the first gift to woman. The misfortune is, that if this great gift is unaccompanied by two or three other gifts, it turns into a curse: like the bumps on the head, in phrenology, without harmony amongst them, they be- come misfortunes and defects: even the greatest gift becomes so, for no great gift comes to mortals unattended by sources of joy and sorrow. She had lived long in countries where beautiful objects 152 PAST. abounded in nature and art; and with the spirit of decoration in her blood from her father's ancestors, she would even go so far as to own that the being obliged to look in the glass* at an ugly, instead of at a pretty object, "that gave her back the image of her soul," would have made her excessively uncomfortable and unhappy, and that the harmony of the picture quieted her mind.f However, she would add, "All this sounds very ridi- culous, and at Ell they would think me eat up with vanity or affectation, were I to own to it; but one should like one's dog or one's cat to be the very best look- ing dog or cat — why not oneself ?" Cecil's * " A heavenly image in tlie glass appears ; To that she bends, to that her eye she rears." Pope. + "So their minds take in The forms of their beloved, and them reflect." Milton. PAST. 153 good looks had always been " un fait ac- compli ;" they were her portion in this life ; they belonged to her feelings and to her soul, and she drew no more vanity from them than she would do from pos- sessing the name of Cecil Latimer. She was always dressed with perfect taste, suitably to the occasion and to her style of beauty ; talked but little of dress, and seldom harassed her thoughts with specu- lations in fancies and novelties of the fashion of the moment — " Nor oft in dreams invention did bestow To change a flounce or add a furbelow.' Neither did she, as years came succes- sively on, like the lady in the old Scotch ballad, call to her women — " My maids, come to my dressing bower. And deck my nut-brown hair ; Where ye laid a plait before, Look ye lay ten times mair." h3 154 PAST. The autumn that followed this gay Lon- don season Cecil passed mostly alone at Ashdown; her philosophy was put to the test by solitude, but she was full of busi- ness, and as time passed on, she said to herself, "One should live for something better than what one lives for in London ;" and the time was coming when she would say, " One should live for something better than happiness ; there are holier motives than worldly happiness for exertion." The time, however, was not yet come for her to make this reflection; and she was going to London, and looking for- ward to having Ashdown fidl of her friends and her society for the next summer and autumn. Soon after Cecil came to town, there was a ball at court. Lady Arlington was not well, and Cecil entreated her to PAST. 155 take care of herself, but in vain. She left her bed to go to the ball, and when she returned home, it was never again to leave her house. Three days after this ball. Lady Arlington died — cut off in a career of success, of amusement, of merri^ ment, and of worldliness unexampled. It was an awful lesson. She had had many friends, many flatterers, many enemies — had done many a kind action, and was the queen of the most talented, witty, laughing, intellectual society in England ; yet this woman's death, awful in its sud- denness, was but lamented in the intervals of Ecarte. Some fine phrases were ex- pended on her subject, and some of her friends doubted whether they should go out that evening, before they went to dress for the dinner or the party; but their doubts were resolved into going to 156 PAST. the dinner or to the party : such a power does that which survives exercise over that which is gone ! Cecil was inconsolable ; she had lost the most attached friend, the most agreeable companion — all, in fact, that reaUy did attach her to the London world. She ap- peared no more in town that year; and after this event, taking with her one of her cousins, a girl of fourteen, she went to Switzerland for the summer. PAST. 157 CHAPTER XII. " Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around ; Every shade and hallowed fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound." — Geay. For a sick mind — seared, regretting, un- happy, and regretting that which is mixed with reflections of the most painful sort — the only cure is in the scenery of Nature — grand, smiling, beautiful Nature. There is nothing like the mountains and valleys of Switzerland for a total change ; the cha- racter of the scenery, the pure mountain air, the perpetual variation of the atmo- 158 PAST. sphere, the change of clouds and climates, is the best change and chance of this mortal life that can take place. On those mountains we are, in fact, nearer to heaven in our thoughts than we are on earth at any other time. The storms and the tem- pests are formed in the valleys, and float in mist and vapour below us — an image of that life, of the world which at that moment we are soaring above; and our souls are in that exalted state which makes us — great philosophers of the in- stant — fluctuating, feeble, evanescent mortals as we are, that the thunder- clouds, the vapour, and the sun afi'ect thus. As we hurry away from these mountains, we become earthly — earthly — earthly again! Many a person repents on those mountains, and resolves on those mountains; but as they descend, PAST. 159 eartUy cares, earthly thoughts, return with the weight of the atmosphere — lower, and lower, and lower — weighing us down with reflections and trifling thoughts that we were free from, above in the clouds. Small and worthless ideas, httle trivial notions, assail us as we come down to the village, the town, and the world ; so much so, that we have the feeling that it is a grander nature of bemg — a grander cha- racter that must exist upon those moun- tain-tops, not pent in to the close and bounded atmosphere of the vaUey. It was on those mountains, where, Hke a Peruvian, you are often called to adore the sun at sunrise and sunset, that Cecil made many a resolution as to a change — as to not leading in London such a life of entire amusement. While the pure air of heaven blew upon her and her young 160 PAST. enthusiastic companion, she determined to turn her mind in some way to a more rational course of existence, and for the remainder of her life, at least to put in hand something that might tend to the well-being of her fellow-creatures. These thoughts occupied her mind whilst walking down from the Rhigi to- wards Lucerne, after sun-rise. She had contemplated, that morning, the most mag-' nificent sight that nature can show — the most beautiful siglit in the world — and as she was placed between heaven above, and was looking at the paradise of flowers be- neath her feet, she and the little girl with her pitied their London friends and family at that time leaving the heated ball-room, or coming home from the wear and tear of the Houses of Lords and Commons. It was a lovely, still, summer's day ; and the PAST. 161 black pine forest surrounded the blue fathomless lakes with the high mountains of various hues further off, the sun tinting with its beams the eternal snow of cen- turies, the whole of the vivid colouring reflected in the pure mirror of waters, the rich Alpine meadows of the country greet- ing their eyes as they descended the hills with grass, and clover enamelled with the deep blue gentian, the yeUow gentian, and numerous other ornamental flowers, while the rapid streams in the valleys were bor- dered with oak, beech, and hornbeam, and scattered in all directions were the little villages of that most picturesque archi- tecture of cottages to be seen in any country. It was a smiling scene — a happy view of the world even for the misan- thropist to contemplate. After passing some time in the valley 162 PAST. of Interlaken, Cecil went to Brienz, Thun, and then to Berne, and, with a view to having schools established in her own villages, she passed much of her time at HofwyU, and in the institutions of Pestalozzi and Fellenberg, and afterwards established herself in the old romantic town of Freyburg. Freyburg is like an old German town of the middle ages, aU full of traditions, placed in the most mag- nificent Swiss scenery. It has long been the stronghold of catholic Switzerland, and not far off the Jesuits have placed their convent and college, apparently as securely as the rocks and mountains by which it is surrounded — the two bridges of this town suspended in the air, thrown across the tremendous abyss, seemingly by the hand of a magician, or by some super- natural agency, made it unlike any other PAST. 163 town that can be seen. In the intervals between mountain excursions, the cathe- dral organ, with its music — the finest organ in Europe — had charms for Cecil. Liszt, the musician and composer, was at Frey- burg at that time, and Cecil, having dis- covered that he went daily to the cathe- dral, to play on the organ, went with her companion, and sat behind a pillar, or beneath the figure of a sculptured stone monument, while Liszt drew forth such sounds from the ponderous and enormous instrument as would " take the rapt soul, and lap it," not always " in Elysium," but when Liszt pleased to lap it. He would then give the feelings, the passions, or the repentance from passions, that he pleased to express; he imparted to the music a soul of passion, a solidity, and strength, or a wildness that was startling — his was an 164 PAST. enlarged view of the powers of music over the soul, with the power of executing these notions, and he was so entirely satis- fied with the grandeur of the instrument that he played on, that he told Cecil that it was the first time that he had ever been able to work up his compositions as he wished. He would on this organ give whole stories, often from Scripture, and as he was composing a mass for the cathe- dral, the canons gave him the free use of the instrument. Liszt would improvise the call to battle or to liberty, then the storm on the lake, the deaths in battle, the retreating army, the military funeral — at another time, a mass with the lament of a soul in pur- gatory, the tonnents and reasonings of the punished sinner — at another time, a death- bed, with confession and absolution. He PAST. 165 had a passion for the old national airs of each nation, and he wound them up so strangely and poetically as to tell so true a tale that words seemed useless, and his strange and baroque music, drawn from the novels of his friends Victor Hugo and Dumas, would often in a long evening put the piano-forte to agonies that had to go through some volumes of Monte Christo or Esmeralda of young France. Cecil saw a great deal of Liszt that summer, and he gave her totally different ideas as to the power of music from any that even her Italian mind had conceived. He composed for her choruses and chants fit for a rural population, such as she proposed making use of in England, should she be able to get her people suffi- ciently well instructed to do so. Attracted by the charms of music, the 166 PAST. beauty of the scenery, the interest attached to the schools for the instiniction of the lower classes, and the society of some few persons whom she had become acquainted with, Cecil staid on in Switzerland, until a deep snow reminded her that it was time to find her way back to England. She said that it was the first useful year that she had ever spent with a view of being useful, and she laid the foundation in those months for much of her future life. It is certain that on many natures a change comes over the character on getting rid of many of the trivial frivolities of the conventional life of London, or that same London car- ried into the country, and now so quickly carried by railroad, that change of air has little or no effect on it. It is some foreign writer who says that the instant you are away from your native land, " on sent dans son esprit des pretentions que se reposent," PAST. 167 and all the powers of your mind awake, you become yourself — you are no longer the parrot that imitates, or the monkey that laughs — no longer do you live in an arti- ficial atmosphere of conventions which suit but a certain class of mind, and out of which certain classes of minds should never carry the restraints imposed on them, or the powers which suit those conven- tions. Even supposing that it is to the monotony of retirement that that imnd re- tires, both mind and imagination quiet down into harmonious music ; but the mo- notony of the great world does not quiet the mind ; if it does not amuse or interest, it harasses, fatigues, and torments — if it does not disgust, which it sometimes does. When Cecil got back to England, she found her presence much wanted at Ash- down. Every one had been called to their homes. It was the winter of fires — 168 PAST. of disturbances— of discontent — of dis- tress, and of scarcity; and all those who had landed property were now convinced that it was time not only to look after their own property, but that something must be done for the lower classes, and they were called on to act not only with charity but with courage. The following beautiful verses were written that trying winter : — " Is this a time to plant and build, Add house to Louse, and field to field. When round our walls the battle lowers, When mines are hid beneath our towers. And watcliful foes are stealing round To search and spoil the holy groxmd ? " Is this a time for moonlight dreams Of love and hope by mazy streams — For Fancy, with her shadowy toys. Aerial hopes and pensive joys, While souls are wandering far and wide, And curses swarm on every side ? PAST. 169 ' No ! — ^rather let thy melting heart To act the martyr's sternest part, To watch, with firm unshaken eye. Thy darhng visions — as they die ; TlU all bright hopes and hues of day Have faded into twilight gray. ' Yes — let them pass without a sigh ; And if the world seem dull and dry, If long and sad thy lonely hours, And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers. Bethink thee what thou art, and where, — A sinner in a life of care." VOL. I. PRESENT. i2 " This is the place ! — stand still, my pen, Let me review the scene. And summon from the shadowy Past The fonns that once have been. The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time's flowing tide, — Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side." Longfellow. " The time which passes over our heads so imper- ceptibly, makes the same gradual change in habits, manners, and character, as in personal appearance, at the revolution of every five years. We find ourselves another and yet the same. There is a change of views, and no less of the light in which we regard them, — a change of motives, as weU as of actions." Walteb Scott. PRESENT. CHAPTER XIII. "Tilings bear different faces. With Trme everything wears a double face, like Janus." Gentle reader, whoever thou art, read no more, unless thou art of the nature that delighteth in old houses, old trees, sunny slopes, mossy terraces, an old library, old pedigrees, the portraits of old uncles and aunts. Unless thou art of a contemplative mood, read not; for thou wilt disdain my woods, and dells, and prospects; for the world is grown old, and its pleasures are gone and done with. 174 PRESENT. Fifteen years had now passed since Cecil Latimer had inherited the lands of her forefathers; and how much had occurred in those fifteen years! What an entire change had come over society, in all its usages! Views of life and customs had changed; a new race had sprung up, and with a new race, new ideas gave laws to the kingdom, with altered notions as to rights and wrongs ; some things were changed for the better, a few only for the worse. No change had brought such decided changes in the habits of social existence, as railways. Aladdin's lamp is no longer an Arabian tale. Age, babyhood, folly, and wisdom, were now equally transportable as bales of goods, and were made travellers of. The ponderous pere de famille leaves his substantial home in the morning, and PRESENT. 175 goes one hundred and fifty miles to as substantial a luncheon, and returns an- other one hundred and fifty miles to his dinner. It is true he cannot tell much on his return, but he says, " Rail- ways are comfortable things." Adieus and farewells are left to old-fashioned persons, for fleeting existence and rail- ways may bring you back immediately. Fewer tears are shed between kindred hearts, since civilization has thus pro- gressed, and a serrement de coeur receives no sympathy in the noise and confusion of a great railway station. All the pro- gress and business of life is shortened. In former days we read that life was a race, now we know it. Fifteen years had now passed, and the heavy-laden travelling-carriage was no longer dragged down the steep hills by the four post- 176 PRESENT. horses ; nor did the broad-wheeled, heavy wagon longer ply on the liigh roads, or move the household croods. No lonorer o o did it take two days for the mistress and the maids to find their way the hundred- and-twenty miles between Cavendish- square and Ashdown; four hours of time now transplanted the whole concern, much to the injury of its aristocratic dignity, and much to the comfort of its mistress. It was a beautiful day in the first week in September — one of those days partaking more of summer than of autumn, when the sun is warm and reviving, when all is so bright in crea- tion as to make the mind bright at looking on it, but when the afternoon becomes more gloriously lovely, in brighter rays and deeper shadows flit- PRESENT. 177 teriiig through the forest and playing over the grass, and when the dew and vapour rise after a hot sun, long before the shades of evening appear, — a mass of dense wood, of oak and beech that already had begun to show the mixed autumnal hues, rose, wave above wave, high on the hills to the right, — a lady in the train on the railroad, looking at the Railroad Guide, reads: — "Ashdo^vn Forest, the propei-ty of Miss Latimer: beyond, four miles off, is the ancient manorial residence of the Latimers, part of the building of Edward VI. 's reign remains, built by Walter de Latimer; the remainder of the mansion is of the reigns of Elizabeth and James I." " I wish 1 could see Ashdown," said a gentleman in the train to another traveller. " It cannot be seen ; it is never shown I 3 178 PRESENT. to any one unless Miss Latimer is absent ; but, if you Trish to see the grounds, you had better go to church, to the new church, on a Sunday afternoon — the grounds are then thrown open to every one." " Wliat sort of person is Miss Lati- mer?" inquired a traveller. " She has been a beauty, and is now a good-looking woman ; she is eccentric, like all the Latmiers, and has a will of her own; but she makes a capital landlord, and it will be a bad day for this county when anything happens to her." The lady left the train at the station, and got into a carriage that was there waiting for her. From the station the road winds up a gradual, gentle ascent through the forest ; the shades of evening were coming on, and had turned into twihght before Mrs. Hope reached Ash- PRESENT. 179 down, the long shadows played amongst the oaks of enormous size, the tall white- stemmed birch, " the lady of the forest," the heavy and deep-coloured beech-trees, threw their massive shadows over holly ' and furze, and brier, and ferns, and here and there were seen openings of glades of mosses of tender green, fit for a carpet, or partial ravines with water, round which the deer were grouped or grazing, un- scared by the passenger. There was no park; Ashdown had escaped the shears and clipping of Kent, Brown, and Eeptbn, owing either to the absence or to the ruin of the proprietor to whom it belonged in their days — consequently, the house did not stand like " the tented Arab," in a field called a park, "Doom'd, bcggar'd, and outraged, — Shorn of its fair proportions." 180 PRESENT. The eastern side of a range of buildings looked upon an ancient garden, separated only by an architectural ancient court or screen, from the forest, and open to the forest on the south side ; at the very top of the hill stood the mansion, where for- merly resided the earls of the great catholic family of Latimer. The more modern parts of AshdoA\ai was a mixture in its architecture of Hard- wicke and Bolsover; the entrance was of the time of Elizabeth, the windows, on the ground floor, barred, protected, and se- cured, as the times and the state of the country at that period called for ; it was a small hall of entrance, from which you passed on to the large staircase on the left, or to the inward great hall, occupy- ing the whole of the middle of the house. This great hall had immense windows PRESENT. 181 entirely up the north side of the house ; two oralLeries on the two floors which com- c municated with rooms, of&ces, and gar- dens, and a high coved ceiling which went to the roof of the building. Passing through the haU of entrance, to the left, a walnut staircase went to the floor over; immense windows of lozenge- shaped glass, with coloured armorial bear- ings in the centre of each compartment, diminished the gloom of the dark carved wood on the wainscot and roof. All was done to counteract the sombre and severe look of those stairs. At the bottom was almost a conservatory of orange-trees and other plants ; on the staircase was a rich Persian carpet of bright colours, the walls were hung with pictures, and on the spacious landing-place were clocks, cabi- nets, Indian jars, confidences and bergeres, 182 PRESENT. covered with fine old Lyons velvets, or bright tapestry, which gave this staircase the appearance of a drawing-room, and from thence through a massive door of walnut wood, having a portiere of many- coloured Lyons velvet, you entered the square gallery which connected with the rest of the house. The entrance-haU, the great haU, mth its upper and lower galleries, the wahiut staircase, two bed-rooms, and the princi- pal room of the house, the Holbein Room, as it was called, from the number of paint- ings it contained by the hand of that master, were of the time of Elizabeth, of the old manorial architecture, having its windows in recesses as large as small rooms, the windows reaching to the very ceiling, each window of the small lozenge-shaped pane in metal set- PRESENT. 183 tings, with the armorial bearings of the gayest colours half way up. The fitting up of the interior of these rooms was of the old Flemish period, of large fire-places where logs of wood, like trees, were burnt; of great carved chim- ney-pieces, projecting into the room, and connected by huge stripes of massive carving supporting the ceiling itself. The chinmey-piece of the Holbein Room almost occupied one side of the apartment with its ornaments and projections; Gibbons had done something to its carvings later than the Flemish period, and the marks of his hands Lq the carving of birds, fruit, and flowers, in the gayer and fighter woods of lime and pale oak, could be distinctly traced from the superb and heavy Flemish work of Van Huysum, of heads of men and women, of animals, of fishing and 184 PRESENT. huntmf]^ scenes, recorded in the darkest oak and walnut of a much earlier period. Over the chimney-piece, sunk in the carving, was a portrait by Holbein of Katherine Parr in her younger days, who was the widow of a Lord Latimer, when Henry VI 1 1, married her. The walls, of wainscot, were covered with pictures, some of which were in the massive gilt frames of former days; but the greater part were sunk mto the wall in carved woods, and had never been moved since the room was fitted up. The two recesses or small rooms were now arranged ^vith writing and drawing tables ; and around, were ivory and ebony cabinets, silver ornaments, old Venetian glass, and a curious collection on ruby velvet, in large ebony frames, of minia- tures, from the days of Holbein down to PRESENT. 185 those of Oliver, Hoskins, and Cooper, representing the Cavaliers and Repub- licans. There was Oliver Cromwell by the side of Charles, and Sir Heniy Wooten and Sir Richard Fanshawe by the side of Mrs. Hutchinson and the Countess of Carlisle, and Lady Digby; and Ludlow, Waller, and Fairfax, near Clarendon, Dry- den, and Milton: further on, Pettitots, gay and lively ladies of the days of Louis XIY., and a regular series of ancestors, fi^om Zinke's period to the present day. In this fine collection, not only was the beauty, and the wit, and the politician to be found, but also hung there many a lock of fair hair and dark hair, many a love -token, many a wedding present, and, along Avitli the joys of life, many a mourning ring, with hair and inscription — and many a relic from the 186 PRESENT. East, from the Holy Land, from Loretto, from Rome, from San Antonio at Padua, where lay the bones of some of the Latimers of the old catholic race. Half of these curious relics had been, in their day, valued, blessed, worn next hearts, or relinquished by hearts — obtained at im- mense price, or given up at immense sacrifice. The beautiful or the curious remain; the hair we behold, but where are the hearts? This Holbein room, as it was called, was totally unlike any other room that could be seen ; with its bright lights, its (ieep shadows, its grand, sublime, yet comfortable appearance, it was a room where generations had lived in honesty and good will; and as the warriors and stately dames looked out of their frames from on high, upon the present race, they PRESENT. 187 seemed to take a sort of surveillance and charge of the more delicate and less phi- losophical occupiers of the room ; and it seemed as if aU the fritter of life would be almost an insult in the presence or to the memory of these grand-looking per- sonages — creatures in whom the beating of the heart was so even and regulated, as to cany with them that power that strong minds have over weak minds, and that gifted the philosophers of those days with patience which unravelled mysteries, and led to truths that have remained truths for centuries. The furniture of the room had been renewed a century ago from the looms of France : it consisted of curtains that drew aside from the windows and doors, of crimson damask, with black flowers, lined with white damask; iimnense vases of 188 PRESENT. Eastern, Dutch, and Dresden china, stood in various j)arts of the room, having flowers in them ; comfortable chairs of aU sorts, and piled-up cushions of Persian and Georgian stuffs, were substitutes for sofas and ottomans; and it was evident that the modern upholsterer had never found his way into the Holbein Room at Ashdown. There were carved desks and screens out of convents and monasteries, but there was neither looking-glass, biihl, or showiness ; yet it was grand and gay — a mixture of flowers, sun, and serious- ness — of warmth and depth — of the solidity of another age — of a former race of iron-constituted beings, mixed up with the habits of life of the present day. The view from the two recesses, which were aU window, extended over a sea of forest to the windings of a river in the PRESENT. 189 vale below; and at a great distance the point of the Cathedral of Lichfield could just be seen, and above a wide and dis- tinct horizon of the blue hills, motlej- colouring and tints of the Derbyshire moors ; the whole embracing a very great and varied extent of scener}^ 190 PRESENT. CHAPTER XIY. " I'll live a private, pensive, single life." Old Play. The room that has just been described was partially lighted before dinner, on a fine September evening. A fire was burn- ing on an enormous hearth, not far from which a woman was sitting in a tapestry chair of vivid colours ; and a young girl was reading to her from a clasped pon- derous volume. A large good-natured looking dog had placed his ears on the massy folds of the black velvety gown which the lady wore, PRESENT. 191 anxiously looking up, and expecting to be stroked by the fair hand of his mis- tress. The lady had evidently been very beautiful; the fair hair still remained, and was dressed with care ; a small black lace handkerchief was thrown over it, and the seriousness of her dress was reheved by a large pearl necklace, that hung across the gown. The distant comer of the very large apartment was partially lighted; it being the custom of the house to have different pictures illuminated at different times, by moveable lamps, which threw their strong Hght on the paintings; whilst the glare in front, and the lamps them- selves, were scarcely to be seen, half hidden by a mass of plants of large leaves, exotics of eastern or Italian 192 TRESENT. groAvth — some with drooping bells, half closed, others carrying their large flowers proudly high in the air, and made a sort of garden or encasement below the paint- ings, and the light played through the leaves and flowers : thus, in reality, illus- trating what Perrugino and Francia loved to paint, when they placed scenes and figures in foregrounds of foliage and flowers. The lady who was seated in this sin- gular and beautiful room looked thought- ful, but not unhappy, as if she had seen a good deal of life, its prosperities as well as its adversities ; but on her brow was marked that none of life had passed un- observantly, or unfelt. The whole looked suitable; the room, the woman, and the dog, and very much told the story of the Present, as well as the story of the Past. PRESENT. 19^ The pictures that happened to be lighted up this evening in the manner described, were remarkable pictures; one was a portrait of an Abbess of a con- vent in Flanders, of the order of Les Dames du Mont-Carmel, by Van Somer. The Abbess had been sister of a Lord Latimer of the days of James I. She was seated on a raised throne under a canopy; she wore her insignias and wand of ecclesiastical office ; two young nuns sat at her feet, singing from musical missals. The next picture was a whole-length of Wallenstein, by Vandyke, painted after he became Duke of Friedland, and that Lord Latimer, who went to Prague on King Charles's business, procured at that time. It represented a tall dark man, with a high forehead, sternness on his VOL. I. K 194 PRESENT. dark brow; a silent spirit communing with itself; a nature, countenance, and expression in some ways resembling Cromwell, whose character was allied to Wallenstein's in ambition, determination, and fanaticism ; self-enwrapt and melan- choly, sparing in his words, we are told, and the little he uttered was in a sharp tone. Vandyke generally painted Wal- lenstein in armour, but in this picture his armour and helmet lie beside him, and he wears a court-dress or uniform. The third picture was a portrait of Luther by Holbein; it was painted on the olive, or green, ground for which Holbein was so famous; in the back- ground of the picture was the figure of Death holding an hour-glass. These three pictures had never been disturbed from their places, and underneath had PKESENT. 195 latterly been placed two allegorical paintings : Fortune — a beautiful goddess, scatter- ing destinies on the earth. She knows no rest ; from the wheel which supports her in the clouds descend crowns, ser- pents, temptations, flowers, masks — all the goods and ills of life are showered down from the blue sky in profusion. She knows no rest; swift, swift — chang- ing, changing — away, away; — incon- stant Fortune knows of no repose. With the velocity of an idle dream, from her swiftly -revolving wheel tliis fair-haired, smiling, golden creature sends her gifts. Some fall into the ocean, and are swal- lowed up instantly, and lost for ever, others take root on earth. Some writers have imagined Fortune to be one of the Fates, and more power- k2 196 PKESENT. ful than her sister Fates ; but it cannot be ! Fortune is beautiful, and the Fates are old and ugly. This painting was a fine specimen of Guido. The other picture represented the Three Fates; a singular and impressive paint- ing, one Avhich conveys a feeling to those who look at it that few other pamtings can do. A you and me exists in the feeling between the spectator and the figures on the canvas, for in that oil- painting of Michael Angelo's there is a degree of personality that exists in few other pictures. Doubt, so dramatic in life, and yet so natural as not to be dramatic, is there; doubt, uncertainty, and chance, are expressed in the countenance of the sister Fate, who is about to cut the fatal thread of life; she turns to the others for leave to do so; that shall I? may PRESENT. 197 I? — that regret and reluctance with which she appeals to her companions, just as she opens the fatal shears, is so finely told that no other composition is equal to the poetry of this picture, or to its melancholy in plain prose. These two pictures were lately placed under the portraits, not only to represent the manner of the painters, but the ana- logy in the two subjects; and when the destinies of the three persons above whose portraits hung over were con- sidered, it would form a complete dra- matic poem. But the door is thrown open from the gallery, a traveller is arrived, and the lady advances to meet her friend, saying, " My dear Catherine, at last you are come!" to which the traveller replied, " Dearest Cecil, and with what joy to 198 PRESENT. find myself again in England, and "vvith you!" That evening passed quickly ; and when the two friends retired to rest they re- marked that that day fifteen years they had embarked for Spain and for the East. PRESENT 199 CHAPTER XV. " These things seem small and undistinguishable, Like far-off mountains turned into clouds." Shakspeabe. The friendship of fancy has its origin in a warmer climate than esteem ; and when that friendship is joined to reason, it is like the house built upon a rock, not to be overthrown by the storms and tempests of life. The winds blow, the thunder roars, but that friendship is founded, not on the sandy shore, but on the solid rock that soars above every- thing, and against which the waves dash with unceasing swell, but powerless. 200 PRESENT. Tliis is tlie friendship that defies and outlives time, the conqueror, and such was the friendship that existed between Cecil and Mrs. Hope. Carlyle says, sympathy is the first essential towards insight; and the friendship of sympathy is based upon mutual understanding. There was not a shadow of hypocrisy in their inter- course; there was no third person that appeared between them as an embodi- ment of vanity dressed up, that tier importun that ties tongues and alters characters. They had not met for twelve years, but had corresponded regularly. Mrs. Hope had gone to India immediately after her marriage, which took place under very unfortunate circumstances, and was now returned to Europe to reside with her father. Cecil asked herself, in all that long interval of time, what had sunk the deep- PRESENT. 201 est into her mind? She asked herself what had made the strongest impression upon her? "Was it the death of Lady- Arlington? That she had felt severely, and for a long time after it had occurred. Or was it quarrels in her family, disgrace- ful quarrels in which unluckily she had been involved? Was it the loneliness or penalties of her position, which at some moments she felt deeply, at other mo- ments she rejoiced at? Or was it matters concerning Ashdown, which, during the time of the fires and disturbances in the country, had vexed and harassed her, and made her sometimes think that she must relinquish her residence at that place. During that long series of years, none of these had she felt so strongly and acutely as she had done the death of Lord Delamere, and the manner of the death of k3 202 PRESENT. that unhappy man. He had been found dead in his bed, and on the minds of his friends no doubt remained of his having died by his own hand. Lord Delamere had all through life been subject to fits of gloomy low spirits. His spirits were fluc- tuating ; they rose and fell, and he would attribute it always to some trifling cause, the weather, or some nonsense ; but it was deeper — it was the mind ! He never had cared for play, and had often been the means of leading persons away from the indulgence of that fearful passion, ar- guing that the excitement of one evening was too dearly purchased in making your- self uncomfortable for years afterwards; that had you good fortune one night, you might experience a reverse on the next. It appeared, however, that latterly, in PRESENT. 203 his gloomy moods, he had taken to play as an excitement, and had lost large sums. No one knew the rest ; it was all unac- counted for — whether it was additional gloom, or low spirits, or ennui of life, or additional losses at play, all remained a mystery ; but there was no doubt that his death had been a violent death, and that his relations, who were strict persons as to their ways of thinking, had done all they could to have it concealed. But it could not be concealed ! and the truth got about. There are situations in life where you have nothing to look to but your moral courage, and many are wanting in that virtue whose personal courage would never be suspected. Life had always appeared to Lord Delamere as a speculation, the ac- count of which he held in hand. He had 204 PRESENT. his book of life regulated by his o^vn opi- nions, but his indolence and his habits overruled his opinions ; acute intellect of one particular sort had been liberally bestowed upon him ; but that he died like Milton's apostate angel, " rack'd with deep despair," but too proud to own it, there could be but little doubt, the causes of which were not entirely defined. He had run a race with the world, which he had lost, and was defeated. Lord Delamere was not an irreligious man, accordmg to outward forms and ceremonies; he was too much a man of intellect not to have thought on the subject. He would talk of the Church as he would talk of the State — of its prerogatives, as he would talk of the prerogatives of the Crown. If he had been asked what religion was, he would have answered, " A moral restraint PRESENT. 205 for the multitude, and a matter to be upheld as the constitution of the kingdom was to be upheld." His high intellect, his cultivated powers, and education told him this. He was not a man of feeling ; reli- gion being a consolation, his nature re- fused to believe ; he could no more com- prehend the poetry of religion than its simplicity. He was well versed in points of doc- trine — which he would sometimes discuss with his brother the bishop — and a violent anti-catholic, because his good sense re- fused to subscribe to the practices of that religion. He equally disclaimed the low church ; the consequence was, that he was left in a middle course, with a church and a faith, but with little or no rehgion, which is the case with thousands of per- sons in this country. 206 PRESENT. Pension has said, that the great objec- tion to the protestant religion is the state of indifference that the protestants them- selves live in. Had Lord Delamere lived later, he pro- bably would have been a different charac- ter ; he came into the world twenty years too soon ; he thought that if he acquitted himself, in a decent and tolerable way, of the duties of life, he was a good member of society — the rest, that they were mere Sabbath speculations. His heart was un- moved and untouched upon any subject in life; he thought that eveiything of a visionary character was foUy ; it might be pretty and ornamental, but it was only fit for women and children — only suitable for decking out life, as lace or embroidery, or like flowers placed in a ball-room. Gold, or the positive of life, as being procured by PRESENT. 207 gold, he estimated ; and had he belonged to the Present, instead of the Past, he mio-ht have turned his clear intellect and brilliant abilities to better purposes than to those of having had his opinions sought after, as the most cool-headed, clear- sighted man of the world of the small set who looked up to him. He had early been left his own master, and had educated himself for ^Aa^ world in which he was to live; he began life with dandyism, but left it far behind him — his ambition soaring beyond it — and his ambi- tion sharpened his contempt of the world. With him — " The braia had reaaon'd out the heart." The society he fell into was against his rising higher than either his prejudices or his indolence would allow of; the positives 208 PRESENT. of the present day, and the total absence of romance would have suited his line of intellect much better than the affectations of eccentricity, or the soarings of the poetical genius of Lord Byron, whose wailing s in poetry he disdained and ridi- culed. Lord Delamere and Cecil Latimer had met but once since her return from the East, nor had they had any intercourse since the letter that she had written to him which forms the first pages of this volume. If two persons are mutually re- solved not to meet, it is astonishing how it can be avoided. If Cecil thought he would dine where she was invited, she would send an excuse; he did the same from a dislike of meeting her. If they were in crowded rooms together, they kept out of each other's way; they had PRESENT. 209 not the same intimate friends, and she turned the whole from her mind. Once they had met, and in a formal visit were forced to exchange some words on indifferent subjects — such thraldom do the customs of society exercise over every one. They had conversed for some moments indifferently and carelessly ; none of the by-standers imagining or suspecting how much these few moments cost his pride or her feelings. He was too full of worldly wisdom to turn back to reflect on what he had lost, yet for a mo- ment a feeling, foreign to his nature, glanced across his mind, that this outside bearing of indifference, that the woman there in the shawl and bonnet, hid a heart above all price, that once was his. She remarked how changed his countenance was: his smile was noAV the ,Grhost of a 210 PRESENT. smile — a smile that had outlived all occa- sions for smiling; the wounds in battle, scar and disfigure ; but the battle of the soul, in troubled tunes, in adverse for- tunes of public states, and private rumi- natings, change not less. The world had worked its will, and left its mark on Lord Delamere's countenance; and Cecil Lati- mer's last impression of him was, that both pride and happiness were shipwrecked, and for ever. For a few weeks after Lord Delamere's death, his friends missed his clear intellect and decided opinions, his idle and indolent habits having been always at hand to settle their more vacillating and less steady minds. Afterwards, a few words were occasionally spoken " of that unfor- tunate affair of poor Delamere ;" and soon he was totally and entirely for- PRESENT. 211 gotten, for tliere remained nothing to remind any one of his having existed, but the name of him who now was but a name. Lord Delamere's death affected Cecil in many contradictory ways ; for persons do not feel by rule, rote, and measure. Past thoughts are terrible searchers: whatever it is, it is gone ; it is death, or it is a moral death — change. Perhaps you are changed ; perhaps others are changed: at all events, reminiscences of times past are harrowing things. Cecil thought that Heaven had spared her some great misfortune in not allowing her to connect her fate with his : that she saw clearly; but, with the inconsistency of human nature, she would sometimes think, that had she married him, he might 212 PRESENT. have changed. These two persons having met in hfe was curious, for there was fate and destiny in it, and the term "unfor- tunate," as far as concerned Cecil, could hardly be used. He was the positive of life — she was the imaginary : his was the head-searching intellect — hers was the heart. PRESENT. 213 CHAPTER XVL AsHDOWN was " a romance in stone and mortar." It was partly erected in the reign of Edward VI., two of the towers and one of the courts. being of the archi- tecture of that period. The house was not completed until the middle of the reio^n of James I. The Latimers had been chiefs of the party on the Lan- castrian side in the wars of the White and the Red Roses; heroes in the field on the decisive day of Bosworth: nay, more, for not only were they brave knights and warriors, but in the succeed- 214 PRESENT. ing peaceful times, well skilled in archi- tecture and painting ; and Walter de Latimer had won an honourable name amongst the earliest poets of England. In succeeding times, they were partisans and adherents of the Stuarts ; and many a cavalier and many a priest were here protected and concealed during the Civil Wars. There was at Ashdown, on the ground-floor, a lo^v-ceiling room called the Cedar Parlour, because of its cedar- carved chunney-piece, and its high chairs of cedar. It had on the walls some old arras or tapestry of dingy and decayed colours ; one small portrait over the chimney-piece of a fair girl of sixteen: and this was the whole of the furniture of the now deserted room. The case- ments were narrow, for security ; and the jessamine hung about them, and had en- PRESENT. 215 twined itself with the outside windows. The room was dark and dismal, and as a family history was connected with it, orders were given that nothing should be touched or restored in that room. A sliding panel was concealed in it, the secret of which was never communicated but to the master or mistress of the mansion. Here papers and jewels had been concealed, and for months members of the family had retreated to an inside room hidden by this panel on the ap- proach of Cromwell's soldiers. Then came the fidehty of servants; then the con- cealment of the priest, or of the lady; then the celebration of secret masses in the little adjoining chapel, which formed one of the ends of the house. Fidehty, secresy, courage — the three great ingre- dients of romance — these, in those stormy 216 PRESENT. times, formed life, and the grand stories of life. The old race of Latimers had been devoted loyalists and religious en- thusiasts ; and one of the earls of Latimer, going over to France with James II., at the Revolution of 1688, had ended his days as a monk, under the jurisdiction of the famous Abbe de Ranee, in the monas- tery of La Trappe. Thus the Latimers had always been persons of learning and taste, but particularly the last earl of the days of Queen Anne. He was supposed to be the best judge of painting, sculpture, and architectui'e, amongst the highly born or well-educated of the land. He passed a lono; life, divided between Ashdown (which place he decorated, planted, and ornamented, according to his own ideas) and his dearly beloved Italy. He had married a Bolognese lady — not then a PRESENT. 217 rare occurrence, as many of our catholic nobility of that period had married Italians; and all over the Continent, he had agents who collected for him statues, pictures, books, engravings, and every- thing rare and beautiful that could be had. Xot only was Lord Latimer a man of the highest and most cultivated know- ledge in art, but in the laying out of grounds, and in decoration of every kind. He used to say that •" he who could not design a little (draw a little) would never make an honest man." He lived sur- rounded by art and artists, and was a passionate admirer of the beauties of nature. Queen Anne had once visited Ashdown, and all through her life had a regard for Lord Latimer. She would willingly have had him to make part of her court. She made him a present of VOL. I. L 218 PRESENT. some fine pictures, amongst which were her mother's portrait by Sir Peter Lely, and that of her grandfather, Lord Cla- rendon, in his chancellor's robes, and one of herself by Kneller ; but the stern poli- ticians of Queen Anne's reign did not partake in the Queen's liking for Lord Latimer. They looked on the whole race of Latimers as a set of dreamers, poets, and artists, far removed from the matter- of-fact of life, and not to be acted on by common ideas or common motives. After the death of Reginald, Lord Latimer, in Queen Anne's reign, the titles became extinct ; and the estates came to the Pro- testant branch of the family, of whom it is not necessary to say more. They hardly ever came to Ashdown ; and after a long minority, it came into possession of Cecil's Uncle, Henry Latimer, in the reign of George IV. PRESENT. 219 CHAPTER XVII. " J'ai trouve le moyen En ne depensant rien De manger tout mon bien. J'ai joue ; J'ai perdu ; Pour payer, J'ai vendu Mon habit. Et chez moi Ton ne voit pas, Meme airs lieures des repas, Nape mise." The young heir of the family was, even at the age of twenty-one, no common character, and his oddities grew with his age. A wit and a humorist, with a total absence of pride or of vanity l2 220 PKESENT. in Ms composition, whicli had gone along with the Protestant branch of the name of Latimer, and had distinguished the last two or three generations, he had numerous friends who bore willingly with his travers. He was, however, sufficiently gifted in abilities to have made the most brilliant figure in life, had he pleased to do so ; he was a Whig, and a Whig ac- cording to Dr. Johnson's known defi- nition of that term ;* but his politics did not very much signify, for none of his political friends could depend upon him, and early in life gave hun up as a politician; and as to his private life, it was as fluctuating and uncertain as his * " The first Wliig was tlie Devil ; the Devil was im- patient of subordination ; he was the first who resisted power." — Johnson . " Better to reim in hell, than serve in heaven !" PRESENT. 221 public life, altliougli his wit and his sayings, as well as his opinions, never failed to carry with them a certain degree of influence, when he chose that they should do so. He resembled that monarch — " Whose promise none relied on ; Who never said a foolish thing, And never did a wise one." And these three lines pretty much summed up the history of Henry Latimer's early life. His appearance was a good deal that of an English Robert Macaire, and his wardrobe was seldom in better order than that worthy's — never possessing a pair of gloves, one being always missing; and he had another point of resemblance with Robert Macaire — his arithmetic; for 222 PRESENT. in his financial matters, like him, he would often calculate that thirteen and eight make twenty-three ! He had the habit of carrying his left hand behind him in his coat pocket, as if searching whether he had anything left — for watch, money, and pocket hand- kerchief were generally all missing; he was the hero of untidiness and disor- ganization throughout ; his wit alone was finished, pointed, gentlemanlike, and suited to the company he was with. There was no laying himself out to shine — there was no pretension about Henry Latimer; with a contempt for every species of ostentation, he was always natural, and detected instantly in others every shade of afi'ectation, which he would lash with an unsparing hand. Nature and Satan had done immensely for Henry PRESENT. 223 Latimer, and his parents, teachers, gover- nors, tutors, whoever they may have been, had assisted Satan with all their powers. NotAvithstanding, now and then there shone out some good in him, as if it were against his will that it should do so — ^the contrary of some of his com- panions, who tried to appear better than they were. Luckily for Ashdown, Henry Latimer never came there; he hated a country life, and country-house subjec- tion, and London very well suited his tastes and habits. He soon dissipated a noble fortune at play; and at the end of ten years the pictures would have shared the fate of Charles Surface's ancestors, and then he would have blessed the faces of both uncles and aunts; but by the wisdom of his ancestors everything was strictly 224 PRESENT. entailed, and a fine library of rare books and a grove of old oak trees were all that could be obtained from Ashdown; not that he intended to pay his friends with the produce of what was to be had — he said that his friends might wait ; but he bought a tract of land in America, and for that country he embarked, first boxTowing aU the money he could pro- cure from his easy-hearted companions in pleasure, his friends, and his hard-hearted followers in adversity, the Jews. ^Tien settled on his tract of land in another hemisphere, Henry Latimer became a totally altered man, as penurious as he had formerly been profuse, and as changed in looks and habits as in charac- ter; so changed, that he said "his oldest creditor would never know him again." He became a mixture of Nebuchadnezzar PRESENT. 225 and Robinson Crusoe ; and having settled in his own mind, like Lord Byron, that " cash is ■vartue," he took to hoarding, and in time he repaid the English friends of his early life, who were a good deal surprised many years afterwards at re- ceiving both principal and interest, ac- companied with an epigram on each of them. The spirit of play, however, never forsook him; he got some low persons round him to play with him, whom he treated like the dirt under his feet, and although he was rolling in riches, if they won, he would only pay them in logs of wood, or in fish, flesh, or fowl. Henry Latimer's character softened in some degree in his latter years, he showed some consideration for those about him, and did not forget every act of charity and benevolence. He never left his American l3 226 PRESENT. forests, and built a high tower which over- looked all his property, and at the top of which he desired to be buried, and in the tower he passed most of his days and nights, and took to the study of astro- nomy, until his wits on that one subject became very much in the state of those of the astronomer in Rasselas — ^the prospect of lands, skies, and seasons becoming to him a necessity, and his religion. But he not only studied the appearance of the skies, but the animals and plants of the earth. He was frequently caught in a thicket in quest of a butterfly, or a wild plant ; and he left Cecil a curious collection of herbals and stuffed birds, which, she not knowing what to do with, presented to the museum of the adjacent town. To what faith Henry Latimer belonged was difficult to say, for latterly he had PEESENT. 227 had a religious feeling. Early in life, like his prototype, Charles II., he used to say that the catholic rehgion was the only re- ligion for a gentleman ! When he came back from his Eastern travels, he had the reputation of being a Mahometan, but it appears from the writings that he left be- hind him, that his creed was as foUows : — " Know ye not Him who laid Tlie deep foundations of the earth, and built The arch of heaven ; and kindled yonder sun, And breathed into the woods, and waves, and skies The power of life ? " ' We know him,' they repUed ; ' The Great for Ever One ; the God of gods ; the great Spirit, who in clouds And storms, in mountaia caves, and by the fall Of waters in the woodland soUtude, And in the night and silence of the skies Doth make his being felt.' " Mr. Latimer's bequests to his niece partook of the eccentricity of his character. 228 PRESENT. In leaving all his possessions to her, he sent her his portrait, painted by a Spanish painter, who on some occasion had made his escape to America, and to whom he had afforded shelter and protection. It has quite the air of an old Velasquez ; he is painted in a black velvet cap, under which appears a pair of shaggy eyebrows, of no very gentle expression, a long beard, and a short Spanish cloak; and beside his arm-chair stands a laro-e doo- of a black and white Spanish breed. Mr. Latimer wrote a curious letter to Cecil, which is preserved amongst the archives of Ash- down. In informing her that she is to be his sole heir, and that he sends her this picture to be hung up at Ashdown, he gives her much advice concerning the property. The whole letter is written with the wit and spirit of his younger PRESENT. 229 days ; and in a most satirical vein, he ex- horts her never to be married for her for- tune, or to be loved for her beauty; and on money matters, he says to her in prose, pretty much what Ben Jonson has said in verse : "I'll tell you, kinsman, Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive ; That would I have you do : heed not to spend Tour coiQ on every bauble that you fancy, Or every foolish brain that humours you." If Cecil ever did or said anything which common mortals could not entirely com- prehend, persons said, " The Latimers have always been clever and eccentric ; do you remember Henry Latimer?" 230 PRESENT. CHAPTER XVIIL "Trop heureux dans la solitude, Qui peut partager sonloisir Entre les beaux arts et I'etude, L'esperance et le souvenir; Qui les yeux ouverts, j somnieille, Et surtout en ferme I'abord A I'ennuyeux qui nous endort A rimportxm qui nous reveille." Abnatjlt. Young eyes, look with indulgence on the dulness of chapters on pictures and gar- dens; and hearts and heads, rejoice for a moment in turning aside from the wear and tear of active life, to consider dramatic or historical life, or dream of trees, skies, or flowers, for pictures are historical and PRESENT. 231 dramatic life! We see past things in a glass, darkly it may be ; but still we see them clearly enough to be able to analyse and compare them with present times : were that faculty taken from us, what should we be ? Were that faculty taken away of knowing the past, considering the past, remembering the past, were memory erased from the gifts with which Heaven has en- dowed the himian race, we should remain like the animals, but wanting the good qualities which the animals possess. Those who do not profit by this gift of memory may properly be called animals, and descended from animals, and have a right to talk of " my great-grandfather, the Wolf, the founder of the family, the Duke of Wolf-in-battle ; the Bear, my uncle; that old Cat, my aunt; that un- lucky Dog, my brother; that deceitful 232 TRESENT. Monkey, my cousin ; my nephew, the Tiger with the moustaches, the beauty of the family; that green and yellow Mackaw, my sister-in-law; and her daughter, the chattering Magpie." Such are whole fa- milies. Are they happy families, we beg leave to ask them ? — debarred of those in- tellectual gifts of memory and comparing, and debating, and living on nuts, or gin- gerbread, (gilt though it may be,) or whatever the world chooses to throw to them ; the world treating them as it would monkeys. But to return to Henry La- timer, he had not been able, as we have seen, to sell the pictures at AshdoAvn. Tradition said that there was but one in that collection that he valued and had deter- mined to retain ; it was by Hogarth — re- presenting a party of gamesters in various attitudes, some sitting, others standing PEESENT. 233 round a table covered with a green cloth, watching the result of the last cast of the dice; there is the gay gamester flinging his heap of gold to Fate's disposal, and laughing alike whether it amassed or lessened. Next to him, stands a thin, anxious-looking man, intent on recovering the sum he once possessed. Another's mind is bent on the next throw, " chance it as it may." This picture is called the Hazard Table, and occasioned the fine tragedy of the Gamester, and the following lines were recited by Garrick on the first night of the performance of that play : — " To-niglit your matchless Hogartli gives the thought "WHch from the canvas to the stage is brought ; Poets and painters, who from nature draw The best and richest stores, have made this law — That each should neighbourly assist his brother. And steal with decency from one another." The pictures at Ashdo^vn were a collec- 234 PRESENT. tion that kings and princes might envy. Cecil had her own ideas concerning pic- tures, and it was often said of her that the eccentricity of her family came out on this subject more than on any other subject. The pictures were hers, if she pleased, to sell or exchange ; and, without the extravagance or gambling propensities of her uncle, she determined to follow up her own notions, as to improving and perfecting the whole collection, by ex- changes with other collectors. Living much alone — looking from her windows over a mass of magnificent forest trees, a sea of waving forest, sloping gradually down until it blended into a rich English vale, with a broad winding river partially seen here and there ; and beyond all this, a long and interminable stretch of moor, that was lost in the horizon to the west- PRESENT. 235 ward: not only seeing this scene con- stantly, but walking daily in forest scenery, or in gardens almost as ancient as the forest, — where the blue mist of fountains rose from ilex woods, — where time and age had given all but a few parterres of flowers of brilliant hues the appearance of natural scenery, — her eye had become so accustomed to the sights of earth, and sky, and foliage — of lights, and shadows, and flittings — of sunrise and sunset, of rainbows and storms, of flights of birds, and of all the scenes of real life in nature, that when she returned to her house, she would turn with dislike to the imitations, and contemplate her magnificent Claudes, Boths, Hobbimas, Gaspar Poussins, TVynants, and Rysdaels, only to find out how inferior is art to nature. She resolved to part with these 236 PRESENT. pictures, keeping but a few favourites, amongst which was a landscape by Rubens, with evening coming on, and birdcatchers setting their nets in a wood ; a landscape of Rembrandt's, of a forest scene, with a river and rustic bridge, the long shadows of falling day playing amongst the trees; and a painting by Hackert, called The Charcoal Burners, with numerous figures by Lingelbach. In exchange for what she gave up. Miss Latimer received what enabled her to bring together each painter's mind and manner on the same subject, so as to see at once how they treated those subjects, as well as the history, usages, and customs of the period, and of the nation to which the painter belonged. Cecil Latimer had no pretension to being a connoisseur or J earned in art. She liked the poetical PRESENT. 237 influence or suggestive feelings of the arts on the mind, but did not care about the technical or scientific part, which she never could bring her attention to con- sider. She hked a room hung round with persons and sights that spoke to her. " And thus lier life, exempt from public haimt, Found tongues in trees, books ia the running brook ; Sermons in stones, and good in eyerything." In the gallery at Ashdown was a mag- nificent Tintoretto, of St. Xavier blessing the Host, with the multitude at prayer; a Paul Veronese, representing a family at mass within a chapel, was found as a companion for this picture. The Madonna degli Tempj, the work of Raphael, had always been considered the best painting in the collection; it is the picture that Delaroche, the French artist, never loses 238 PRESENT. sight of in his sacred compositions ; when- ever he paints the Virgin and Child, the expression of this one picture penetrates throughout, as if it were a dream that haunted him. Near to the Raphael was a Francia and a Perrugino — the same subject, but treated differently. There was but one painting by Cor- reggio at Ashdown: it was the picture misnamed the Magdalen in the Woody Desert. She who is " Too fair to worsliip, too divine to love ;" the woman and the saint, who is " Too fair for eartli, too earthly for the skies." However, this picture represents neither a Magdalen nor a desert, but some fair creature of this earth, with golden hair and a blue drapery, in the seclusion of a forest, in warm weather, studying from PRESENT. 239 a book. There is neither repentance, or a past, or a future, in her countenance ; but all the enjoyment of a fine summer's day, and a still better nourished body than soul; for of mind there is none whatever. In Oeleuschlager's play of " Correggio," known by heart by all frequenters of the drama in the north of Europe and in Germany, this picture is alluded to and described. The poet calls the fair Avoman " Die Gottinn des Waldes Fromonigheit" — the goddess of the reli- gious solitude : the religion of mythology was often in woods and forests, or it may have been the goddess of hunting and books ; the like of Diana de Poitiers. A picture that would not bear a near neighbourhood to the Kaphaels and Francias — a Rembrandt, in composition and feeling totally unlike every other 240 PRESENT. picture in the house — was placed on the wakiut staircase, where few persons passed without their attention being attracted by this strange painting. Rembrandt was no friend to the ideal ; he hated the study of it : and yet there is a German and mystical tendency, in his works, to the strange and to the marvellous; the poetical tone of his own extraordinary mind reaches the spectator. The necromancer here repre- sented may have been a portrait — may have been any magician, real or imagined, or an astronomer — Tycho Brahe, or Kepler. The figure of the necromancer turns to a window, where he is watching the working of a luminous spell — a piece of magic, and no mortal thing ; a stream of light pours into the room — a mysterious glory that lights up a dazzling, a glitter- ing zodiac, that turns round, and that was PRESENT. 241 probably some dream of Rembrandt's, more than anything else. What it is, is left to the imagination of the poet, or to the learned in the science of numbers; or whether it is a type of the human mind that Rembrandt meant to repre- sent, when one instant of time may change its views and machinery ; or is it a mysterious embodied spirit such as Tasso would have seen and conversed with ? It is a seeming change from bright to dark — from dark to light; and it may be poetry, science, algebra, or the world's changes, or the mind's changes. " Thus the seer -with vision clear Sees forms appear and disappear In the perpetual round of strange mysterious change ; From birth to death, from death to birth, from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, VOL. I. M 242 PRESENT. Till glimpses more sublime Of things unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The imiverse as an immeasurable wheel, Turning for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time." Thus all the pictures in the house were arranged; but it was for the his- torical portraits that Ashdown was so celebrated, and of those more may be said hereafter. Cecil lived at Ashdown, sometimes alone for weeks, and the well- known story of Sir David Wilkie and the old monk who had outlived all his com- panions in the Convent of the Escurial, would often recur to her. The monk said to Wilkie, " I look at these things until I think that the figures in the paintings are the realities, and that the realities of life are but shadows." PRESENT. 243 CHAPTER XIX. " I know a bank wliereon tlie wild tliyme blows, WTiere oxlips and the nodding violet grows; Quite over-canopied with, luscious woodbines, With sweet musk roses, and with eglantine, There sleeps Titania, sometime of the night, LuU'd in these flowers with dances and delight." A MiDSUMMEE Night's Deeam. It is a glowing, warm October afternoon, with bright lights and long shadows ; and the deep and mellowed woods are begin- ning to turn to various autumnal tints, blending one into another with a har- mony of colouring only to be seen in a forest, and never in the artificial scenery of a park. It is time to see the gardens at M 2 244 PRESENT. Ashdown, for they are curious gardens, or to express it more perfectly, it is a curious district of country — wild, yet refined, like the works of our old poets; foreign, yet true to old England ; sublime and religious, as are Milton's words and works — natural, yet poetical; full of old traditions and old legendary tales; full of old superstitions of days gone by, set aside by modern reason; everything in these grounds remaining very much as of old, while almost all other lands belong- ing to mansions have been improved and modernized. Leave the house by the eastern tower, and as you leave it, look up, — see the bold carvings in stone on the walls, all up to the very top of this tower, intermixed with the architectural ornaments, along with the letters "W. L.," introduced in PRESENT. 245 the sculptured cornices, here and there defaced by time, but generally to be deciphered. Here are the coronets, the shields, the quarterings, the mottoes of the Latimer family, with their crest or cognizance — the stag collared and chained. Along with their arms are their alliances a by marriage with other families. Here may be seen the mulberry-leaves, the cognizance of the Mowbrays, Dukes of Norfolk; the Stafford knot, the badge of the Staffords Dukes of Buckingham, of the days of the war of the White and Red Roses; the quarterings with the Nevils Earls of Westmoreland. There was the arms of the Lovetots, the lady bearing in her dexter hand the pair of scales; there was the cabled anchor of the Fumival family; the griffin's head, the crest of the Montacutes; and over 246 PRESENT. the small door of the tower remained the vacant carved niche where formerly stood the image of the patron saint of the Latimer family. See, and ponder as you look up. All this noble blood, all this pride of England, of the days of the Plan- tagenets and Tudors, — where is it now? Their descendants, their very names, all are swept off from the face of the earth, and no longer exist; their lands and possessions are passed into the hands of none of their blood. Should even a trace of some of the above- mentioned families exist, their names are merged into those of other families; they are but dust, as you ^vill be dust; and if you hold to these things, think that such will be the end of your honours, your grandeur, and your am- PRESENT. 247 bition ; — and thus must reflect the mistress of the mansion, the last of the name of Latimer, as she passes on to her mag- nificent gardens. This is a melancholy thought! Let us look at the trees and flowers. We pass through the brilliant, gay flower garden on the terrace immediately below the eastern windows of the house, and the parterres in carved stone basins, the whole is dazzling with the most vivid colours; and then by the sun-dials, and the heavy stone balustrades, and large vases brought from Italy, of curious ancient carving of caryatides carrying baskets and wreaths of flowers ; and now down the steps; and then down the slopes of verdure, to what is called " the winter garden" — a labyrinth of holly, ilex, arbutus, and other evergreens. It ends 248 PRESENT. in a broad alley of ilex, at the end of ■which is a mossy bank, in which seems imbedded a large, low fountain, which flows quietly and gently, drop by drop, at once " the eternal movement and eternal repose" of this green spot. From thence you proceed through a shady walk of pmasters, whose straight red stems and overshadowing branches almost shut out the light, until at intervals it streams down with reflected vigour in some open- ing from the skies; the straightness of the trees' stems almost giving the notion of architecture, a temple of Nature's growth; the light playing between the stems of the tall trees, and supporting a branching roof. This whole sylvan scene is so very Italian, yet so pensive, so quiet, that the trickling of the fountain and the birds are the only sounds that PRESENT. 249 recal you to life, amidst the dark trees ; — and, to-day you are not gay, you are melancholy. Emerging from this walk to an open space, you get, a view of the corner of the house, of one large oriel window of stained glass, round the stone-work of which the rose and the vine have entwined themselves, and hang in festoons. You look again ! — you see the barred windows of the little chapel, where mass was cele- brated, while one of the family stood with- out to listen whether they could hear the tramping of Cromwell's horse approaching ; — you look again — you see the windows of the room where the young Francesca Latimer died, the heiress of the house — that fair girl Avho was the hope of the last of the catholic race of Latimer. The walk now winds, and you are m3 250 PRESENT. nearer to the house, and the bright sun now shines with its full glory on the mansion — every window is thrown open, every one is gone forth to their rural amusements. The organist alone remains in the house, and he is playing a long lin- gering pi-elude from Mercadante, clear and solemn; afterwards he brings forth the full tones of the powerful instrument with the chorus swelling to its deep and thrilling tones. It breaks upon the mazy-fretted roof, reminding you of mo- nasteries in foreign lands, and bringing to mind events, " As from a far distant wa- tered shore!" and you say. How like Italy? You linger and linger, — and then walk reluctantly on, the music is softer and softer — more faint and more distant, and then is lost entirely. You are now come to the cedar terraces, PRESENT. 251 bedded with ivy, where grow all the old- fashioned plants, out of date now in gar- dens : rue, rosemary, the early violet, lavender; and these terraces are so con- structed as to catch every gleam of sun- shine. The peacock has taken up his abode there, sweeping the massy slopes with his long tail. These terraces were laid out by Beaumont, James II. 's gar- dener, who laid out the gardens of Hamp- ton Court, of Levens, in Westmoreland, and many other gardens, and here ends the winter garden ; and you walk through a wood of Spanish chesnut, known by the name of Earl Reginald's Grove. The view that presented itself, on issuing from this wood, had nothing strained or artificial hi it, for it was mellowed by time, and more than a century and a half had passed since its construction. 252 PRESENT. The whole of the land within view was planted and laid out in the days of James 11. and Queen Anne, by the Lords of Ashdown of those reigns — one of whom sought here religious seclusion, and the other, his successor, had been the acknow- ledged lord of what now would be called taste^ (which word was not then exactly defined, ) and of decoration in nature and art. A long hne of ravine, or valley, gra- dually slopes from a great height above, to the windings of the river in the valley be- low — sheltered on one side by a hill clothed with stone pine and cypress, and on the other by the chesnut grove. The trees were mostly carouby, figtree, and still nearer to the eye were evergreens, so trained as to have the effect of huge orange and lemon trees, a grove of which completely filled up the valley as far as PRESENT. 253 the river, and on some of which the wild vine had planted itself in masses, throwing its graceftd tendrils to its nearest neigh- bour. On one slope of the hill, over to the left, were stone-pine, Judas tree and acacia, and between the hills, nearly hid in wood was a labyrinth in the Italian taste, constructed of box and ilex, with its con- cetti of names, and classical, and pedantic appellations, and all the affectation of its model, the labyrinth of the Villa d'Este at Tivoli ; it was surrounded by a garden-like wood of ilex and cypresses, in the taste of that of Lorenzo di ^Medici's villa of Petraja, near Florence, and that at one time had been trimmed and formal ; but had now with age and time grown out of its formality and straight lines. But we must return to this spot ; let us go towards the stone pines 254 PRESENT. on the hill, aniidst the tall cypress, the whole expression of which, at this distance, remind us of Fiesole, and the walk on our way thither seems to have been made after the Italian poet's wishes : " There was the pouting rose, both red and white, The flaming heartsease, flushed with pm-ple Hght, Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-coloured box, Thelady-lUy Pure lavender to lay in bridal gown. The daisy, lovely on both sides — in short. All the sweet cups to which the bees resort, With plots of grass, and perfumed walks between Of myrtle, honeysuckle, and jessamine. ****** And midst the flowers, tufted round beneath a shade Of arching pines, a babbling fountain played .: And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright, Which through the darksome tops glimmered with showering Hght. So now you walked beside an odorous bed Of gorgeous hues — white, azure, golden, red .: And now turned ofi" into a leafy walk. Close and contiguous, fit for lovers' talk ; PEESENT. 255 And then, pei'haps, you entered upon shades Pillowed with, dells and uplands, twLxt the glades, Through which the distant palace, now and then. Looked lordly forth, with many a window 'd ken ; A land of trees, which reaching all about In shady blessing, stretched their old arms out, With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks To lie and read in And all about the birds kept leafy house, And sang and sparkled in and out the boughs ; And all about a lovely sky of blue Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laughed through ; And here and there in every part were seats, With boweriug leaves o'erhead, Places for poets made, Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade. The slender trunks to inward peering sight Thronged iu dark pdlars up the gold green hght." And now we have left the gardens, and through a little gate, like a convent gate in a wall, its images defaced and broken, its frescoes deformed and effaced, we pass out into wilder regions, and find ourselves amidst large melancholy yew trees of great 256 PRESENT. size and age in a tract of country of down and heath. Nearly concealed amongst the dark trees in a ravine, is a ruined catholic ora- tory, where still remain traces of the spot where the lighted lamp burnt day and night, and where still may be seen the marks in the stones where many "had bent a knee in prayer, and thought of heaven." This little chapel had once been dedicated to St. Bruno, and those who were ac- quainted with the legendary story of that saint, or who have seen Le Sieur's paint- ings of the romance of his life, might trace the marvellous events of his history in faint frescoes on the walls of this oratory. A stone statue of St. Bruno was there, and having been carefully buried amongst rubbish and brambles during a century, was now replaced on its pedestal. PRESENT. 257 It had been brought from a monastery of Chartreuse, in Italy, and was a most noble and imposing figure in monastic robes and drapery, and weU worth having been rescued from the destruction of religious fanaticism. The roof of the chapel had fallen in, but cedar, and fir, and ilex sent forth the statue almost in a framework of trees, having for a foreground the broken pieces of pavement, the huge broken steps, the marble niches — all partially covered now with wild plants, fern, and ivy. On one side was to be seen an angle of the oratory with its fallen-in roof and pendant vegetation, while on the other side a bright remams of fresco exhibited a painting of the saint blessing the multi- tude, and showed that no ordinary hand had painted these frescoes. Time, how- ever, was working its way "vvith these pic- 258 PRESENT. turesque ruins, and shortly all would be in the decay and oblivion that time brings with it. We are now come to the foot of the hill, where, on a rude old stone at the entrance of a line of cypress some verses formerly existed, now blurred and mostly defaced, but that have been deciphered and thus modernized by the pen of Mr. South ey — " Falter not, pilgrim, here ! With steady steps Upward along this dark o'ershadowed path Tread cheerily. This is the rugged path That leads to heaven. Hark ! how the glittering stream That sparkles down the mountain to thine ear Lends its wild murmurs : round thy throbbing brow Pleasant the mild air breathes, and on thy way The softening sun shines radiant. Canst thou pause ? — Oh, pilgrim, hie thee on with holy haste, And enter there where all the hours are peace. And every hope reality." PRESENT. 259 The buildings above had to all appear- ance once been a convent, but before enter- insT their courts we will look at the sur- rounding wild, termed by long tradition " The Desert." The balmy air sent forth those peculiar odours, and aromatic per- fumes breathed in the Alps and Apennines, and only breathed in mountainous regions, of wild thyme and mosses, — of wild shrubs and plants with berries, ferns, hollies, honeysuckle, — Daphne, mixed with heaths of all growth and colour, — wild roses twist- ing and turning among the dark trees, the Alpine cistus, the alpine rhododendrons, the red clyclamen, the deep blue gentian, — all thriving and naturalized on the side of high hills that originally may have been a barren waste, and through which wound a wild mountain tract which connected circuitously with the buildings on the heights above. Here was the yellow furze. 260 PRESENT. the arbutus, with its red berries, several sorts of ilex, as well as the deciduous oaks of Tuscany, and an old well, the water clear as crystal, which poured out from a stony wall into a basin, and there, forming a channel amongst stones and green moss, glittered and sparkled down the hill to the river. As far as the eye went was a wildness and a wilderness in- terspersed occasionally by masses of gloomy woods of yew, or of the red-stemmed fir tree, waving, and singing, and sighing, as one might fancy, those words — No more — no more ! — like a mournful tradition, or as if they contained a soul in jeopardy and lamentation ; the fragrant balm of the birch tree, whose white or pinkish stems lighted up the darker trees, here and there enlivening the scenery. This district seemed to have been set apart for solitude, PRESENT. 261 religious meditation, and reflection, and forcibly reminded the traveller of those mountain excursions he had made in Spain, Portugal, or Italy ; here and there, rushing streams came forth from the hills — perhaps the planter of these romantic regions had thought of the approcah to the monastery of Monte Yirgine, in the southern Apennines of Calabria ; perhaps to the Franciscan convent of Arrabida, in the kingdom of Portugal; perhaps his mind had turned to impressions made on his soul or on his imagination in his visits to the Grande Chartreuse, near Grenoble ; but it was a lover of nature who had con- structed these woods and wilds ; it was neither the superstitious nor morose fol- lower of the doctrines of La Trappe, then in fashion in France, nor was it the ad- mirer of the superb ecclesiastical establish- 262 PRESENT. ments of the wealthy princes, prelates of Germany, nor did it lean to the beneficent culture of the recluses of Port-Royal ; but it was evidently the work and will of one mind, one head, one experience, and one power. The buildings were now approached by a double row of cypress, open to the south, sheltered and backed by fir woods of great age. The building dedicated to the Order of Benedictines had evidently been intended for the repose and retreat of afterlife, for a retirement from the world divided be- tween the duties of a religious life, and the relaxations of philosophy and book-learn- ing. It had been intended for that happy mixture of heaven and earth, that our ancestors' great souls imagined and con- structed for the end of life, when the busy PRESENT. 263 scene of arms and politics ceased to be desirable or compatible with age; when the contemplative and philosophic mind recoiled from the din of arms, the strife of politics, or the dependence and flutter of a life at court, and sought for something to place between life and eternity, when the mind, disenchanted of its illusions, yearns for peace, books, or liberty. It was often that, in former days, the man of the world left and consigned to his heir " the gilded foUies and pleasing troubles" of a world of vanity and endless change and chance, fixed his ideas on the certainty of eternity — ^made his amuse- ments from philosophy or science — turned his mind to one abstruse point, learnt one thing well, and not a hundred imperfectly, as in modem days, and, leaving the pur- 264 PRESENT. suit of turmoil, opinion, and opportunity, to those who came after him, Uke Shak- speare's good old Prospero — " Sought his Milan, Where every third thought was his grave." There is something in the sublime egotism of such a life of retreat very magnificent and very seducing to the mind and imagination. It was in those days that Sir Henry Wotten, a courtier, a man of the world, an ambassador, a diplo- matist, philosopher, and poet, wrote in his studious retirement the followins: verses ; and they show how a natural love of contemplative life gets the better of all else as life gets on : — " Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ; Farewell, ye honoured rags, ye glorious bubbles ! Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay, Honour, the darhng but of one short day ; PRESENT. 265 Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damasked skin, State but a golden prison to live in, And torture free-bom minds ; embroidered trains Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ; And blood allied to greatness is alone Inherited, not purchased, nor our own ; Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood and birth Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. ***** Welcome, pure thoughts ; welcome, ye silent groves ; These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves. Now the winged people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring : A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass. In which I will adore sweet virtue's face. Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares, No broken vows dwell here — no pale-faced fears. Then here I'U sigh, and sigh my hot love's folly. And learn to affect a holy melancholy : An d if contentment be a stranger then, I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again." VOL. I. N 266 PRESENT. CHAPTER XX. " The glories of our mortal state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate, Death lays his icy hand on kings. Sceptre and crovrn Must tumble down ; And in the dust be equal made AVith the poor crooked scythe and spade. The garlands wither on yoiir brow ; Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds, All heads must come To the cold tomb." Shieley. A STEEP ascent through a cypress wood ends in a cloister and the ruins of a con- vent, destroyed in the reign of King Wil- liam, after the Revolution of 1688. The last Lord Latimer, in the reign of Queen PRESENT. 267 Anne, turned the architectural remains of the building to other purposes, and the ruins may now be seen much as they were left a century and a half ago. A superb architectural well, in the centre of the con- vent court, has been restored latterly ; it is in a circular shape, having at the top a small stone figure of St. Benedict ; all round the well are bas-reliefs of scenes of wells from Scripture. There is in one compartment, Rebecca drawing water; in another, the woman of Samaria. The whole edifice is raised on broad steps, and the well-work is constructed of massive iron, in the ciphers and armorial bearings of the patron who built the well. The convent, with the exception of a room or two placed in repair for the use of the family who look after this dis- trict of land, is completely in ruins; the n2 268 PRESENT. grey mosses have grown over tlie stones ; a mass of broken arches and mouldering walls and defaced ornaments lay half- buried, now a mere record of past times, a picturesque monument. Vines are al- lowed to grow about the holy shrines; traihng plants, the clustered rose, and the cypress and stone-pine, stand now where formerly burnt the lighted tapers ; and the plants and vegetation harmonize so well with the ruins as to give the whole hill a Spanish or Italian character of scenery. The cloisters on one side are open to a raised terrace, embracing an extensive view ; they were arranged as an open walk, or gallery, a century ago, and contain busts, mostly brought from Italy, of Michael Angelo, Eaphael, Titian, Dante, Ariosto, Petrarca ; of Sir Philip Sydney, Ben Jonson, Shakspeare; of Cervantes, Garcilasso della Vega. One great name is PRESENT. 269 wanting — that of Milton. These busts have old-fashioned inscriptions belonging to them of quaint old lines, scraps of verses in Spanish, Italian, English, and Latin. One or two monuments and some flat stones in the grass had been carefully looked after and protected from further in- jury by the injunctions of Cecil, who was much attached to this spot, from its tradi- tions and recollections, and the wild picturesque scenery situated near it — spots calculated and chosen to play on the imagination — for the desert beyond the convent was the very Rembrandt of nature. The courts of the building were a sad scene of ruin and deso- lation; the barred windows of one cell looked immediately down the ravine, and commanded, further on, a beautiful view of the windings of the river. Over the door of the cell still remained the 270 PKESENT. words, "Fuge, lati, tace," placed there by- its inhabitant. This cell was said to have been the cell of a learned monk, whose intellects had been, on one or two points, astray ; but, tradition said, had shone with a brightness supernatural on other sub- jects. It was supposed this monk had been interred under the stone opposite his earthly abode; the cell was decorated within, and there lay without, a flat monu- mental stone bearing one solitary word — the word in large carved letters, " Miserrimus," remained there visible, without further mark or date, and set the imagination to work as to whom the miserable being interred beneath this sod had been? — to what did the word refer ? — what could have been the history that had led to this sad and solitary inscription ? All that PRESENT. 271 can be surmised of this unhappy being is, that he had chosen his own epitaph — " Stranger, pass softly !^ To save the contrite, Jesus bled." The church of the convent had been pre- served entire through the care of the last Earl of Latimer ; it was built in the form of a Pantheon, and open at top to the skies, as is the Pantheon at Rome. During the persecution of cathohcism that pervaded England for a century, Lord Latimer had only found it possible to preserve the building by its ceasing to be used as a church, and the enthusiastic friend and admirer of the Stuarts had turned it into a temple dedicated — " To tlie Spirits of the Martyred Dead." The temple is cased in black and white 272 PRESENT. marble, and the floor is in mosaic of the same. Over the entrance is inscribed — " The noble army of martyrs praise thee, O Lord!" It contained a melancholy and touch- ing view of human pride and glory, of the vicissitudes of life and death; there were busts all around its walls. Here stands that famous bust of Charles L, by Bernini, the story of which is well known. The three portraits of Charles, painted by Vandyke on one canvas, and now belong- ing to the King of Sardinia, were sent to Kome by Charles to assist Bernini in making a bust of the king. ^Tien Bernini was at work in his studio, a wounded dove, pursued by an eagle, flew into the studio, and, alighting on the bust, left a trace of blood on the neck which never could be efl'aced ; the bust was considered as spoiled, PEESENT. 273 and Bernini and the Italians looked fear- fully on it, and from that period foretold Charles's tragical end. Here also are busts of Sir Thomas Moore, of the Earl of Surrey, of Lady Jane Grey, of Mary Queen of Scots, of the Earl of Strafford, Lord Faulkland, and some others. Lord Russell was the latest in point of date. Tasso and Galileo were also there, and the Due de Montmorency, beheaded by Cardinal Riche- lieu's commands, in the reign of Louis XIII. ; inscriptions in Latin and other languages teU their histories. Opposite to the entrance of the Pantheon, was a tablet of white marble inscribed in black letters, thus — •' To the memory of tlie Unknown Martyrs." '• Blessed are the meek, for tlioy shall inherit the kingdom of heaven." This tablet was dedicated to those whose N 3 274 PRESENT. lives had been a mystery of sorrow — to those whose griefs were never knoAvn — to those whose lives were never requited — to those whose memory is left unthanked. Under it was engraved the following, in the Latin language : — " Behold us, O Saviour, wlio have suffered in sorrow and secresy ; regard us, thy servants, in life and death ; have mercy, O Lord, on those who repent them of their sins, and He down at thy feet." Under this marble, some one had written in pencil — "What of them is left to tell, Where they lie, or how they fell ? Not a stone on their tomb, Nor a bone in their grave." The driving clouds fly over this build- ing, open to the skies, by day and by night; its wide dome is lighted by the ever-changing illumination of the air — a type of a soul dedicated to Heaven, lighted PRESENT. 275 only from above. The rain and the snow- fall from heaven on its pavement ; by day the sun lights up its sad and gloomy recollections ; by night, the long shadows of the moon in the stormy or the azure sky cross its chequered pavement — an emblem of life thus chequered with lights and shadows, and leaving many a dark spot on the purest white marble. The robin and the owl equally find a temporaiy shelter within its walls ; the birds flutter and sing amongst its busts and inscrip- tions, and are only to be scared away at the approach of a visitor. What a view of human life does this pantheon bring under the eye, to the thinking, or even to the unthinking man ! Those who reflect cannot but pause on the vicissitudes attendant on human life — its passions, honours, glories, sunk and 276 PRESENT. buried thus in the dim and mouldering tomb of time. What a view for the statesman or the pohtician, for the warrior or philosopher, for the literary student of history, or for the examiner of mankind's mistakes or misdoings! All whose names were re- corded here — all, in one way or other, had been sacrificed ! Here were the most brilliant prospects blighted — the brightest hopes — the highest virtue — ^the happiest intellect. The intellect of some had been sacrificed; the blood of others had been required. Here was political sacrifice, — sacrifice to superstition — to duty — to patriotism; and here was religious faith — the faith of the martyr ! But hope and faith might now trust — on the review of these earthly and transient glories, errors, and punishments — that the PRESENT. 277 glory was not merely the mouldering hatchment hung by the rusty nail; that the errors were the errors of human nature ; that the punishment having been so severely inflicted on earth, the reward of martyrdom was now being received in Heaven ! And now, what remains to us of their memory on earth ? Their example and their warning ! 278 PRESENT. CHAPTER XXI. " Nor these alone, but every landscape fail", As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern was there, 'Not less than truth design'd." Tennyson. A FEW more words on ancient gardens ; for these gardens have had more influence on the mind, education, and character of many of us than at first sight we may suppose. Many of us are mental poets, although the matter concocted in the brain does not come forth in flowing verse, or is not placed in pen and ink prose. WJiat we have thought — ichere we PRESENT. 279 have lived — what we have done, — that we show. In the verses of the poet come forth his habits, mind — even the daily routine of liis life : " He tells of tlie Past — lie forms tlie Future." Lord Byron says that he wrote his best lines on gin and water Pope's polished verse was written in the society of the courtiers and politicians of his day — of Lord Bolingbroke, Lord Chesterfield, and of the ladies of the reign of George 11. ; liis poetry is perfectly in harmony with dress coats and hoops, patches and rouge. In reading the poetry of an earlier period, everything concurs in making it believed that the early poets lived much more in the open air than those of later times. The language has at once the 280 PRESENT. strength and the simplicity of those who led an out-of-doors life, and is totally wanting in the drawing-room conven- tional feelings of the eighteenth century. We know that Ariosto and Tasso lived in gardens; we know that Corneille and Kacine hardly knew what a sky and green trees were; and we are led to believe that Shakspeare and Milton lived mostly in forests, woods, and gardens. Ancient gardens are interesting to us, as the abodes of those poets from whom we first learned to think and to feel, and as having been the daily haunts of genius that sent knowledge and refine- ment throughout the world. These ancient gardens are of Italian origin. The rich Italian lived in his gar- dens, considering them as drawing- rooms or literary abodes, during the hot PRESENT. 281 months; and we may infer from the remains of the few old gardens in Eno-land that do remain, that our an- cestors, as well as our poets, passed much time in their gardens, particularly persons inhabiting spots such as Levens, in Westmoreland, Cohele and Darting- ton in Devonshire, and many an old manor-house in Derbyshire, AVorcester- shire, and Lancashire — the gardens of which may yet be seen as they formerly appeared — showing us the habits, taste, and fashions of our ancestors. In the closing scene of the " Merchant of Venice," Shakspeare has shown Portia, the chUd of prosperity, talking and think- ing aloud in her magnificent gardens, by the light of the moon, and has endowed her mth a ^m.t and wisdom of a diiFerent kind from that of the lady cooped up in 282 PRESENT. the artificial climate of a drawing-room. These old gardens were, in fact, the abodes of the scholar, the learned man, or the high-bom lady. But we are losing our way in conjecture; and the sun has shone out bright again, and we are come down the hill from the ruins, to look at the Italian labyrinth of learning, planted entirely with classical plants and trees, with all the pedantic conceit of the ancient scholar. The list of plants contained therein would be a wearisome and useless study, along with their devices and twisted ap- pellations. Thus far we may go. Bay- trees are there, because their leaves formed the wreath that cro^vned a poet, as we behold in the ancient paintings of the Itahan masters ; arbutus is there, because it was the favourite of Virgil; box and PRESENT. 283 arbor vitse are there, because they were the favourite plants of Pliny — broom is there, because it was the heraldic bearing at the Crusades ; and so on. These trees form a labyrinth of verdure, or avenues of shade, and in Italy those labyrinths had arbours, where learned and scholastic arguments were held in a sort of academy, in the heat of noon, at moonlight, and star-light. AVhen the Italian went to his villa it was for the great heat of summer; and the Italians sleep but little, and they passed not only the early hours of morn- ing but the late hours of night, in these arbours and labyrinths. The great man was accompanied to the country by a train of dependants — poets, painters, and musicians; and if they saw Rome or Florence through a vista of shady ilex. 284 PRESENT. or from a grove of stone-pine, it was all they wished for of country. In the time of Tasso, the Villa d'Este, at Tivoli, with its arbours and jets-d'eaux^ was considered the most perfect spot in Europe. The gardens of Monte Cavallo, and of the Borromean Islands, were also constructed early enough for Ariosto and Tasso to walk beneath the shade of their trees; that of the Villa Borghese, at Rome, is later in its creation, and has little of the pedantic affectation of any of the above. The curious mansion of Castel Fusano, belono-ino^ to Prince Chio-i as does Lar- ricio, was constructed, and the grounds laid out, in the seventeenth century. It is situated near the fine old castle of the middle ages, at Ostia. The scenery around is as singular as beautiful ; the house is sur- rounded by a semicircle of ancient stone- PEESENT. 285 pines of gigantic size, forming a sort of sylvan hall around, with fresh green ver- dure beneath, and far-spreading avenues, and towards the sea a great pine forest, stretching its deep massive shade over the earth — the sands and blue ocean seen beyond through partial forest openings. This curious and lovely place, along with the Larricio park and the Castle of Bran- caccio, are the only feudal possessions, or attempts at gardens and parks in Italy, and they are now superb spots for artists to study in.* It was to these spots that Lord La- timer had bent his way, when laying out the grounds at Ashdowii, as it was to these spots that Le Nostre went in the * Brancaccio was the abode of the Orsini family during the disturbed times of the sixteenth and seven- teenth centuries. 286 PRESENT. seventeenth century, but changed and altered what he saw and learnt, to suit the more ceremonious and courtly notions of his master, Louis XIY. ; and when Le Nostre came to England, he laid out some English parks and gardens, and, amongst others, those of Wrest, in Bed- fordshire, which surrounds a truly French chateau in taste and architecture. Evelyn first saw and noticed " the trimm'd gardens" and parks of Italy ; he saw those gardens at Genoa, which served him in his ideas as to improving and form- ing gardens in England; and Evelyn, the friend of kings and the censor of courts, reflected, wrote, and judged the world in gardens. Milton's love of gar- dens, (what we should now call woods,) was entirely mixed up with his Italian notions and love of the sunny south. PRESENT. 287 His words are Italian, his gardens are Italian — his Comus seems written in the woods of La Cava. It was in Italy that he saw the sun, moon, and stars in their brightness, and from those sights, which had so forcibly, in his younger days, struck his imagination, he made his Paradise, Avhen old and blind. It was then that he saw his hosky woods of Ilex, — the ambrosial herbage covered with spring flowers, — the Cimmerian darkness of the stone-pine forests, — the sirocco on the ocean, and the serenades in the viUaws, — all words become English words since his time; and, in his blindness, the world became to him one great garden, and that garden was the garden of Eden. Here Milton's catholicity of taste comes out with his love of majestic scenes and melodious sounds ; and at variance with 288 PRESENT. his simplicity of character, and the con- stant burning within, created the great poet — the imagination working upon deep knowledge, learning, and memory. But it is time to have done with a subject only interesting to particular persons. Since those days of the seventeenth century, our habits, our ideas, our tastes, are entirely changed. Talleyrand has said of those times, as applied to the world, that even in what we find the most fault with, there was more good to be met with than in modern times. There is more to be said in favour of the out-of-the-world existence of those days. Now we live fast — we write fast — we travel fast ; we are no longer a wise, or a slow, or a contemplative people! The objects now are different in forming PRESENT. 289 an English pleasure ground or garden — it is wanted for exercise ; it is no longer to live in, in a nook in the sun, in an old arm-chair, with grey hair and grand- children, surrounded with bees and birds, wild thyme, lavender, and violets: — all that is gone by, and can scarcely be found even to produce a picture or a poem. We want, now^ pleasure grounds to walk in on a fine day, or to walk in with an umbrella over our heads; but never to stay in — always to pass through ! What shall we all come to, with this love of haste ? END OF VOL. I. VOL. L LONDON : SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS 6TRI;ET. PAST, PRESENT, & FUTURE. VOL. 11. PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. " . . . . Un poids invincible, une force invincible nous entrainent. . . . Mille traverses, mille peines nous fatiguent et nous inquietent dans la route . . . il faut marcher, il faut courir, telle est la rapidite des annees. On se console pourtant, parce que de temps en temps on rencontre des objets qui nous divertissent, des eaux courantes, des fleurs qui passent. On voudroit s'arreter : marche, marche ; Et cependant on voit tomber derriere soi, tout ce qu'on avait passe ; fracas effroyable, inevitable ruine!" — Bossuet : Marche de la Vie. !:< TWO VOLUMES. VOL. IL LONDON; SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO. STATIONERS' HALL COVRT. 1850. PRESENT. [CONTINUED.) VOL. II. B ■' Dim as the boirovv'd beams of moon or stars To lonely, wandering, weary travellers. Is Reason to the soul ; and as on high Those rolling fires discover but the sky, Nor light us here — so Reason's glimmering ray Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, . But guide us upwards to a better day ; And as these mighty tapers disappear, When day's bright Lord ascends our hemisphere, So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight. So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light." , -. <.- PRESENT. (continued.) CHAPTER XXII. " Goodwill leads to perfect knowledge." Goethe. " A woman has no force of reason comparable with man's reason But the toughness of her will is a set-off against the fragility of her means, and she substitutes perseverance for power." Lady Moegan. It is time now to come to some of Cecil Latimer's plans and ameliorations — the penalties along with the anxieties and in- terests of Ashdown. It is time now to show how, with perseverance, she got over the anxieties, warded off the evil, and b2 4 PRESENT. secured the good. Different circum- stances had combined to leave that place mostly in the hands of lawyers, factors, agents, or farmers, since the year 1788, just before the French Revolution l)roke out. First came a long minority, afterwards Henry Latimer's hatred of a country life, then his residence in America. C)n Cecil's coming into possession of the property, the population consisted of forest depredators, deserted, ill-built and ruined villages, and consequently a discontented tenantry; and further off the property verged into barren moors, or edged the manufacturing districts ; a worse popula- tion could not well be found, especially for a woman to govern. It was not every village that possessed a church or a clergyman. There were neither schools nor instruction, and it was surprising that PRESENT. 5 Ashdown had not been burnt to the ground; that the furniture or pictures were not dispersed or sold, or the timber cut down; but fortunately all had been strictly entailed, and a very honest factor had resided in a corner of the house, who, with his family, took a pride in the good old character of honesty. Henry Latimer also wrote tremendous letters to his agents, which he well knew how to write, always saying that he was coming, and ordering them to leave everything alone until he came. Such was the state of matters when Cecil Latimer came to live at Ashdown, after her return from the East. Noav all was changed, civilization had progressed alongside of industry, honesty, and com- fort. No debts were allowed in village shops, or public houses; there was no b PRESENT. poverty ; and those who had formerly seen the estates wondered at the change . Several beautiful villages, churches, and school- houses were built, roads were made, and a bridge was built across the wide river, com- municating with the large towns in the neighbourhood, and safety and civility were everywhere — which in itself was a change ; for, fonnerly, when Cecil was at Ashdown, she could not venture into the forest unless well attended with servants — or scarcely leave the veiy vicinity of her house. Now it was a busy and a smiling population, and, what was more, a grateful people — a grateful population; for good governors are more difficult to be met with than good subjects, and her govern- ment was a good form of government, and answered. This had all been achieved by a woman. It is true, that she took the PRESENT. opinion and advice of several persons very well calculated to understand what were the remedies wanted for the evils com- plained of. Miss Latimer had never entirely turned her mind to country pursuits, until after a summer and autumn passed in Smtzer- land, which had been succeeded in Eng- land by a winter of terror to the upper classes, and of privation and distress to those below them. That year awakened the landholders of England. But aftei*wards circumstances had come to light, respecting one village near Asli- do\vn, that made it evident that lands and houses have their histories as well as famihes and persons. There were two villages — each of them situated a mile or two from Ashdown in opposite directions; there resided in 8 PRESENT. these villages gamekeepers, gardeners, foresters, and farm- servants, employed at Ashdo-svn. The nature of the people of these villages, although at no great dis- tance from each other, seemed perfectly different ; one set of inhabitants resembled the rest of the rural population near, but the other, who resided in a sequestered nook, in a ravine of yew trees on downs, were of a nature particularly difficult to deal with. All had been done, in a common way, to conciliate and instruct them, still they showed a savage character together with an indolence and laziness quite unaccountable. Every depredation in the forest, every clamour, every disturb- ance came from those people. They would not work, and they reluctantly let their children go to school. There was a mise- rable little church in the village, the bells PRESENT. y of which had been heard but once a day on a Sunday, when a clergyman rode over from the neighbouring parish and mut- tered over a service in haste to return home ; but the bells, even that once a day, often rang in vain, for with the exception of two or three old men and women, few went to the church. Things wanted a complete refoim, and the neighbouring gentlemen said to Cecil, "You will never do anything with the inhabitants of that village; they are incorrigibly good for nothing, idle, and lazy." By a mere accident, Miss Latimer discovered the origin of this people — why they were thus different from others — and this circumstance admonished her how they might be dealt with. ^lany were the boxes of letters, the old journals, the family details, that the walls of Ashdown yielded b3 10 PRESENT. up to their mistress, on her first taking possession of her home. The love-letters — the knots of dark hair — the glossy, fair curls — the relics — the crosses — the rosaries blessed by popes — the letters from popes and cardinals — the letters from Henrietta- Maria, from Charles I., from the Pre- tender, and from artists and artisans — letters from Rubens — letters from Ber- nini — letters from Hollar — the corre- spondence of members of the family abroad with those who had remained at Ashdown, — all these letters, keep- sakes, and jewels, being arranged, the details being looked into, compared, and confronted, much came out concerning the building and furnishing of the house, tiie state of the gardens, many a curious old family-history concerning loves and hates, and along with all the rest, came PRESENT. 11 out the origin of this retired village, almost hid in a forest of old yew trees. As the inhabitants of Spitalfields are of French Huguenot origin, the favoured and well-educated artisans of the great minister Colbert — a whole population who, to his regret, emigrated to England on account of their religious tenets — thus removing thousands of the most in- dustrious subjects of France to be sub- jects of England, — so likewise, had the people of this village been foreigners, not Huguenots, but catholics, and mostly of Itahan or of Flemish birth, old servants of the family, artisans, stone- cutters, carvers in wood, painters, enamellers, gilders, English servants foreignized who had brought back Italian wives, and some of these per- sons bigoted papists, who, in times of 12 PRESENT. terror, or under the persecution of Cromwell's government, had in this secluded spot found a place of security for themselves and their families, and in this village had harboured many a priest, loyalist, or cavalier. The race of the village had formerly been far above that of the labourer in the field; now, for want of care and culture, it was far below it. The talent had been hidden, and lay in a napkin; and the race had deteriorated in intellect, for want of a religion, an education, and an occupation. It is Goethe who remarks how much a people are influenced by outward im- pressions of soil, climate, aliment, and employment, and how these things form the character of a people. Here, there had been neither cultivation nor occu- PRESENT. 13 pation, but a soft treading of down to the foot ; a lazy, mild air to the feehngs ; a gloomy, grand, fatalist-like yew-forest to the soul and imagination ; and this for all instruction. As soon as Miss Latimer discovered this histoiy she went about a reform in a different manner, and was more san- guine as to finding a cure; the first thing was to have a church where the people could have some sympathy with the doctrines, for as a German writer says — " a forced match between man and his religion sours his temper." In build- ing the church the people of the village were as much employed as it was possible ; and in doing so, some sort of ability came out from among them. There was a tract of downs of natural terraces, having yew trees feathering down to the ground 14 PRESEXT. in picturesque and beautiful gloom. A church was built on the most elevated spot, and a churchyard, with walks formed on the terraces, amongst the yew trees ; and flowers of wild growth sown all over the green sod. Many persons look on the springing of flowers from the grave of a deceased friend as an argument of the happiness of those entered in the grave; and many desire a perpetual spring of all kinds of fragrant herbs and flowers should encircle their verdant tomb. If this is a superstition, it is a harmless and innocent one, and may be indulged. " Lie earth, light on their boues, may their graves bear Fresh fragrant flowers ; let spring-tide still be there." What can be hoped or expected from a people who have no respect for their dead? — from a people without memory, PRESENT. 15 and without gratitude for their dead? not the bad heart of one individual, but the bad hearts of a whole population — a mass of the people thus, and in rural life, too; amongst simple-minded people, not those immured in to^ai-like cares; yet living without thought for the Future ; for the Past and the Future are entwined in minds of any thought or reflection. The churchyard should be a sermon; but it should be an English sermon of resignation, calm, and repose — not a sennon -vvith all the horrors of church- yard town-population in it, or a theatrical sermon, often exemplified in that unhappy mockery of life and death — an inscrip- tion on a stately tomb. Let us read Wilson's beautiful lines on a rural churchyard — and the poet points out clearly what the churchyard should 16 PRESENT. be ; and in those sad lines points out the remedies to human misery better than the matter-of-fact man of business can do. " The day goes by On wliicli our soul's beloved dies ! — the day On which the body of the dead is stretched By hands that deck'd it when alive ; the day IvT On which the dead is shrouded, and the day Of bm-ial — one and all go by. The grave Grows green ere long ; the churchyard seems a place Of pleasant rest ; and all the cottages That keep for ever sending funerals Within its gates, look cheerful every one, \ As if the dwellers therein never died, And this earth slumber'd in perpetual peace !" The church in the village of Downs was built in the form of a Greek cross, after a little chapel in the Ricciardi Palace, at Florence — that form of architecture admitting of all that was not window in the interior of the building, being covered PRESENT. 17 over with texts from Scripture.* Texts were also dispersed about the ground, and suspended from the dark trees. It was thought that the texts would be re- membered, and they were remembered. The church was endowed after Miss Latimer's own wishes; and she would not admit of the simplicity and straight- forwardness of the service of the church * This church, had a porch to the west and to the south. It was surmounted in the centre by a square tower, having four small turrets, each tuiTet open; and terminated with a small spu-e, having an ii'on cross on each spire. In the interior of the buUding, the four ends of the Greek cross terminated thus : — To the east, the commimion-table, imder a large window of ancient glass ; to the west, the organ, with a gallery underneath for a school ; to the north, pews for the patron of the living ; to the south, two galleries for schools, or for choruses of singers. The windows were of lozenge- shaped glass, with metal ; the texts coloui-ed in black and brown, on white walls. 18 PRESENT. of England being disturbed by fancies in doctrine or in dress. There were a certain set of printed sermons of acknowledged excellence selec- ted from the works of Melvil, Chahners, Close, Scobel, Hare, Arnold, and other divines, for the use of this church. From these the clergyman took his choice as occasion required. He read these ser- mons, and by that means the advantage was secured by the people of the parish of an excellent discourse, and of an excellent parish clergyman, who would look after their souls as well as their sufferings.* * It appears, by Sir Hoger de Coverley's chaplain, that clergymen were no more ashamed of delivering a printed sermon from the pulpit than a homily ; and it is worthy of notice that a Dissenter (Calamy) is in the list of his divines. I am not sure that the text does not imply they were recited. — Southey. " My chief companion, when Sir Hoger is diverting himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable PRESENT. 19 In time, the people opened their ears and understandings to the good sense man, wlio is ever vrith. Sir Eoger, and has lived at liis house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular hfe and obliging conversa- tion. He heartily loves Sir Eoger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependent. " I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Eoger, amidst all his good qualities, is some- thing of an hiunorist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are as it were tinged by a certain extra- vagance, which makes them particularly his, and dis- tinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more dehghtful than the same degree of sense aud virtue would appear in their common and ordinary coloiu's. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now men- tioned ? and without staying for my answer told me, that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the university to find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learn- ing, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of back- gammon. My friend, says Sir Eoger, found me out 20 PRESENT. or to the eloquence of the sermon. A fine organ was placed in the church, and after afternoon-service, during the sum- this gentleman, who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given Tiim the parsonage of the parish; and, because I know his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outhves me, he shall find that he was liigher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years ; and though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked any thing of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has hved among them : if any dispute arises they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons wliich have been printed in English, and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Ac- cordingly he has digested them in such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a con- tinued system of practical divinity. " As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentle- man we were talking of came up to us ; and upon the PRESENT. 21 mer months, the doors of the church were left open, and the organist per- formed different pieces of music; and kniglit's asking Mm "who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us, the Bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his hst of preachers for the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors who have published dis- courses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon the quahfications of a good aspect and a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is like the compo- sition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. " I could heartily wish that more of our country- clergy would follow this example ; and instead of wasting their spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would endeavour after a handsome elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the people." — The Spectator, No. 106. 22 PRESENT. sometimes there was singing, which in after years, and after the people had been thoroughly well instructed, arrived at great perfection. All this painstaking brought with it the best possible results. The savage nature of the people was soothed by the refinement of the church music; the people were subdued by it ; and at last it was, who could get a place in the church, or leave to come there? Cecil Latimer recollected the fable of Orpheus, wherein the lions and tigers, the savage animals and birds of prey assembled to the sounds of music, forgetful of their several natures and evil propensities, and until the sounds of melody ceased, no animal returned to its savage habits. " Thus is man's nature, hstening to PRESENT. 23 eloquence, to religion, to law, to music;" he becomes a thing of peace for the time being, and the time being is much in short life, and might often be renewed. Cecil felt like Orpheus taming the lions, and persevered. She had long had theories in her own mind on the subject of music, and wondered why music should not be employed for good purposes, as it is often employed in theatrical life for stage effect. With what power does not Shakspeare use his songs in the gravest and saddest moments, in the historical plays, as well as in the other plays. And now Cecil began to place one of her theories in practice on the subject of music, and said, with Prospero : "I have required, which even now I do, some heavenly music to work mine end upon their senses." 24 TRESENT. And a few years after, she better carried into effect other theories concerning music in the old gallery at Ashdown. There is nothing more extraordinary than the little progress music has made in the world, nor than its misused, thrown away, and misapplied powers. What we may look to, as to music and its powers, cannot now be foreseen. Perhaps we may be listening to the music of the spheres, which " our dull ears cannot now hear." " Therefore tlie poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods, Since nought so stockish, hai'd, and full of rage. But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath not music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils : The motions of his spirit are dull as night. And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted." CHAPTER XXIII. LETTEKS FEOM A COUNTEY HOUSE. " Let the sounds of music creep in our ears ; soft music and tlie night Become the touches of sweet harmony. . . . . Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest But in his motion like an angel sings But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close us in ... we cannot hear it." Meechant of Venice. LETTER FROM MRS. HOPE TO ME. SELWYN. " You ask me, my dear father, so many questions, and with so much interest about Cecil and about Ashdown, that I hardly know how or where to begin in answering them. VOL. II. C 26 LETTERS FRO^I " I find her well in health and spirits, looks and mind ; and when I think of the number of years that have passed over our heads since I went out to India, all I have to say is satisfactory. It is true, however, that we aU grow more serious ^^ith time — at least, I know that I do; and were I to tell you that she is the same Cecil Latimer she was when we were on our Eastern travels, when we often made but one laugh of the day, it would be untrue; but she is gene- rally in very good spirits — ' aimahy as well as amiable ; and never the least put out by trifles going wrong ; and fewer do o'o wrong: at Ashdown than elsewhere — aU is so well organized and settled. I can write you this account of her, with the exception of last Sunday, when she A COUNTRY HOUSE. 27 was in low spirits all day — painfully in low spirits. " I will tell you all that took place here on Sunday ; for somehow or other, it was a day that has made a great impression on my mind — ^more, perhaps, than circum- stances warrant. " The Bishop of C was to preach at the Downs Church. " You know how intimate Cecil was with Dr. Arnold, who resided in the next county. She was talking on Saturday to the Bishop of her admiration of his cha- racter, and pointed out a passage in his life to the Bishop, with his opinion as to a verse in the Psalms : ' Neither doth he abhor anything that is evil.' " The Bishop said little about it, but on Sunday he made it a text for a mag- c 2 28 LETTERS FROM nificent and terrific-like sermon. He gave a picture of that man ' who doth not abhor anything that is evil,' bringing in those lines of Lord Byron's, in ' Cain' — " He who bows not to God, hatli bow'd to me." "On Sunday we walked to church, going and returning through that stately avenue, bedded with ivy and violets, that you admire so much; where the soft sward makes noiseless the very footsteps, and where the silence, shade, repose, and still- ness of those majestic trees encourage thought and meditation. It is a cathedral aisle in nature — ^fit entrance and exit for religious seriousness. There were pas- sages in the sermon that had made a great impression on the mind of everyone ; but Cecil never recovered it the whole day. During the way home, the tears inces- A COUNTRY HOUSE. 29 santly fell down her cheeks; different circumstances served to heighten the im- pression this sermon made. There was a fine anthem sung, of German composition — an anthem in double choruses. It was, by accident, sung for the first time that day in the church, and seemed strangely to accord with the service and feelings of every one. As we returned beneath the shade of those thick embowering trees of yew and cedar, completely roofed in with over-hanging branches, sombre and grand, shutting out light and sun, with their harmonious tints of ijreen overhead, re- fleeting the varied lights that flittered momentarily from above, — we often stopped to listen to the anthem, again performed after we had left the church. The words that came in full chorus throuo;!! the still air were these : ' Dav 30 LETTERS FROM of wrath ! — day of wrath ! The just shall turn away from you; the elect will not succour you.' Then came the full re- sponses in another chorus, as if interceding and imploring pardon; and the words 'error and sin,' reached our ears. I never can forget the powerful, grand tones of the organ, nor the chorus, with the petition for mercy and forgiveness; nor the grand, deep-toned, despairing sound of those words. At intervals, the voice of one soared above the solemn warning of the rest ; and then the words, ' Hear my prayer ; mark not my fault, and let my crying come unto thee !' again became heard, as if imploring forgiveness, rest, and peace; and then the responses died away — slow, solemn, and indistinctly ; and afterwards again sounded the organ, swelling, doubling, and redoubling. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 31 " In this long avenue of stillness, in that fane 'most catholic and solemn which God hath planted,' and with that sermon still full in our heads and hearts, these lines came to my mind — ' Deepening tliy passion still, O choral strain On the strong rusldng wind bear xip from human kind Thanks and implorings. What griefs that make no sign here before thee swell! All the daxk waters lie, revealed in each close bosom ceU, In the hidden chambers of the heart.' " At last the organ and singing ceased, but immediately the deep-toned bell slowly tolled, and a funeral train appeared on the other side of the wooded ravine that separates the avenue from the downs, it was winding its way with its procession of mourners through the cut 32 LETTERS FROM paths, amidst the dark yew trees. The sun lighted up the heavy masses of the trees, and the blue sky above, calm, settled, and unmoved, and not as we were, sad and uncertain, smiled on the mourners. * * * * You know how unnaturally hot Sunday was for the time of year. Mr. L. and Mrs. L. are staying here, and on returning home we proposed to them to go down to the fountain in the ilex wood, as the coolest spot to be found. *' Those mossy green banks, the garlands of roses, vines, and various perfumed plants that hung around, climbing about those dark trees — the wild thyme and flowers, and the hum of bees and birds that rest not on Sundays — Mr. L.'s pretty (children in their gay-looking hats and feathers, rolling about on the grassy A COUNTRY HOUSE. 33 slopes — and the silver-voiced sparkling fountain, and the children chiming to it — made Mr. L. say that we looked pro- digiously gay for a Bishop's visit, and for Sunday. Cecil, however, was completely cast down, and could take no share in any conversation ; impressions are not so soon effaced with her, and Mr. L. continued to laugh at the Bishop, and told him that this scene looked so little like England that it more reminded him of Stanfield's pictures from Boccacio. The Bishop took all Mr. L.'s remarks good humouredly; he rallied him about some of his friends ; and they agreed that Lady would think the fountain in the ilex wood a wicked fountain, and would have it stopped on Sundays. " To finish my account of this day, I must tell you that in the evening the c3 34 LETTERS FROM people came from the neighbouring vil- lages to hear the Bishop read prayers and a sermon, in the gallery. The heat being intense, Cecil desired that the hall and gallery should be as little hghted up as possible ; and, indeed, the full moon poured its streams of light into the very house. The people, all drawn forth by the beauty of the evening, and the hope of hearing a bishop, assembled in vast numbers, and the hall was crowded underneath the gal- lery, as well as the gallery over head. Those in the hall sang Lutheran hymns without music* They are rehgious hymns that the fishermen on the coast of Norway sing in chorus and recitative, * " Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound, The gulfy coast of Norway — iron-bound — And from the wide and open Baltic rises With pimctual cares, Lutheran harmonies." WoEDSWOBTH. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 35 The melody of these simple airs is quite peculiar, and as the voices went up to the coved ceiling of the quaint old-fashioned gallery, the moon with its full hght and long rays gleaming through the enormous windows, and aiding the few lights dis- persed about, the whole scene looked like something one had dreamt of more than a reality. " The bright and serene look of every- thing out of doors made Mr. L say, that he would go and walk in the forest. We proposed to accompany him. I have seen many an Eastern forest by the light of the moon, but I never happened to see an English forest but in open day; and what a beautiful sight it is, with the large oak and beech throwing their heavy shadows across the road ! Further off, ap- peared the enormous lighted up mndows 36 LETTERS FROM of the well-inhabited, picturesque, and prosperous old mansion of Ashdown, the luoon taking the edge of the architecture of the chimneys, of the ciphers, tracery, and open work of the outline of the build- ing as they cut the deep azure of the sky, spangled Avith thousands of stars, the white and silver moonlight steadily fixed on the slanting roof. On our pathway, floods of light seemed to envelope each leaf and flower ; each brier, fern, and herb rising as if to enjoy the freshness and dew of the night — fox-glove, and campanula, and queen lilies ; ' And ye painted populace, Who dwell in fields and lead ambrosial lives.' The tall white flowers balancing on their stalks, looking as if saying to the moon, ' We adore you,' making one almost fancy that flowers have thoughts and feelings. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 37 and that the tune may come when we shall know their secrets. " Through the forest lay the winding road to the adjoining village, with the fancy-hke mysterious darkness of the woods and thickets immediately around us, and half hid in vapour, as after a sultry day the hazy distances in the valley beneath ; and as the people went home to their habitations they sang in parts all the way through the forest, those same Lutheran melodies that had so much pleased us that evening. Then we saw at a distance, between the massive oak trees, the peering lights of the comfortable vil- lage of Forest, and gradually the singing died away to total stillness, and no sound was to be heard to disturb the entire silence, but that of the distant watch-dog. " As we were entering the house, I said 38 LETTERS FROM to Cecil, ' You are the cause of the com- fort and prosperity this day of hundreds of persons — you ought to be a happy woman.' She seemed quite worn out and exhausted with the day ; but she answered, ' Yes ; I should be very happy ; I feel that I ought to be so — I should be very ungrateful to Heaven, if I were not happy.' " A COUNTRY HOUSE. 39 CHAPTER XXIV. LETTER FROM MRS. HOPE TO MR. SELWYN. " I HAVE not been able to write to you for several days, as we have been very much occupied, at Ashdown, in getting up tableaux, aided by Mr. L , and R , the artist, who is painting a picture of the Holbein Room. I have been in much request, and am become very expert as to the different manner of throwing or procuring lights and shadows — how to pro- duce a Rembrandt effect, or a Peter de Hogue, or a Granet. We have had two 40 LETTERS FROM very perfect tableaux ; the first was of a Dutch interior in the Holbein Room from De Hogue, an artist who is very favour- able in his paintings for making tableaux, from the light generally falling steadily through a door or window, and spreading over the whole picture a peculiar sort of brilliancy ; the quiet of the persons within the painting showing a German or Dutch- like unbroken tranquillity. Nothing could be prettier than this tableau, except one that R invented for the newly-re- stored Queen Anne's room. " The room was, last night, arranged as in the days of Pope, from all the best authorities ; painting, prose, and verse, all the furniture arranged, all the persons in the tableaux dressed as in those days, and Pope, Hogarth, Kneller, and Addison, and the letters of Lady Mary Wortley Mon- A COUNTRY HOUSE. 41 tao^ue consulted, so as to make it a most perfect representation. Pretty Mrs. Co- nyngsby represented Belinda, in tlie Rape of the Lock, and we were enabled to take a glance as to Pope's ideas as to the various spirits that he supposed might reign over hoops, fans, and coffee-cups. These sylphs of the air were personated by very pretty children, and Ariel was represented by a beautiful boy of Lord Ravensleigh's. Dressing these fairy spirits has occupied every one, and rain- bow and silver-tissue wings, silk, laces, and flowers, have been fabricating, high and low, aU over the house for the last week. Teaching the children their parts fell to my share ; and, as they say in the Critic, dressing up spirits to speak plain, is a nice concern to meddle with, and no easy undertaking; my whole mind and ima- 42 LETTERS FROM gination have been put to the full stretch about it. " The scene opened with a speech by Ariel, who gave it as the guardian spirit of Belinda with great effect ; warning her not to admit into her head or heart, what in those days were called ' beaux,' — in these days, dandies, or elegans. He enumerates the sylphs with their desponding councils ; letting us a little into the secret of the story of the Lock of Hair being one likely to end ill. And now all the sylphs came forward that were to attend on Belinda; to them Ariel distributed the guard of the various parts of her dress, threatening them with his displeasure and punishment, moreover, should they neglect their duty. After a prologue, full of wit and persiflage, selected from this fairy-like beautiful poem — of which the children A COUNTEY HOUSE. 43 could know but little, except that they had fans and hoops to attend to: the real tableau appeared. A curtam drew on one side, and exhibited a room fiiU of persons, with all the Sylphs in attendance on Belinda, ready for a beck or a nod ; the company have just finished a game at ombre, the cards lie scattered about; some persons are drinking coffee, and the moment chosen was when ' the glittering forfex' encloses the lock of hair, and finds — oh, sad mischance ! — Belinda with an earthly lover lingering at her heart ! " The curtain closed again amidst the triumph and despair of the opposing parties, which, as you know, were succeeded by — ' Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the -n-ar of tongues. Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.' "We have had all the neighbourhood as audience to these very pretty evenings, 44 LETTERS FROM besides a house full of persons visiting here. Lord Ravensleigh and his children, Sir D. N , who tells ghost stories in the gallerj^, at fall of day, with great effect, and many others, who look and listen. "You inquire about Cecil's portrait? Mr. R is very successful in the like- ness, and it only requires a sitting or two to be terminated. She never liked pictures of women who are not young, but it would have been ungracious on her part to have declined sitting, as the people of the little to^\Ti of have asked for it for the Town Hall. She is painted walking amongst beautiful trees ; such as grow in the wilderness leading to the Pantheon. The landscape is lovely, with the little town of introduced A COUNTRY HOUSE. 45 in the distance. The dog is walking with her, and sat for his portrait with a pleasure that proves him to be a dog conscious of his good looks, and proud of being handed do"\vn to posterity in a manner that must do him credit ; he per- fectly understands the whole history of the painting. Cecil is dressed in a picturesque winter dress, suited to the present times, yet like the dress seen in Sir Joshua Reynolds' pictures; and the landscape being at the change of the leaf, or composed of evergreens, there is no incongruity between the dress and the landscape: it is a very large picture. Lord Ravensleigh admires it greatly, and wishes for a duplicate for Ravensleigh Castle. He does not venture to ask for it, but possibly his children may get it 46 LETTERS FROM for hiin. They are charming children, and take excessively to Cecil, and Cecil to them. " I am told, my dear father, that you have not been to Ashdown since Queen Anne's room has been restored with its painted ceiling. It is, indeed, a queen of a room — so light, so gay, so full of the history of those days; so full of decora- tion in biihl, japan, and China, with its pale green hangings of flowered damask; its pictures of beautiful grandmothers, by Gainsborough and Sir Joshua; the gay and enhvening representations of hunting and hawking scenes by Wover- mans, Hachert, and Velasquez, the superb Watteaus of the Fair at St. Germains, the Vandermulens of the brilliant days of the court of Louis Quartorze, in the forest of Fontainebleau — the whole of A COUNTRY HOUSE. 47 which is so excessively amusing that I pass half my time idling it away amidst this 'bal masque" of life in that gay room. " The other day, Cecil and I were looking at the paintings of the Chasses in Hungary and Bohemia. The sight of them carried our thoughts back to our visits at chateaux in those countries, and to many a curious scene of the amuse- ments in foreign lands. Cecil said, ' After all, home and peace are great goods ; how often in courtly festivities may be said, ' The show of thimgs are better than themselves.' " 48 LETTERS FROM CHAPTER XXV. LETTER FROM MRS. HOPE TO MR. SELWYN. " We have often discoursed as to what persons call Hhe good old times ^^ com- paring them with the present times, and asking ourselves whether they were better or whether they were worse. " I have always been surprised, my dear father, that you, who are a great reasoner and a great la^vyer, should have such an admiration for past times, for the days of the White and Red Roses, for the days of Shakspeare's historical plays, and for the times of Queen Elizabeth. A COUNTEY HOUSE. 49 " Glorious as these days may have often been, in architecture, knights and tournaments, and literature, yet, notwith- standing all their feudal grandeur, I am clearly for the days of Queen Victoria. It appears to me to have been a golden age, a great part of which exists in the imagination of the present age more than anything else; the barbarism mixed up with the good makes it thus ; and while we are lamenting over the present, we may as well look into what the misery, barbarity, and illiberality of the past has been. It gives us hopes for the fature; and as we knoAv that the sources of the noblest rivers are found in the wildest and most dreary regions, so it may lead us to believe that the golden age is to come, and not past. " You know how famous Ashdown is VOL. II. D 50 LETTERS FROM for historical tradition, and for a collec- tion of historical portraits; and some account of the individuals whose repre- sentations are here to be found may interest you; and, perhaps, on reading their stories, I may bring you round to my opinion as to the merits, and certainly as to the safety, of the present age. " Two visitors have been at Ashdo"\vn during the last month, from whose com- ments on the pictures Cecil has gained much information, and it is a'pro'pos of these opinions of yours, that she has per- mitted me to send you the manuscript of part of a catalogue about to be made out of the historical paintings. It is com- piled from various sources, traditionary, and from what authors, as well as artists, have communicated at different times, concerning these pictures. One of the A COUNTRY HOUSE. 51 visitors was Mr. M , so well read in Shakspeare; another was Mr. S ; and now the catalogue begins to assume sometliing of a settled form; and as it is mostly an historical catalogue, any additions that you will make to it will be very acceptable " C. Hope." D 2 PART OF A CATALOGUE IN MANUSCEIPT. " Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away Like days of old." Private life during the times of the Tudors is a wholesome lesson to ponder on for those discontented with the present day. The private life of indi- viduals any way distinguished by wealth, learning, greatness of station, or as the friends and supporters of kings and queens, was one perpetual tragedy. It frequently terminated by violent death on the scaffold or on the field of battle, in endless bitter skirmishes between chieftain and chieftain, neigh- bour and neighbour ; sometimes in death from treachery or poison ; or in its milder form came — long imprisonment, broken fortunes, or broken hearts. In the reign of Edward III., the warlike spirit was so great throughout England, that every yeoman fancied himself one of a race born for victorv or PICTURES OF PAST LIFE. 53 dominion ; and it was considered no disparagement for a true knight to marry one of royal blood, especially if they had pedigrees and escutcheons as old as those of royalty. The chief or head of each house was often in open rebellion to the sovereign, or leading a life resembling that of a bandit chief; or if not in rebellion to the Crown, sold body and soul to his king; if royal, generally loyal until deatli, having his children hostages to his fidelity, and exercising those same virtues of loyalty and fidelity with a heroism that set ruin and death at defiance. That those were the days to create poets and poetry, there can be no doubt; and poets and painters arose immediately after these days; for poets have always ci'eated painters: one art kindles at the fire of the other art. We are not going to follow up the romantic stories, or the details of misfortune or sacrifice, that occurred in most of the great families of the days of the Tudors. Those details are to be met with in the history of the houses of Grey, Staflford, Sey- mour, Dudley, and Courtney — in all the great pedigree, high blood, or great intellect of England's history. These stories are as full of crime as full of virtues — full of romance as full of misfortunes; but we will keep to the stories of the individuals whose portraits are to be found at Ashdown. Mostly in the fate and destiny of these persons the sentence of 54 PICTURES OF Scripture was fulfilled — " Whoso sheddeth man's blood, b)' man shall his blood be required." The old English nobility had so fallen in the civil wars of the Roses, that during the Tudor dynasty the House of Peers in England did not exceed from fifty-four to sixty persons. In Eliza- beth's reign, it consisted of nineteen earls, one viscount, and about forty barons; and the mass of tragical event and misfortune in those families alone may well satisfy the aristocracy of this land how they have gained by time and change in security and comfort, although, perhaps, their importance may have diminished. Devoted servants to their king more than to their country, their goods and chattels were his goods and chattels; their tenants were his slaves; their sons and daughters were married, or disposed of, to those whom the sove- reign named as husbands or wives; the subject gave his blood, bis liberty, his fortune, his children, his vassals, his life; the sovereign dispensed rewards of banners, shields, lands and houses, arms and honours; the war-cry of families on the field of battle was their glory, and the rallying-point to thousands of their adherents was round their banners; and the chiefs willingly sacrificed to private quarrel or to civil war their vassals, who would fall by thousands, both in England and in Scotland, to the war-cry of a Douglas, a Talbot, a Hume, or a Stanley. PAST LIFE. 55 Yet there is a fascination in those times ol romance and peril, when the wars of the AVhite and the Red Roses laid waste England in the days of Bosworth field and Flodden field ; and if, as children, we delight in the stories of Bluebeard, the Little Red Riding-hood, and the various fairy tales that belong to the nursery, or to the school-room, — as grown children, we are no less interested in Richard III.'s or Henry VlII.'s crimes, when the happiness, fortunes, and lives of so many were sacrificed. To proceed to the history of individuals. Ash- down possessed the most perfect collection known of Holbein's pictures, and also a fine series of paintings of the works of Vandyke, Lely, and Kneller; and in reading the historical play of " Henry VIII.," the successive reigns of both kings and queens, and Clarendon's " History of the Rebellion," 8fC., you could, after reading the events, look at the portraits of the persons concerned in those events; and can it be doubted that the impression, going together, imprinted on the mind of the spectator a knowledge of those characters that they never could have acquired in any other way. A portrait really original — of real authenticity — is a subject of so much interest, that it ranks next to seeing the per- son himself ; it settles the mind as to that person. 56 PICTURES OF Portrait of Hknry VIII. — By Holbein. This picture, the duplicate of the one at Pet- worth, is too well known, from engravings, to need description. It is a satisfaction to see such perfect harmony in appearance, countenance, character, and conduct, as this representation of the king aifords. Henry may be considered as king — as bearer of the title of Defender of the Faith — as a literary cha- racter — as the hero of one of Shakspeare's greatest historical plays — and as the deliberate murderer of several of his queens, and many of his friends and adherents — all these persons put to death with religious hypocrisy, and under the mask of justice,' so as not to let it appear as murder, but as verdicts of political necessity, or called for by justice. During the life of Prince Arthur, Henry was de- signed by his father to become Archbishop of Can- terbury — the head of the Church. With that intent, he received a theological and classical edu- cation, was full of points of law and learning, and delighted in religious controversy. Besides his literary attainments, he was well skilled in music, and composed the words, if not the music, of one of the anthems now in use in the choir of Christ Church, at Oxford. Yet neither his education, his learning, or his love of music, saved him from being one of the most selfish, unfeeling, and blood-thirsty PAST LIFE. 57 tyrants that ever disgraced a throne. He committed every crime in a jovial sort of manner; he patro- nized learned persons only when they humoured his vanity or his headstrong ambition; and his character is thus given by Wolsey in Shakspeare: " He is a prince who, rather than he will miss or want any part of his will, he would endanger the one half of his kingdom. Henry, having received the title of Defender of the Faith from the Pope, he sent the learned Bede, Abbot of Glastonbury, accompanied by the vic- torious General of Bosworth Field, Sir Gilbert Talbot of Grafton, to Rome to confer with the Pope. They returned with a suitable present to Henry from a warlike PontiiF like Julius II. — a sword, and a cap of maintenance; called thus because maintaining the Catholic faith, and used from that period in the heraldic bearings of certain families. Henry's suc- cessors have since borne the title of Defender of the Faith, but it must be asked — which faith did Henry defend? or what faith did he practise? Henry made use of his kingly power but for crime; he told mankind — " Our aery buildetb on the cedar's top, And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun." His was absolute power; and he said, that had his Parliament refused his wishes, their heads shoidd have been oflf I d3 58 PICTURES OF The play of Henry VIII. may be considered as the great triumph of the wisdom and genius of Shakspeare, in having altered the truth of history just enough and not more than is sufficient for the purposes of dramatic representation. He brings forth each character with an individual power and grandeur most striking; not one of the characters having any poetical interest in itself; he has created that interest by his genius, in the ultimate fate of each person. Thus Schiller has since achieved the same, and procured the same results in the magnificent tragedy of Wallenstein. Shakspeai'e depicts incidents, describes and dra- matises events, and then leaves characters to be inferred; the measure of the language, the con- struction of the sentences, is supposed to be different in this play from any other of Shakspeare's; and one of his commentators remarks that the greater number of the speeches are plaintive, and that it is allowed that with persons of genius and imagination the construction of the sentences is much affected by the state of the mind and feelings of the writer. Passion is eloquent, and the passions actuate the author. There are no redeeming points in Henry VIII. 's character — none to be found; unless his patronage of Holbein, and his approval of Cranmer, can be brought forward as making in his favour — his con- PAST LIFE. 59 duct to Sir Thomas More and to Wolsey would alone condemn him. Other kings were murderers from ambition; but he was hardened, insensible. treacherous, and subtle; like Satan, he could " cite Scripture for his purpose" with religious hypocrisy: and his crimes stand out more on examining his character than those of any king on record. His manners and general demeanour entirely accord with the features and expression of this portrait by Holbein; that expletive, "Hal" which the king constantly used to express his angry and passionate feelings, is read on the lips of a vulgar and argu- mentative mind and nature. The character that Shakspeare draws of him was written and per- formed in the days of his own daughter Elizabeth, and had any good been to be discovered in the king's character, no doubt Shakspeare would have seized on it. Anne BoLErN. Anne Boleyn's tragical story is too well known to relate, or to make further comments on than is connected with this beautiful picture. Anne is like Lely's representations of Nell Gwynne; her eyes are blue, very perfect in form and outline; her hair is golden; and her hands (as we are informed in 60 PICTURES OF history) are remarkably small and feminine. She is represented in this painting younger than in any other picture of her; and with those looks, and in this dress, she may be supposed to have appeared on her palfrey at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, where Henry first beheld her; or afterwards, re- ceiving him at Hevor Castle. Anne's beauty is at once feminine, graceful, and lively. The dress has been evidently much studied by Holbein, or perhaps by Anne, or is the com- bined taste of both lady and painter. It is com- l)osed of a robe of divers colours, with loose sleeves worn over a tighter body, which is partially seen. She wears a large, flat, black hat, having a pendant jewel hanging from it, on the right side; and under- neath the hat, the back hair is enveloped in a gold Spanish cap or net. A jewel wdth a pearl drop is suspended to a worked chain worn round the neck. However, this beautiful picture is not an original painting by Holbein. It is painted by Rubens, is a copy from Holbein, and was discovered in a palace at Genoa. The original is missing. In the play of '• Henry VIII." Shakspeare makes Queen Catharine his heroine, and the victim of the king's incon- stancy ; he does not pretend to justify Henry, although Anne was the mother of Shakspeare's sovereign Elizabeth; but he puts forth the beauty of Anne, at her coronation, as some excuse for PAST LITE. 61 Henry's conduct in saying that when the people had a full view of her, — " yucli a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea, iu a stiff tempest, As loud and to as mauy tuues." Katekyn Par, Lady Latimer. In this portrait Holbein represents Kateryn in her younger days, as the wife of Lord Latimer, and more a good-looking woman than a beauty. She wears a semi- circle of pearls and jewels on her hair, placed on velvet, like the head-dresses now in fashion, and her robe is embroidered in gold, and edged with pearls- Queen Kateryn died at the age of thirty-nine, yet she had time to be married to four husbands. The first was Ed^vard Burghe, eldest son of Lord Borough, of Gainsborough; the second was Lord Latimer; and she lived through the perilous affections of Henry VIIL, of whom she was the sixth Queen, to marry the Lord High Ad- miral Seymour, of Sudeley, brother of the Protector, who was thought to have given her poison, to further his ambitious views on the Princess Elizabeth. Queen Kateryn died in September, 1548, and in the March following, Seymour was executed on the charge of high treason, by order of his brother, the Protector Somerset, who, in his turn, was beheaded 62 PICTURES OF shortly after, making in this family history a ladder of intrigue and crime rarely to be paralleled in any nation. " Kateiyn's beauty raised her to a throne, and her good sense kept her there." She was both a learned woman and a patron of learning, having saved the University of Cambridge after an act had been passed to throw all the colleges into the king's disposal and power. She is one of Walpole's royal and noble authors. She wrote a book called, " A Meditation of the Days she had passed in Popery, Fasts, and Pilgrimages," which was published after her decease, by Cecil, afterwards Lord Burleigh. She was not exempt from the characteristic faults of the women of her day — pride and presumption, both in feeling and display. The queen died at Lord Seymour's Castle of Sudeley, in Gloucester- shire, and was buried in the chapel belonging to the Castle. Her tomb was opened in 1782, and the following epitaph was found on her coffin: — K P^ , Here lyeth queue Kateryu, wife to Kyug Henry the VIII., and last the wife of Thomas Lord of Sudeley, High Admyrall of England, And Unkle to Kyng Edward the VI. dyed 5 September MCCCCCXLVIII. PAST LITE. 63 Edward Staffokd, third Duke of Bucking- ham. — By Holbein. The fate of the title of Buckingham has been ex- traordinary. Deeply concerned in the wars of the White and Red Roses, the first Duke, Humphrey Stafford, fell at the battle of Northampton; the second Duke, Henry, fell on the scafibld in the reign of Richard HI.; his son, the third Duke of Bucking- ham, says in his dying speech — ■ " My Loble father, Henry of Buckingham, Who first raised hand against usurping Richard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister, Being distressed, was by that wretch betray'd, And without trial fell ; God's peace go with him ! Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father's loss, like a most noble Prince, Eestored to me my honours, and out of ruins Made ray name once more noble." The third Duke quarrelled with "Wolsey, and was beheaded by Henry VIII., the details of which quarrel are in Shakspeare. The title of Bucking- ham was next bestowed on James I.'s favourite, Villiers, the all-powerful and seducing Buckingham. He fell by the dagger of the assassin. His brother, the next Duke, the feeble, faithless author and bulFoon, the friend of Charles II., built Clifden, married the greatest heiress in England, and died without heirs and in a garret. 64 PICTURES OF The dukedom was afterwards given to Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, the patron of Dryden, who had married a natural daughter of James II., a man who had great influence in the world of literature, and at court in the reign of that monarch ; hard and niggardly in his dealing, he had aspired to the hand of the Princess Anne, and descended to that of Ca- tharine Sedley's daughter. His nickname was Lord AUpride; he wrote his own epitaph in West- minster Abbey, owning himself a sceptic, and made a raillery of that religion of which his father-in-law was a bigoted member. He built Buckingham Palace ; and there the Duchess of Buckingham would, on the anniversary of her grandfather's mar- tyrdom, receive her company in a state chair, dressed in mourning, and the room hung with black. The Duke and Duchess leaving no heirs, the title of Buckingham again fell to the ground. We are now treating of Holbein's portrait, which represents Edward Stafford, the third Duke, a victim of the injustice of the times, and of Henry VIII.'s kingly tyranny. The picture represents a stout, sturdy-looking man, with an acute countenance, such as would seek and would not dislike a quarrel with Wolsey. The garter hangs from an enamelled chain that he wears round his neck ; his hair is in the German fashion, and a flat cap or berret is placed on it, on the front of which is affixed one small PAST LIFE. 65 jewel on the left side, and three ornaments, like stars, on the right-hand side. Soon after the battle of Bosworth (1486), the AVorcestershire estates of one branch of the Staf- fords had been forfeited by rebellion, and bestowed by Henry VII. on the Talbots. The rights of the Lancastrian monarch were then established, and thus the house of Tudor punished their enemies and rewarded their adherents, taking from some, giving to others. In the succeeding reign the king and Wolsey beheld with envy the immense riches and large estates of the presumptive heir to the crown, Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham; he was Henry's next heir in the Beaufort branch of the Lancastrian line, and the last legitimate repre- sentative of Edward III., after the children of Clarence. Europe was then infected with a passion for build- ing. Francis I. and his followers were rearing the most sumptuous and magnificent palaces or castles in France; and this taste for magnificent archi- tecture had remained in full force in England from the two reigns preceding that of Henry VIIL, and in those turbulent times, the great ministers of go- vernment had built for themselves castles, such as Sudeley, Tattershall, Hurstmonceaux, and many others, the various architecture of which show the various hands of the builders. Henry VIIL was an 66 PICTURES OF architect, and styled " the onlie phoenix of his time for fine and curious masonrie ;" Wolsey was a still greater architect, " Aud though he were unsatisfied in gettiug • . . . yet, in bestowing, .... He was most princely ; ever witness for him Those towers of leai'ning, Ipswich aud Oxford, one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it ; The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, So excellent in art, aud still so rising." "Wolsey's followers vied with each other in erecting mansions on their estates in the country ; the Duke of Norfolk and Lord Surrey were severally building on their lands in Norfolk; Haddon Hall, Wollaston, Cowdray, were then being built, finished, or en- larged ; but the great architect of the day was Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, and about this en- grossing and favourite pursuit of the times, there may have been, with regard to him, some petty jea- lousy at Court, fi'om the reported beauty and magni- ficence of the Duke's palace at Thornbury, which he was occupied in rearing in Gloucestershire. A pile of ruins now remains to show what its beauty then was, and what it was intended to be when finished. No money was spared in rendering the beauty of the architecture complete; the very chim- neys are ornamented with a profusion of decoration in armorial bearings, devices, tracery-work, &c. PAST LIFE. 67 The Duke bad terminated the gateway house when sent for by Henry VIII.; his arms and mottoes remain over the entrance, where the follow- ing inscription may now be traced: — " This gate was begun in the yere of our Lorde Gode MCCCCCXI. the 11 yere of the reigne of Kinge Henri the VIII., by me Edward Due of Bukyngha, Erlle of Harforde, StafForde, and North- ampto." Beneath the inscription on the right hand of the gate is the Duke's motto, ' Dorene savant," which appears to have been repeated on the left hand also. All the courts, all the windows, aU the chimney- pieces remaining inside the house, all the laying out of the rooms, are models of beauty in shape and design. Thus occupied far down in the country amidst the wooded valleys and steep hills of Gloucestershire, the Duke received orders to repair to "Windsor and from thence to London. The quai-rel with Wolsey, a mere pretence, is detailed at full length in the play of Henry VIII. The King wanted the Duke's estates to spend or to rewai'd his more favoured subjects with. His attainder furnished a rich prize to the crown, and with the jealousy of Buckingham and with his fall, began the long list of Henry's crimes and rapaciousness. Shakspeare, in making out his characters in this wise play, does not take the trouble to investigate 68 PICTUKES OF their true character, because tlie world and history- give them differently, and according to the prejudices and bias of individuals, or to the party feelings of each historian, thus remaining true to life — a matter of doubt and uncertainty. In this Shakspeare shows his knowledge of human nature ; but he places the dramatic character in full perfection. The play begins with a description of the field of the Cloth of Gold in France ; if Buckingham was there, which is doubtful, Shakspeare has created his absence as a means of describing this famous meeting of the two kings. The Duke's presence at another show is known some years previous to this, when Henry VIII. met the Emperor Maximilian; the magnificence of Buckingham's dress is mentioned in ancient books of heraldry, on this occasion " purple embroidered in gold, and the dress as well as the armour all over antelopes and swans." These were the arms of King Henry IV., who bore an antelope on the dexter and a swan on the sinister side, and were probably beheld by Henry VIII. with a most jealous eye ; but the Duke had a right to these arms, as heir-general to Eleanor Bohun, and those were days when such advantages were claimed and did not lie dormant. It has been remarked that in the present century most family quarrels can be traced to disagreements as to wills, fortunes, or money. During the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries pre- tensions or jealousies as to heraldic bearings were the PAST LIFE. 69 foundation of almost every quarrel. This suffi- ciently describes tlie spirit of those centuries. To return to the play. The Duke of Norfolk warns Buckingham, who is unmeasured in his hostile language, that Wolsey is a dangerous enemy. Buckingham accuses the Cardinal of being bribed by the Emperor Charles Y. to break the peace between France and England, and as the Cardinal had received from the hand of Cliarles some valuable presents, and hoped for his interest towards attaining the Popedom, it was natural that he should be suspected of a bias towards the Emperor's in- terest. Mr. Campbell remarks on this play, that Shakspeare raises the character of Queen Catharine in our estimation, while he keeps us pleased with Anne Boleyn, and on tolerable terms with Henry VIIL; but we are led on to beb'eve by Henry's conduct, that could he thus conduct himself towards Catharine and Buckingham, no principle could serve his conduct on any other occasion. The Duke was arrested for high treason in the month of April, 1520 ; the following month he was beheaded in the Tower. The real cause of AYolsey's wrath comes forward in one of the depositions on the trial. Buckingham, speaking of the Cardinal, had '■• Added further, That liad tbe King in Lis sickness fnil'd, The Cardinal and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads Should have gone off." 70 PICTURES OF Siii Gilbert Talbot of Grafton — Pamted by Mahuse. This old picture, painted on panel, represents the victorious General who commanded the rijrht winor of the army at Bosworth-field, afterwards a Knight of the Garter, and Governor of Calais. He is a dark-featured man, Avearing a three-cornered flat cap or hat. The dress appears to be composed of folds of woollen or coarse linen, that is worn over some other dress, with a turning-down ruff, and the Order of the Garter suspended from a chain of fretted gold and enamel. Sir Gilbert came of a warlike race; both his fiither and uncle fell at the battle of Noi'thampton, as the inscriptions on the old tombs at Worksop show, which place was once a Castle and Priory belonging to the Talbots, pre- vious to its being carried by marriage to the Howards. In great favour with Henry VII. and Henry VIII., but belonging more to the reign of the former in his military history, he did not live to become either the victim or the spectator of the crimes of the last-named monarch, dying a short time before the sacrifice of Buckingham on the scaiFold. Sir Gilbert Talbot is named in the play of Richard III. as one of the adherents to the interests of the House of Lancaster, in the wars of the white and PAST LIFE. 71 red roses. He was grandson of the famous John Lord Talbot, the antagonist of the Maid of Orleans. In the reign of Richard III. and Henry VII. the name of this great captain was still held in reverence and looked back to with national pride throughout the land; it was still remembered how high he had held the English name on the continent, and his ex- ploits were repeated in uncouth rhymes, and sung in unmusical ballads by soldier, pilgrim, and wassailer. In later days, Shakspeare and Schiller have brought forward his deeds in dramatic representation ; so did then the rude poets of those times record his bold courage and heroic death. Beloved in the day of disaster as in the day of victory, it was still re- membered in the days of Sir Gilbert Talbot, that a subscription had been raised throughout the land to defray the expense of tlie enormous ransom asked for the hero of England's glory when taken pri- soner by the French, when his detention in France had saved him from participating in the burning of Joan of Arc, the black deed of the Regent Bedford. It was still remembered " that the good men of the great citie of Coventrie had volunteered to Talbot unreasonable and importable ransome with all their good hearts." After being victorious in forty battles and skirmishes, this great commander fell fighting, along with his youngest son at the battle of Chatillon. 72 PICTURES OF In the days of Henry VII. a strong religious feeling was mixed up with everything ; it was not the religion of our days — it was better, and it was worse. Pride of birth, immense pride of birtli was mixed up with chivalry, and with religious feeling?. On the field of battle and in single combat it was mixed up ; religion was to be found in all the gay pomps and ceremonies of the world ; pride of birth seemed the prevailing feeling in all the sad and mournful cex'emonies of death. The night before a battle, the assailants were occupied in making their wills, and matins and masses were attended before sunrise, or after they were drawn up in battle array; the soldier took the sacrament kneeling, while, figuratively, he carried the dust of the earth to his mouth as an emblem of the religious rite. After a repulse on the field of battle, " The English host straightway take heart again ; They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain ; And each one ■with his clrnehed fist to smite his breast begins, And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins !" Thus in the midst of ignorance, barbarism, and crime, we were a religious people — a respect for re- ligion Avas the virtue of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. At Poictiers, and Cressy, and Agincourt, church and sovereign were one and the same. In the reign of Henry VII. the sums expended by families in defraying the charges of magnificent PAST LITE. ^O funerals were enormous; it was considered a meri- torious manner of showing respect to those who pre- ceded you to the tomb; and the magnificence of the sight conferred equally a regard for the memory of the deceased, and honour on the living who survived. In the sixteenth century, so strong was the feeling or prejudice in favour of these sad and mournful rites, that persons let their imaginations dwell on these matters. Among the original letters in the British Museum are several written in the reigns of Henry VII. and Heniy VIII., addressed to Garter King-at- arms, desiring to know what proportions of honour and respect they shall be entitled to receive when dead ? How many heralds, poursuivants, and mutes their rank or the escutcheons of their arms entitle them to ? How many followers they may have in the procession ? So as to make a magnificent display of pomp, pride, and vanity into the very grave ? Estates were encumbered by various stately cere- monies ; but by these melancholy shows, more than by any other expenses, which entailed also gifts to shrines and altars, erected at great cost, and the offer- ings to the chapels of saints, which ruined the richest persons of the kingdom. Beauchamp, Earl of War- wick, presented to the shrine of Thomas a Becket, to the shrine of Shrewsbury, and to two other shrines, images in pure gold as large as life, each bearing a gold anchor. When Henry VIII. came to the VOL. II. E 74 PICTURES OF throne, being neither troubled by scruples or con- science, he soon appropriated to himself all these religious offerings, as well as the fortunes thus melt- ing away in the hands of the greatest families of the kingdom. Early in life, Sir Gilbert Talbot, as a valiant suldier and a true knight, determined that the re- mains of the hero of England should not repose in a foreign land — the land of the enemy — he sum- moned his followers, and accompanied by thirty archers and three men-at-arms, went to France, and returned bearing with him the remains of his ances- tor; and, according to his will and testament, Talbot was interred with great pomp among his own people, on his estates in Shropshire, in the Chapel of Our Lady and St. George, in the church of Blackmere, now Whitchurch. Shrines were erected where the lighted lamp burnt day and night ; costly gifts were ])resented of images of silver and images of gold : precious relics were procured from the East, from Loretto, from the holy shrine of St. Anthony of Padua, and popes, abbots, and priors sent gifts and otlerings to the altar of this chapel. The funeral procession was the most magnificent sight that the country had ever witnessed. It was by the light of torches in broad day: the heralds foremost in their places cleared away the people who stood gazing on the show. The banners of the Annunciation of the Holy Trinity, St. Edmund, St. Michael, St. George, PAST LITE. 75 and St. Edward, were here carried as in battle; their huge paintings floating in the air; and as they passed, the multitude kneeling on the ground as far as the eye could see. Afterwards came in procession, Grey Friars, Black Friars, Franciscan and Carmelite monks, chanting the following dirge for the dead : — " Venient cito sascula, quum jam Socius calor ossa revisat, Animataque sanguine vivo Habitacula pristina gestet. " Quae pigra cadavera pridem Tumulis putrefacta jacebant, Volucres rapientur in auras, Animas comitata priores. "Hinc maxima cura sepulcris Impenditur: bine resolutos Honor ultimus accipit artus, Et funeris ambitus omat,"* " DIBGE FOE THE DEAD. ■ The ages soon shall come when friendly beat Shall these dry -withered bones again resume, The life-blood seek again its ancient seat, And animate again with glowing bloom. ' The buried carcases, which lifeless lay In mouldering sepulchres and charnels cold, Soon on the gales of heaven shall wing their way, Companions to the souls they held of old. Hence on the dead we tend with holy pains, And when we would in vain the life recall, Cherish with honours sad the dear remains. And duly deck the solemn funeral." E 2 76 PICTURES OF The sword, armour, and helmet of the deceased, were borne as military trophies, with all the accoutrements of mourning surrounding them, the helmet and armour having, according to the fashion of those times, religious, mixed with heraldic, mottoes engraved on them; and the famous sword, on the blade of which was seen, " Sum Talbot pro vincere, inimicossuos," — " bad Latin, but having good steel within it," as an old writer says; the cross-hilt of the "weapon having been frequently used as a crucifix in the hasty orisons of the warrior, had, on that account, the word " Jesus" engraved on it. The torch-bearers surrounded the coffin, and two hundred knights and squires followed in black armour, their spears reversed, the black plumes and the black trappings on their horses shining in the varied lights of daylight, sunlight, and torchlight. The heralds and poursuivants closed the proces- sion, bearing pennons, banners, achievements, among which were those of St. Michael and the Virgin; the heralds calling aloud and proclaiming the various titles, dignities, and offices of the deceased; and every now and then were heard, amidst the clashing of armour, the noise of the crowded multitude, the distant chant of monks, and the tolling of bell-s " Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury — Lord Strange, of Blackmere — Lord Verdun, of Alton — PAST LIFE. 77 Great Captain — Knight of the Noble Order of St. George — Worthy St. Michael and the Golden Fleece — Great Marshal to Henry VI. of all his wars within the realms of France." Gifts of money and torches were presented to each cross, oratory, and chapel, before which the funeral procession rested, as had been left by the will of the deceased warrior, " to be levied for ever and ever, yearly, on the lands and estates of the family." The shrines and altars were illuminated, while a mass was said for the repose of the soul of the dead in all the surrounding monasteries and convents. Along with the funeral chant was heard the intermingling sounds of the clank of arms, the neighing of steeds, the ringing of the little mass-bell, when the procession came befoi^e the lighted oratory or chapel, and slowly tolled the heavy doleful funeral bell! Besides all those persons called on to make part of the proces- sion, were the multitude of persons that such a great ceremony had attracted or brought together: the dark foreigner; the seller of rosoglio, with a red feather in his gay hat; the noisy criers bearing about the baked funeral meats, the viands, and cups for the gathering crowds; the bearer of blessed beads and crosses, relics and rosaries, from our Lady of Loretto, St. James of Compostello, and other holy spots; the bare-footed monk, come from afar; the 78 PICTURES OF pilgrim, with staff and cockle-shell; the black-eyed gipsy, the silver-haired old beggar, and the light, gay youngster, with his smile and his laugh. When the funeral procession reached the chapel of Our Lady, at Blackmere, the dead was deposited in the grave, "earth to earth, dust to dust;" and a requiem, or mass, was then said and sung in these words: — " Nunc suscipe terra fovendum, Gremioque bunc coucipe molli : Hominis tibi membra sequestro, Generosa at fragmiua credo. " Animffi fuit hsec domus olim Factoris ab ore creatse : Fervens babitavit iu istis Sapientia principe Cbristo. " Tu depositum tege corpus : Nou immemor ille require! Sua munera fictor et auctor ; Propriique iEuigmata vultus."* * "Receive him, Earth, uuto tbiue harbouring shrine; In thy soft tranquil bosom let him rest; These limbs of man I to thy care consign. And trust the noble fragments to thy breast. " This bouse was once the mansion of a soul, Brought into life by its Creator's breath; Wisdom did once this living mass control, And Christ was there enshrined, whoconquers death. " Cover this body, to thy care consign'd ; Its Maker shall not leave it in the grave, But His own lineaments shall bear in mind, And shall recall the image which He gave." PAST LIFE. 79 Mtiny precious relics were interred with the hero of England; amongst others, was a crimson velvet purse, enclosing two relics of an oval form, set in silver — the one was an image of our Saviour, curiously worked, and exceedingly beautiful; the other was an image of the Virgin Mary: both had belonged to the beads of the warrior.* After the termination of the mass, the Heralds called aloud the titles of the Champion of England in the same manner as Shakspeare has enumerated the pompous long list of his dignities in the play ol' Henry VI. The Herald then demanded — "Do you here receive his mortal remains?" And was answered by the priests and choristers — " He is here — we receive him." A fine monument was erected in the Church — " And tbere, beneath the southern aisle, A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair Did long Lord Talbot's image bear ; Now vainly for its site you look! There erst was martial Talbot found, His feet upon a couehant hound, His hands to heaven upraised ; • The Church of Blackmere in Shropshire has long fallen into ruins ; but in digging the foundations for that of Whit- church, built on the site in 171'2, these relics were discovered, and an account of them is given in the curious manuscript journal of an antiquary. 80 PICTURES OF Aud all around on scutclieon rich, And tablets carved, and fretted nicbe, His arms and feats were blazed.'' This duty performed to the memory of his ances- tor, occasioned Sir Gilbert to be held in high esteem both by churchmen and knights. He materially advanced the interests of the L.ancasterian branch, of whom his family were strenuous supporters; and he brought into the field at Bosworth, two thousand vassals and retainers of his nephew, the young Earl of Shrewsbury. Victorious in command of the right wing of Richmond's army when King Richard was slain, and Surrey was opposed to him in the field, and again victorious at the Battle of Stoke, Henry VII. had often recourse to his opinion and experience; and it is expressly stated " gave him the Garter for his wisdom in council, as well as for his valour in the field." In the British Museum are the letters that passed between the Sovereign and the subject respecting "the faigned lad, called Perkin War- beck," and Lambert Simnel, another impostor. The king informs Sir Gilbert Talbot of their landing in the " wilde Irishie," and that Perkin Warbeck is sent to this land through the malice of the Lady Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy. Henry VII. bestowed the estate of Grafton, in "Worcestershire, on Sir Gilbert; lands that, in the reign of PAST LIFE. 81 Edward III., had belonged to the De Graftons, and had been carried by marriage to the StafFords, then attainted and in disgrace with the Crown, and who were deprived of their property and pos- sessions. The Manor-house and buildings of Grafton, along with a catholic chapel, ancient fishing houses, intersected with terraces and trout- streams, are said to have covered many acres of ground. It has been frequently burnt in affrays and disturbances, and as frequently rebuilt. Henry VIII. made Sir Gilbert Talbot Governor of Calais; and he visited the refined and pedantic court of Urbino, to carry the Garter to Francis della Rovere, Duke of Urbino, from Henry VIII. — a Court since become celebrated — " Where Tasso was their glory and then- shame." Lord Byron was quite aware of the spirit of poetry that lay exactly in those times of which we are now treating. He thought Bosworth a noble subject for an epic poem, and would willingly have written one. Beaumont's poem of Bosworth field, written in the seventeenth century, shows the faults to be avoided on a subject where he makes the opposing generals hold a long conversation in the heat of battle. Bosworth settled the crown on the heads of the Tudors; settled it literally as well as figuratively, for the crown of England was that E 3 S2 PICTURES OF day found hidden in a hawthorn bush, and Henry VII. ever after wore the hawthorn as sup- porting the crown in his armorial ensigns. The long hfe of this experienced warrior seems to have passed in endless activity — ^journeys and business, both in public and private life. It is evident how high his character stood for wisdom, and how much his opinion was sought after for worldly council. On all sides he was consulted by kings, churchmen, statesmen, and by his own rela- tions and connexions; and wise men were wanted in days when justice lagged behind; but romance, generosity, and villany stept out, along with mag- nificence, debt, and ruin. He was frequently called on as umpire as to family rights and armorial bearings — as to doweries and jointures — as to mar- riages — as to quarrels — as to building shrines and monuments. He was trustee to wills of the Ormond, Norfolk, and Shrewsbury families; and guardian to many young persons whose prospects in life, ac- cording to the fashion of those times, he was called upon to look after. "When families were ruined, by building and enormous expenditure, in days when the moving establishment of a great family amounted often to one hundred and fifty servants or more, — in days when this crowd of persons were eight days on the road removing from Gloucester- shire to London, as we learn from the household PAST LIFE. 83 books of the Berkeley family, ruin was nigh at hand, and then persons would come to confer with a wise man; and Sir Gilbert Talbot was often called on to give advice (and in no gentle strain,) to those less wise than himself, and he would say thus to those ruined lords and ladies — " Have you dismissed your eating household ? . . sold your hangings Of Nebuchadnezzar, for such they were. As I remember with the furnitures Belonging to your beds and chambers? Have you most carefully taken off the lead From your roof, weak with age, and so prevented The ruin of your house, and clapt him on A summer suit of thatch to keep him cool ?" Then turning to iiis fair cousin, the country hoyden , he w^ould tell her — " You shall not see a masque, or barriers, Or tilting, or a solemn christening. Or a great marriage, or new fireworks, Or any bravery ; but you must live At home In scurvy clothes, as you were wont to do." Afterwards he would address her foolish husband, far advanced on the road to ruin — "Tell me. Sir! Have you cast up your state, rated your land. And find it able to endure the change Of time and fashion ? Is it always harvest? Always vintage ? Have you ships at sea 'S4 PICTURES OF To bring your Montlily returniug treasure ? Doth the King Open bis large exchequer to your hands, And bid you be a great man ? Can your wife the week allow Suits to each day, and know no ebb in honour? If these be possible, and can hold out, Then be a courtier still, and still be wasting." Portrait of Gerald Fitzgerald, Ninth Earl of Kildare. This painting represents a head in profile, wear- ing a cap, such as Holbein liked to place his sternest features in, with a coat trimmed with fur, and a dress such as may be seen in Holbein's medals and portraits of Erasmus. This stern-looking hard- featured man was called the stout Earl of Kildare, and was one of Henry VIII.'s numerous victims. Ireland has of late years been termed " a withered and distorted member of the state;" in Kildare's story it will be seen how much more distorted Ireland was in the days of the Tudors. When Henry VIII. came to the throne, the royal authority in Ireland was circumscribed within nar- row limits. It comprised the principal sea-ports, with one-half of the rive counties of Lowth, West- nieath, Kildare, and Wexford; the rest of the island was unequally divided among sixty chief- PAST LIFE. 85 .ains of Irish, and thirty of English origin, who governed the inhabitants of their respective domains, and carried on war with each other as freely and recklessly as if they had been independent sovereigns. To Wolsey it appeared that one great cause of the decay of the English power in Ireland Avas the jealousy and the disunion between the rival families of Fitzgerald and Butler, and their feuds with the respective chiefs. Lord Kildare was created Lord Justice of Ireland on the death of his father; he followed his warlike example in subduing the rebels — a race rude as were the savages of America, and treated in these cruel and ferocious wars as if they were untamable animals. In 1514 Kildare marched against the chief O'More, whom he drove into the woods, took the Castle of Cavan, killed O'Reilly, divided his lands amongst his followers, and sent his head a present to the Mayor of Dublin. This zeal for the king's service was extremely well re- ceived by Wolsey, of which Kildare was advertised, and he was sent for to Court, and rewarded by being made Lord Deputy of Ireland. But this Court favour did not last. Kildare had many enemies both in England and Ireland; they im- peached his government, and determined on his ruin; and in 1519, Wolsey again sent for him to answer the charges exhibited against him. Owing to the natural eloquence and masterly reply of 86 PICTURES OF Kildare, repelling the accusation of treasonable practices, he was acquitted; and it was on this occa- sion that his defence before the privy-council is become celebrated, and being amongst the earliest specimens to be found of English or Irish eloquence, has been preserved by Campion, the historian of Ireland. On his appearance before the council, Wolsey attacked him with great vehemence. " I know well, my lord," exclaimed the cardinal, " that I am not the fittest man at this table to accuse you, because your adherents assert that I am an enemy to all nobihty, and particularly to your blood. But the charges against you are so strong that we cannot overlook them, and so clear that you cannot deny them. I must therefore beg, notwithstanding the stale slander against me, to be the mouth and orator of these honourable gentlemen, and to state the treasons of which you stand accused, without respecting how you may like it. My lord, you well remember how the Earl of Desmond, your kinsman, sent emissaries with letters to Francis, the French king, offering the aid of Munster and of Connaught for the conquest of Ireland; and, receiving but a cold answer, applied to Charles, the emperor. How many letters, what precepts, what messages, what threats, have been sent to you to apprehend him, and it is not yet done. Why? Because you could not catch him; nay, my lord, you would not, for- PAST LIFE. 87 sooth! catch him. If he be justly suspected, why are you so partial? If not, why are you so fearful to have hira tried? But it will be sworn to your face, that to avoid him you have winked wilfully, shunned his haunts, altered your course, advised his friends, and stopped both ears and eyes in the busi- ness; and that, when you did make a show of hunt- ing him out, he was always beforehand, and gone. Surely, my lord, this juggling little became an honest man called to such honour, or a nobleman adorned with so great a trust. Had you lost but a cow or a carrion of your own, two hundred retainers would have started up at your whistle, to rescue the prey from the farthest edge of Ulster. All the Irish in Ireland must have made way for you. But, in performing your duty in this affair, merciful God! how delicate, how dilatory, how dangerous, have you been! One time he is from home; another time he is at home; sometimes fled, and sometimes in places where you dare not venture. What! the Earl of Kildare not venture! Nay, the King of Kildare; for you reign more than you govern the land. "When you are offended, the lowest subjects stand as rebels; when you are pleased, rebels are very dutiful subjects. Hearts and hands, lives and lands, must all be at your beck. Who fawns not to you cannot live within your scent, and your scent is so keen that you track them out at pleasure." 88 PICTURES OF While the Cardinal was thus speaking, the Earl frequently changed colour, and vainly endeavoured to master himself. He affected to smile; but his face was pale, his lips quivered, and his eyes lightened with rage. "My lord chancellor!" he exclaimed fiercely; " my lord chancellor, I beseech you, pardon me. 1 have but a short memory, and you know that I have to tell you a long tale. If you proceed in this way, I shall forget the half of my defence. I have no school-tricks, nor art of recollection. Unless you hear me while I remember, your second charge will hammer the first out of my head." Several of the counsellors were friends of the Earl; and knowing the acrimony of the Cardinal's taunts, which they were themselves often obliged to endure, interfered, and entreated that the charges might be discussed one by one. Wolsey assenting to this, Kildai'e resumed: — " It is with good reason that your grace is the mouth of this council; but, ray lord, the mouths that put this tale into yours are very wide, and have gaped long for my ruin. What my cousin Desmond has done I know not: beshrew him for holding out so long ! If he be taken in the traps that I have set for him, my adversaries, by this heap of heinous charges, will only have proved their own malice. But if he be never taken, what is Kildare to blame PAST LIFE. 89 move than Ossory, who, notwithstanding his high promises, and having now the king's power, you see, takes his own time to bring him in? Cannot the Earl of Desmond stir, but I must advise? Cannot he be hid, but I must wink? If he is befriended, am I therefore a traitor? It is truly a formidable accusation ! My first denial confounds my accusers. Who made them so familiar with my sight? "When was the Earl in my view? Who stood by when I let him slip? But, say they, I sent him word. Who was the messenger? Where are the letters? Confute my denial. " Only see, my lord, how loosely this idle gear of theirs hangs together! Desmond is not taken. Well! Kildare is in fauh. Why? Because he is. Who proves it? Nobody. But it is thought, it is said. By whom? His enemies. Who informed them? They will swear it. Will they swear it, my lord? Why, then they must know it. Either they have my letters to show, or can produce my messengers, or were present at a conference, or were concerned with Desmond, or somebody be- trayed the secret to them, or they were themselves my vicegerents in the business : which of these points will they choose to maintain? I know them too well to reckon myself convicted by their asser- tions, hearsays, or any oaths which they may swear. My letters could soon be read, were any such things 90 PICTURES OF extant. My servants and friends are ready to be sifted. Of my cousin Desmond they may lie loudly, for no man here can contradict them. But as to myself, I never saw in them integrity enough to make me stake on their silence the life of a hound, far less my own. I doubt not, if your honours examine them apart, you -will find that they are the tools of others, suborned to say, swear, and state anything but truth; and that their tongues are chained, as it were, to some patron's trencher. I am grieved, my lord cardinal, that your grace, whom I take to be passing wise and sharp, and who, of your own blessed disposition, wishes me so well, should be so far gone in crediting these corrupt informers that abuse your ignorance of Ireland. Little know you, my lord, how necessary it is, not only for the governor, but also for every nobleman in that country, to hamper his uncivil neighbours at discretion. Were we to wait for processes of law, and had not those hearts and hands, of which you speak, we should soon lose both lives and lands. You hear of our case as in a dream, and feel not the smart of suffering that we endure. In England, there is not a subject that dare extend his arm to fillip a peer of the reahu. In Ireland, unless the lord have ability to his power, and power to protect himself, with sufficient authority to take thieves and varlets whenever they stir, he will find them PAST LIFE. 91 swarm so fast, that it will soon be too late to call for justice. If you will have our service to effect, you must not bind us always to judicial proceedings, such as you are blessed with here in England. As to my kingdom, my lord cardinal, I know not what you mean. If your grace thinks that a kingdom consists in serving God, in obeying the king, in governing the commonwealth with love, in shelter- ing the subjects, in suppressing rebels, in executing justice, and in bridling factions, I would gladly be invested with so virtuous and royal a state. But if you only call me king, because you are persuaded that I repine at the government of my sovereign, wink at malefactors, and oppress well-doers, I utterly disclaim the odious epithet, surprised that your grace should appropriate so sacred a name to conduct so wicked. — But however this may be, I would you and I, my lord, exchanged kingdoms for one month. I would in that time undertake to gather more crumbs than twice the revenues of my poor earldom. You are safe and warm, my lord cardinal, and should not upbraid me. While you sleep in your bed of down, I lie in a hovel; while you are served under a canopy, I serve under the cope of heaven ; while you drink wine from golden cups, I must be content with water from a shell ; my charger is trained for the field, your gennet is taught to amble; and while you are be-lorded and be-graced, and crouched and 92 PICTURES OF knelt to, I get little reverence, but when I cut the rebels off by the knees.' Kildare was saved by his spirited defence, but the Duke of Norfolk was sent to Ireland in his stead, and Lord Kildare no longer in disgrace ac- companied Henry to the famous interview in France of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. After two years residence in Ireland, the Duke of Norfolk was sent for to command the English army in France, and Lord Ossory, who was appointed to Ireland, was soon compelled to resign it to Kildare. Kildare now saw himself the ruler of everything in that country, and no longer awed at the Court of England by the frowns of his enemy Wolsey, the mighty Cardinal being then in disgrace and dying that same death (that of a broken heart and broken spirit) that he had caused to many during his great ness. However, even Wolsey 's absence did not save Kildare, the complaints of the Ormonds to the king prevailed, and he was sent for to England in 1534, leaving his eldest son, a young man of one- and-twenty, to reign at Dublin in his stead. Young Fitzgerald was violent, brave, generous, and hot-headed ; and soon after his father's departure his credulity was deceived by a report that his father had been beheaded by his tyrant master the king. In a fit of sorrow, wrath, and desperation, Fitzgerald delivered up the sword of state in PAST LIFE. 93 council, assembled bis followers, bid defiance to the power of Henry YIII., turned rebel, applying for assistance against the English to the Pope and to tlie EoiptTor, reminding them who had divorced Queen Catlierine, and declaring war against Eng- land. In vain did the Archbishop of Armagh en- treat him not to plunge his whole family into ruin, the voice of the good Archbishop was lost in the strains of an Irish minstrel who called on him loudly to revenge his father's blood, and unfurling the standard of rebellion, he commenced war in laying waste the district of Fingal. After a year of unsuccessful rebellion, Fitzgerald's uncle. Lord Leonard Gray, who happened to be appointed to the head of the government in Ireland, hunted the ill-fated insurgent into the fastnesses of Munster. Here Fitzgerald was no match for the subtlety of his opponent, he laid down his arms on a promise of pardon, and consented to accompany Gray to England, to throw himself at the king's feet. Instead of a pardon, Henry committed Fitz- gerald to the Tower, and shortly after, Gray, at a banquet in Dublin, perfidiously arrested his five uncles, two of whom had never interfered in po- litics, and had them conveyed to London, after which they were committed to the Tower, and suf- fered on the scaffold, February 3rd, 1535. Thus died six persons of one family. 94 PICTURES OF It is now time to return to the hero of Holbein's porti'ait, the Earl of Kiklare. The unhappy old Earl, oppressed with grief at the news of his son and his brother's rash and inconsiderate conduct, died broken-hearted in the Tower of London previously to these executions ; and, nearly fifty years after, on the interment of a son of Sir Owen Hopton's, lieute- nant of the Tower, the following inscription was found on a chest under tlie earth in a chapel there: — " Here lieth the corpes of tbe L. Gerald Fitz-Gerald, Earle of Kyldare, who deceased tbe 12tli of December in the yere of our Lord Mcaecc^jtxiiii., on whose sole Jesu have mercy !" If this story have not all the requisites and ingre- dients for deeply-affecting tragedy, let it be asked what is tragedy ? Kildare's lady attended and watched over her unhappy lord during the whole of the melanoholy im- prisonment of this old man. The affection that this unfortunate couple had for each other outlived all their misfortunes, and the historian Holinshed states that after the said Earl's death in the Tower, every night his lady looked at his picture and took a solemn farewell of it before she slept. This last anecdote of sorrows and griefs, sanctified on the altar of resignation, renders this portrait doubly interesting and sad. The story requires none of the ingredients of romance to help out its melancholy PAST LIFE. 95 and tragical details, but the continuation of it is equally romantic and ready for the dramatist. The hopes of those of the name of Fitzgerald who re- mained alive after the termination of these tragedies centered in a young boy, Gerald, the younger brother of Fitzgerald. He was conveyed out of Ireland and secreted in France and Flanders, and by the Pope's advice afterwards placed under the protection of his kinsman, Cardinal Pole, who watched over his edu- cation, and through whose care, eventually, he re- covered his titles and estates. Lord Leonard Gray, Lord Deputy of L^elgfid, was uncle, by marriage, to the youths Fitzgerald and Gerald. It was believed, that wrought on either by pity or conscience, he had connived at the eva- sion of the boy, at which Henry VIII. was much displeased, fell into a passion on hearing it, and wrote to all his ambassadors and envoys to lay hold on the boy. This leniency on the .part of Gray, along wuth other charges, was laid before Henry, at the latter part of his reign, when his temper was sharpened and his health worn out ; at that period of his life the unrelenting king never showed mercy, and it was then that the unfortunate Lord Gray went over to London to plead his cause with his old master. Oppressed by fear, or induced by the hope of mercy being shown to him by one whom he ^"'^ 96 PICTURES OF served long and effectually during a long reign, Gray pleaded guilty — but no mercy was shown, no forgiveness could be procured by friends from the tyrant, and Gray suffered death on the scaffold. The deep tragedy of the Fitzgeralds, and the punishment of " the cruel uncle," Henry's weak and wicked ser- vant, led to the first settlement of Ireland, in the years 1542 and 1543. Several of the Irish chieftains ac- cepted titles from the English crown, and, along with the titles, houses in Dublin. They swore fealty, and consented to hold their lands by the^tenure of mi- litary service. The redoubted O'Neil was henceforth known by the title of Earl of Tyrone; O'Brian be- came Earl of Thomond, and De Burgh, Earl of Clanricard. Elizabeth Fitzgerald, Countess of Lincoln. This portrait, by Holbein, represents a celebrated beauty, it is a duplicate of the one at Woburn. Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald was the daughter of the unhappy Earl of Kildare, whose story has just been related, and sister of the two youths, Fitzgerald and Gerald, one executed in the Tower, the other, who mostly passed a life of concealment and exile in foreign lands. She became the second wife of Sir Anthony Brown, and after, the third wife of Lord Clinton, Earl of Lincoln and Lord High Admiral of PAST LIFE. 97 England. She was left a widow, and erected to Ler husband's memory that sum])tuous monument, now seen in St. George's Chapel, at Windsor, where she is buried with him. But neither the beauty of Lady- Lincoln, which was extreme to her old age, nor her birth, would have carried her name down to pos- terity; it rests under her poetical appellation, that of the " Fair Geraldine," the object of the Earl of Sur- rey's early admiration, who, when a youth, and im- prisoned at Windsor, and sauntering about the courts of its Castle, looked up at the " Lady's Bower," and there beheld her who was to make him a poet. To her he addressed verses as Petrarch did to Laura. She was then very young, not above fourteen or fifteen, and in attendance at Windsor on the Princess IMary. Her beauty made him say, with all the refine- ment of Petrarch — " How soou a look can print a thought, That never may remove." The family of Fitzgerald derived their origin from the Geraldi of Tuscany, and Lord Surrey writes — " From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race : Fair Florence was some time their ancient seat." Again — " Her sire an earl, her dame of princes' blood." Lady Kildare having been the grand-daughter of the queen of Edward IV. The praise of his fair VOL. II. F 98 PICTURES OF mistress's beauty was written in the true spirit of the sixteenth century, a challenge in that same spirit in which, at a tournament at Florence, he defies the whole world to produce the like. Chivalry then consisted of " high thoughts in a heart of courtesy." The thoughts were in poetry — the deeds were in warlike achievements — the heart was in love. The following verses were written by Lord Surrey: — " Give place, ye lovers, liere before, That spent your boastes and braggs in vain! My ladye's beauty passetb more Tbe best of yours, I dare well saye, Thau doth the sun tlie caudle-light, Or brightest day the darkest night ; And thereto hath a truth as just As had Penelope the fair : For, what she sayeth, you may it trust, As if by writing sealed were ; And virtues hath she many more, Than I with pen have skill to show." Dru de Montacute and Lucia de Latimer. By Holbein. The series of portraits at Ashdown contains so many victims to state affairs, to political opinion, to bad passions, or to religious differences, that it is a relief to the mind to let the eye rest on two portraits of young persoiis of refined and gentle demeanour. PAST LIFE. 99 seemingly of the age of seventeen or eighteen, in- different or new to the world — Lucia de Latymer, and her affianced lover or husband. Holbein always chooses the simplest attitude — it seems as if he merely told his lady or gentleman to sit still and be quiet. The dress is both stiff and precise, hard with detail, and square lines and angles; but there is a pensive grace in the attitude and turn of the head and figure of these two paintings exceedingly taking. They are painted on board — one on an olive ground, the other on a dark green uniform surface — a branch of a tree, like orange-flower, runs through the ground of the last-named painting. Dru de Montacute is represented in profile, and has an air at once poetical and pensive. Holbein seems to aim at giving the truest and most profound re- presentation of character in his portraits, without affectation or pretension as to effect; every detail of the embroidery on the dress is executed with the greatest exactness. Dru de Montacute was pro- bably a friend or attendant on Prince Edward, the dress being of the same date and character in which Holbein represents Edward as a youth. A velvet cap is worn on one side, having a small white feather. The lady's eyes are bent down, with looks demure, on some writing, seemingly her lover or husband's poems; the hands are crossed upon the broad margin of its pages, the large rings disfiguring them — yet e2 100 PICTURES OF there is a look of great sympathy in those hands — u great deal of character in those hands; they are " Full of the suDimer calm of golden nliarity." Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk. Painted hy Holbein. In point of mere antiquity there are many more ancient families than that of the Howards; but, when merged with the Mowbrays and the Fitzallans, no other family annals inspire such interest. The Howards were knights-bannerets as early as 1307; one of them married the grand-daughter of Ed- ward I., the daughter and heiress of his fifth son, from whom the family crest is derived. The first Howard, Duke of Norfolk, was created by Richard III. in right of his mother, the heiress of Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. The Howards are to be met with in history as heroes, poets, politicians, and state victims — full of courage, accomplishments, and learning. During four centuries — that is, since the reign of Richard HI., they have remained the most powerful subjects in England. They have ex- hibited every shade and species of disposition and character, and in the great tragedies in which they have played such conspicuous parts, the tale of PAST LIFE. 101 their virtues and vices is full of woe and melancholy instruction to the historian, as well as to the romance- writer, and the history of the family ought to have been written by Sir Walter Scott. In addition to those persons of their name whose portraits may be found at Ashdown are others not there, whose stories are unparalleled in romantic history; the names must be sufficient of Henry, Earl of Northampton; of the Admiral Charles Howard Earl of Nottingham; of Thomas Earl of Suffolk; of Philip Earl of Arundel, confined a prisoner in the Tower, in 1 589, on the slightest grounds — detained in prison during six years, and dying at the age of thirty-eight; Thomas, Earl of Arundel and Surrey, the great patron of the arts ; his mother, Anne Dacre; and several of the Lord Staffords, whose domestic stories are entwined in France with those of the Rohans and Grammonts. Times are happily changed. If pride of birth existed, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, allied to what Rebecca terms, to Ivanhoe, "the coat of mail which hangs as a hatchment over the champion's dim and mouldering tomb; or on the defaced sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim," it may be answered, that that pride of birth went with noble deeds in arms. In reading the romantic history of the Howards, an odd analogy may be noticed between the adven- 102 PICTURES OF tures of that family in England, and those of the Rohans in France. They are evidently born under the same star or planet — such a strange similarity exists between these two races in their general story. Both of ancient houses, both allied to royalty, both suffering under the jealousy of jealous monarchs, both possessors of immense estates, both families with great pride, both holding to pedigree and de- scent, to rank and alliance, both connecting them- selves with the greatest heiresses in their respective countries, both brave and courageous, distinguished for literary pursuits and talents, knights sang by poets in ballads and romances, heroes in tourna- ments, sometimes in disgrace with their sovereigns — downcast, unhappy, ruined; both winners of battles in the field and treaties in the cabinet; both claim- ing and wearing the arms of royalty in their escut- cheons, both families merging out into different branches, and, to carry the similarity still further, both families having been of a contrary religion to the rest of their nation : the Howards having been Catholics after the mass of the nation professed the reformed religion — the Rohans being Protestants, and allied to Protestants only, until, in the reign of Louis Quatorze, the heiress of their house, in ojiposition to the wishes of her relations, married a catholic. The first Howard, Duke of Norfolk, was slain at the battle of Bosworth, in the York interest, on the PAST LIFE. 103 side of Richard. The second Duke had been the Surrey of that field — the vanquished hero of Sir John Beaumont's poem of Bosworth, and afterwards in later life the victorious Norfolk of Flodden-field. The third Duke, his son, here represented by Holbein, was an Admiral, a General, Lord-Deputy of Ireland at the time of Kildare's disgrace, an Am- bassador to Fi-ancis I., a Catholic, although active in procuring Queen Catherine's divorce, Lord High Steward on the trial of his father-in-law, Bucking- ham, on whose condemnation he is reported to have shed tears of grief; in high favour with the King at the birth of Queen Elizabeth, when his mother, the old Duchess, stood sponsor to the little Princess; Lord High Steward at the trial of his niece, Anne Boleyn, related to another beheaded Queen, Cathe- rine Howard; and finally, the Duke of Norfolk of Shakspeare's play of Henry VHL The Duke was first married to one of the daughters of Edward IV., and after her death to the daughter of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham — a quarrelsome, violent woman, who persecuted him with complaints and invectives; his domestic life was one of bitter- ness to himself and disgrace to his family, and he attached himself elsewhere. The Duke's brother was Lord Thomas Howard, attainted of high treason on account of a marriage with the King's niece, Lady Margaret Douglas. He Avas confined in the 104 PICTURES OF Tower, where he died broken-hearted. The Duke's son was the celebrated Earl of Surrey, beheaded by the King's command; his only daughter — his beau- tiful daughter, the Duchess of Richmond — became the immediate cause of her brother's condemnation, owing to the vindictive evidence she gave on his trial. His grandson, the fourth Duke of Norfolk, suffered in after-times on the scaifold, in the cause of Mary Queen of Scots. Such a catalogue of crime, and such a list of per- sonal misfortune, as hangs to this duke's history and long life, can hardly be equalled, and if penned in romance, the story would be cast aside as forced and unnatural. As Henry VIII. advanced in age, all his vices gradually increased — grown old in cruelty, obstinate as capricious, fickle in friendship as merci- less in resentment, rapacious as prodigal, so sus- picious that he viewed every remote descendant of the Plantagenets with jealousy, representing them to himself as rivals, and deeming himself all the time in policy and in religion Infallible. Such was the king late in life, and every day his cruelty increased. The Howards were zealous patrons of the catholic religion; the Seymours favoured the reformed doc- trines, and were uncles to the young Prince Edward. The rapid decline of the king's health admonished PAST LIFE. 105 the Seymours and their party to provide for them- selves, in the event of the death of the king, and a plan was adopted to put out of the way the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Surrey, and Gardiner Bishop of Winchester. Gardiner threw himself on the king's mercy, and was again received into favour; but Henry determined on the death of the Duke of Norfolk and Surrey. The king's temper was aggravated by bodily pain and suffering, and he listened with jealous feelings to the charges of their enemies. One of the charges brought forward was, that Surrey had said, " K the king should die in his sickness, who should have charge of the prince but my father and I?" Another charge was, that the Duke of Norfolk bore on his escutcheon the arms of England, with a label of silver, the same as tlie king's son, and that Surrey had introduced into his armorial bearings those of Edward the Confessor. There was no individual in the kingdom who possessed such powerful claims on the gratitude of Henry as the Duke of Norfolk; but the interest of the opposite party carried all against him, and his enemies were determined to divide amongst them his great estates. The warrant was dispatched for the Duke's execution, 29th January, 1547; but the Duke, with death before him, had determined to leave his property entire. He sent a petition to the F 3 106 PICTUKES OF king praying that " his good and stately gear" might be settled upon Prince Edward. The king grew worse, and that night lay in the agonies of death. An order was sent to execute the duke the following morning; but, before the sun rose, Henry was dead, and the duke's life was saved. Eventually, the Duke of Norfolk was restored to favour and power. The deaths of the Seymours shortly followed the king's, and the Duke was called on, in his old age, to preside as Lord High Steward at another public trial — that of his bitterest enemy, Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. At the age of eighty, he retired from court to Kenning Hall, in Norfolk, and is buried at Framlingham, on the borders of Suffolk. The list of the estates and property he left behind him is enormous, and verifies the Duke's own words, in calling his lands " good and stately gear;" and the feudal splendour of his style of living is to be deduced from circum- stances too long to insert here. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. Painted by Titian. This portrait represents a victim to the jealousy of a suspicious tyrant. The picture was painted in PAST LIFE. 107 Italy, when Lord Surrej'' was on his travels with Sir Thomas Wyatt. The dress in which he is represented is magnificent as well as picturesque. It is embroidered all over with true-lovers' knots, and is such as he may have appeared in at Florence, when proclaiming the beauty of his " ladye-love," the Lady Geraldine, for whose beauty he entered the lists of a tournament, and vanquished his oppo- nents. The sword is of gold, with a red leather scabbard; and in his right hand is a dagger, having a rudely-chased golden case. This weapon was called a " misericordia," and is said, in those half- refined and half-savage times, to have been used for despatching a fallen foe, lingering of a mortal wound. The expression of Lord Surrey's counte- nance is more singular and peculiar than pleasing; it is an expression of contradictory qualities at variance with each other; in no very gentle tem- perament — calm, yet poetical — determined in will, yet capricious in mind — thwarted in purpose — dreamy, visionary, brave, susceptible, and dark as an Italian. Such a nature and character as the portrait repre- sents is just such a one as Cornelius Agrippa, the astrologer, magician, and necromancer of those days, might well have laid hold of. When visited in Italy by Lord Surrey, he revealed to him, in a 108 PICTUEES OF magical mirror, the fair form of his lady-love lying on a couch, and, by the light of a taper, reading one of the sonnets of his own composition.* There can be little doubt that Cornelius Agrippa really did raise this delusion, and exhibit it to the enchanted eyes of the poet and the lover. What might not now be raised by the powers of science and philosophy in magical mirrors by the assistance of the sun's raysif At Florence were — " Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, and high-bom dames, With gay attire, and jewelled hair, And the song of Troubadour, Along with lute, and gay tambour; And knights that came to kneel And breathe love's ardent flame Low at their feet !" All the spirit of poetry was at that time to be found in Italy, and it was in the land of Dante and * " This favour'd strain was Surrey's raptured line. That fair and lovely form, the Lady Geraldine." Walteb Scott. + Cornelius Agrippa was astronomer and physician to the mother of Francis I., the Duchess of Angoulesme. Like the prophet of old to Hezekiah, lie prophesied evil, not good, fore- telling triumphs to those persons she hated, aud misfortunes to herself. She sent bim away, and Le wrote a satire on her, calling her a Jezabel. PAST LIFE. 109 Petrarch, that Surrey and "VYyatt, in a rude age, attempted to refine the Englisli language. The Frencli and Spanish languages were familiar to them, and Surrey translated Virgil into blank verse. They belong to that school of poetry of which Spenser is the chief representative. The spirit of chivalry of the days of the Eoses was in their blood, fostered by the romance of the middle ages, and polished by Italian taste. The travellers must have astonished the Italians, then the most refined persons in Europe^ but considering the natives of northern nations as barbarians, and the " bears of the north" was the common appellation by which the English were known. The Italians considered England much at the same distance as we now consider China or the provinces of South America; and the less informed persons thought of it as the un- explored regions of the moon, wdiere persons walked with their heads under their arms. After the tournament at Florence, where Surrey was vic- torious, the Grand Duke of Tuscany presented him with a shield, now in possession of his de- scendants; and that, a century after, Vandyke has represented in a small picture he painted of the family. Thus, " Achievement Ligh, And circumstance of chivalry," is become entwined with the name of the poet. 110 PICTURES OF When Lord Surrey returned to England, the Howards and the Seymours were the Capulets and Montagues of the Court of Henry VIIL; the feuds and quarrels between these two families, proud of their birth, abilities, and possessions, might very probably have been the origin of the play of " Romeo and Juliet." Lord Surrey refused to marry the daughter of Lord Hertford, afterwards the Protector Somerset, and the Seymours, from that time forth, determined on the ruin of the Howards. Quarrels in those days were not only words but deeds, and the women played a great part in these scenes of strife and violence. There was a character in those times very common, now happily rare in these more refined days. It was that of the scold or shrewy — familiar to the world through the means of Shak- speare. History has, however, transmitted to pos- terity the names of some of these ferocious ladies. No modern scold can equal the acrimony of the tongues of these high-born dames. The Duchess of Norfolk — Buckingham's daughter and Surrey's mother — was one of them, and the most notorious. She wrote letters to the leading persons at the head of the government, to the Lord Privy Seal, and to various persons at Court, complaining of her husband's conduct, and of the hard usage she received from his minions, and by her means the family disputes broke out into open rancour. PAST LITE. Ill The Duke of Norfolk, although a great general, a victorious leader of armies, a great admiral, gave way; he had heard "the sea puffed up with winds," he had heard " great ordnance in the field and trum- pets clang," but the Duchess of Norfolk's voice and manners were more powerful than the sea, the winds, or the roar of cannon ; and he separated from her in form. Two other ladies, who bore this repu- tation, came still nearer to the days of Shakspeare: the Countess of Shi'ewsbury, of the days of Eliza- beth, and her daughter, Mary Cavendish. From which of these, the character of Katherine was taken cannot now be known. " What has not Shakspeare said and sung On our pre-emiuence of tongue! His glowing pen has writ the name In characters of fire and flame, — Not flames that may be as they rise Innocuous with their kinderd skies ; Some cbymic, lady-like solution, Shown at the royal institution, Or such as still with ceaseless clamour Dance rouud the anvil and the hammer. He formed it of the rudest ore That lay in his exhaustless store ; Nor from the crackling furnace drew Which still the breath of genius blew, Till, to preserve the bright allusion, The mass was in a state of fusion ; Then cast it in the sharpest mould — E'er modelled from a living scold — When from her shelly prison burst That finished vixen, Kate the Curst ! 112 PICTURES OF If practice here with precept tallies, Could Shakspeare set down aught in malice ? From Nature all his forms he drew, And held the mirror to her view ; And if an ugly wart arose, Or pimple upon Nature's nose, He flattered not the unsightly flaw, And marked and copied what he saw, Strictly fulfilling all his duties. Alike to blemishes and beauties : So that in Shakspeare's time, 'tis plain. The beauteous fair were scnlds in grain. Woe betide the man who tried Whether tbeir spirit ever died." The Duchess of Norfolk was thought to have been the means of bringing all the misfortunes on the Howards that befel that family during the reign of Henry VIH.; and Lady Shrewsbury, many years afterwards — whose tongue Avas only to be matched in virulence by that of her daughter — brought all her family before the tribunal of the public; and after having disposed of three husbands, sent the fourth to construct and build his own sumptuous tomb at Sheffield,* which he, the most powerful subject in the kingdom, records as the only time of relaxation * This magnificent monument is in the Shrewsbury Chapel at Sheffield, and has lately been restored. The figure is re- cumbent, and in armour ; the columns at the extreme ends and the canopy above are alabaster ; and a large tablet, within a richly ornamented border, contains a long elaborate inscription in Latin. PAST LITE. ^ 113 and peace tliat he experienced during seventeen rears. Lady Shrewsbury's daughter, by her former husband, Sir William Cavendish, of Chatsworth, inherited her mother's character and propensities. She married Gilbert, seventh Earl of Shrewsbury, known by the name of the Magnificent Earl, from his riches and lavish expenditure, and his reception of King James at Worksop, on his first arrival in England. It was this high-spirited lady who sent the famous message to Sir Thomas Stanhope, of Shelford, in Northamptonshire, with whom she had a quarrel.* A character more full of spite, and more wilful, was never known, than that of this lady. ***** To return to Lord Surrey. The notices of his life are short, and deal not in details. Sir Walter * This message was delivered, in the presence of witnesses, February 15, 1592, as follows : — " My lady hath commanded me to say thus much to you, that though you be more wretched, vile, and miserable than any creature living, and for your wickedness become more ugly in shape than the vilest toad in the world, and one to whom none of reputation would vouchsafe to send any message ; yet she hath thought good to send this much to you, that she be contented you should live, and doth in no ways wish your death ; but to the end that all the plagues and miseries that may befall any man should light upon such a caitiff as you are ; and that you should live to have all your friends forsake you, and without your great repentance, which she looketli not for, because your life hath been so bad, you will be damned perpetually in hell fire I" 114 PICTURES OF Raleigh says, " He was of excellent hopes, and no less valiant than learned." Twice he was imprisoned at Windsor by the king's command. In 1 542, he was made a knight of the Garter, and he accom- panied Lord Latimer to the siege of Montreuil, in 1545. In those days, armorial bearings were held as the highest honours, and not, as in modern days, uncared for or unclaimed. In all Europe it Avas thus. Some of the great families of England and Scotland displayed those used by their ancestors in the wars of the Crusades against the enemies of Cliristendom. Others had arms bestowed on them, on some great or solemn occasion, by their sove- reign. So it was that the Maid of Orleans had carried on her banners a sword surmounted by a crown, to which the king of France had added the " fleur-de-lys," which he assigned to her brothers in letters patent, as the highest honour and reward he could confer on her family. The poets of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were learned on these subjects; and a Howard, a knight, and a poet, was likely to set a higher value on such matters than others. A badge was assumed by Surrey as early as 1515 — a silver lion, the old cognizance of the family, tearing in pieces a lion, prostrate, gules : this related to the victory of Flodden Field, gained by his grandfather, the second Duke of Norfolk. Drayton, the poet, who PAST LIFE. 115 wrote some fifty years after Surrey's death, says, with regard to Surrey, — " If Scotland's coat no mark of fame can lend, That lion placed in our bright silver bend — Which, as a trophy, beautifies our shield, Since Scotland's blood discoloured Flodden-field ; Where the dark Cheviot our proud ensign bare, As a rich jewel in a lady's hair." It was made out against Surrey that he bore the arras of Edward the Confessor, the same as the heir to the crown; but the absurdity of the charge caused him to disregard it. Richard II. had chosen these arms for his patron saint, wore them, and granted them to the Mowbrays, and to others descended from royal blood. At the time that the charge was made, Surrey bore the royal arms from the son of Edward; and Henry VIII. had allowed the royal descent through the Howards, in causing both Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard to assume those arms in their own right, on becoming queens of England. Early in life, Surrey found Henry a jealous and suspicious master; and he retired into the country, where he occupied himself with study and archi- tecture. This jealousy increased with time; and his numerous accomplishments, and the popularity that attended on them, laid the foundation of a fatal death for him. Surrey sought to turn his mind 116 PICTURES OF from court intrigue, and domestic quarrels, and warfare; and this picture by Titian strengthens the suspicion that he himself was proud and intemperate. However, Camden does not admit that he was so. His friends had fallen on all sides; he hated the great family in power, — the Seymours, — and was hated by them. Two of the unfortunate queens who fell on the scaffold had been his relations, Buckingham, in peaceful times, had shared the same fate. Almost the whole of the family of his lady- love had been swept off the earth by the cruelty of the tyrant-king. He had deeply deplored the death of his friend and uncle, Lord Thomas Howard, in a state prison. His sister was estranged from him — belonging to a different party and to a different faith; and that sister was the widow of Surrey's dearest and earliest friend. The events to look back to were sad and mournful; and Surrey might well be aware that his future life hung on a frail tenure — the caprice of a tyrant! Camden gives the fol- lowing account of his life and death: — " This Henry, Earl of Suirey, was the first of our English nobility that did illustrate his high birth with the beauty of learning, and his learning with the knowledge of divers languages, which he attained unto by his travels in foreign nations. He wrote divers works, both divine and human; he was exqui- site in Latin as well as in English verse," PAST LIFE. 117 After naming many of his works, Camden con- tinues: — " This Earl had, together with his wisdom, learning, fortitude, munificence, and affability. Yet all these good and excellent parts were no protection against the king's displeasure; for upon the 12th of December, the last of King Henry, he, with his father, Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, upon certain surmises of treason, were committed to the Tower of London — the one by water, the other by land ; so that the one knew not of the other's apprehension. The greatest matter alleged against him was bearing certain arms belonging to the King and Prince. This he justified.* To be short, (for so they were with him,) he was found guilty by twelve common jurors, had judgment of death, and the day before the death of the said King Henry VIII., was beheaded in the Tower. He was first interred in the Chapel of the Tower, and in King James' reign his bones and ashes were removed to Framlingham, in Suffolk, by his second son Henry, Earl of Northampton. Two years after the death of Surrey, his poems were everywhere in circulation; they were printed and sold separately in leaves called Garlands. Spenser, the poet, has been termed by the Spensers " the honour of the familie." These words are *■■ In a long and spirited defence, Surrey showed that he had long borne those arms, by a decision of heralds given by patent to his ancestor, Mowbray, by Richard II. 118 PICTURES OF placed on the frame of his picture that hangs over the chimney of the library at Althorpe. The un- fortunate Surrey has claims to tliis praise with those of his house; his descendants, after a lapse of thi'ee centuries, fill their places in the world, as did their ancestors, renowned for beauty, wealth, and literary attainments, remaining along with the families of Spenser, Shaftesbury and Clarendon, direct descendants of genius and birth allied. It has well been said, "blot out a few names from England's history — erase the names of Shak- speare, Milton, Spenser, and a few others, and with their names you erase the greatness of England's glory." The race of life is between genius and blood; but genius wins the race, and is swifter and stronorer. Portrait of Thomas Howard, Fourth Duke of Norfolk. This is the last of Holbein's paintings, as to time and dates. It represents an unhappy-looking man in mind and disposition, refined and high bred in character, but not very wHise, as his conduct was averred to have been even by those who took his part. He seems to have been drawn on by some evil genius to his terrible fate. He was three times married, and yet seemingly one intrigue as to PAST LIFE. 119 a marriage, seems to have occupied his life. His story is detailed at whole length in history, and that, as well as his character, has often been altered and modified to suit the purposes of romance; but the truth is more romantic than any falsehood. His intrigues to effect a marriage with Mary Queen of Scots form an important feature in the reign of Elizabeth. The Duke suffered death on the scaffold in her cause, at the age of thirty-five, and at his execution professed the protestant religion. His first wife was the heiress of the Fitzallans, Earls of Arundel; his unfortunate son Philip, was called Earl of Arundel, in right of his mother, as was his grandson after him. The Duke of Norfolk's second son became Earl of Suffolk, and his third son was the ancestor of the Carlisle family. The fragment of the manuscript of the Ashdown Catalogue here breaks off unfinished, and it may not be irrelevant to the subject, to add the follow- ing notes from Cunningham's " Handbook of London," and Macaulay's " History of England." 120 PICTURES OF NOTES. 5"/. Peter's ad Vincula. " A chapel within the precinct and liberty of the Tower. The interior consists of a nave, chancel, and north aisle; the pier columns are early English; but the whole structure has been disfigured so often by successive alterations and additions, that little remains of the original building." — Cunningham's Handbook of London. " I cannot refrain from expressing my disgust at the barbarous stupidity which has transformed this interesting little church into the likeness of a meeting-house in a manufacturing town In truth, there is no sadder spot on earth than this little cemetery. Death is there associated — not, as in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, with genius and virtue, with public veneration and with im- perishable renown, — not as in our humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most endearing in social and domestic charities, — but with whatever is darkest in human nature and in human destiny ; with the savage triumph of im- placable enemies; with the inconstancy, the ingrati- tude, the cowardice of friends; with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted fame." — Maeaulay's History of England, i. 628. PAST LITE. 121 " Eminent persons interred in. — Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, beheaded 1535. Queen Anne Boleyn, beheaded 1536; her body was thrown into a common chest of elm-tree, that was made to put arrows in, and was buried in the chapel within the Tower, before twelve o'clock." — Bishop Burnet. " Queen Katherine Howard, beheaded 1542. Sir Thomas More; his head was put upon London Bridge, his body was buried in the Chapel of St. Peter's in tlie Tower, in the belfry, or, as some say, as one entereth into the vestry, near unto the body of the holy martyr, Bishop Fisher." — Cresacrfs Mare's Life of Sir Thomas 3Iore. " Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, beheaded 1540. Margaret, Countess of Shrewsbury, (the mother of Cardinal Pole,) beheaded 1 541 . Thomas, Lord Seymour of Sudeley, the Lord Admiral, be- headed 1549, by order of his brother, the Protector Somerset. The Protector Somerset, beheaded 1552. John Dudley, Earl of Warwick and Duke of Northumberland, beheaded 1553. There lyeth before the high altar in St. Peter's Church, two dukes between two queens — to wit, the Duke of Somerset and the Duke of Northumberland: all four beheaded." — Stowe, hy Howes. " Lady Jane Grey and her husband, beheaded 1553-4. Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, beheaded 1600," &c. &c. VOL. II. G 122 LETTERS FROM CHAPTER XXVI. ^^ " "lis clear if we refuse Tlie means so limited, the tools so rude, To execute our purpose, life vnR fleet, And we shall fade, and nothing will be done." "The two omnipresent parties of history — the party of the Past and the party of the Future — divide society between them to-day as of old." — Emeeson. " And Queen Elizabeth said to Leicester — ' I will • have no master here, and but one mistress.' " V - HisTOBY OF England. Mr. Selwyn used to say to Cecil, that if ever she was ruined it would be by brick and mortar. " You are right," she answered, " and yet, if I had not inherited Ashdown, so A COUNTRY HOUSE. 123 complete and finished in itself, a perfect picture of past times, that I had only to make present comfort, I never should have lived there — I should have had no fancy for rearing for myself alone a castle or a palace that might have cost a hundred thousand pounds before it was furnished and in- habited, that would have had a hundred thousand faults that I might have groaned over; that my friends would have dis- liked and found fault with, that my rela- tions would have said that I had much better have bestowed the money it had cost on them or their children, and that the poor could daily have reproached me when I saw the misery of the habitations that they were doomed to live in, around my piece of magnificence ; a palace in the midst of hovels is an intolerable mockery ; but now I hope, with your assistance, I g2 124 LETTERS FROJr may, before I die, leave some hundreds of blazing hearths surrounded by warm hearts and grateful recollections." In a similar strain had Cecil Latimer written this day to Mr. Selwyii; she now said to his daughter, I will finish my letter to your father some other time. Here is indeed a terrible report of the state of matters from the county town of such a rich and flourishing county as this ought to be — here is misery, and want, and sickness, and disturbances, almost amounting to rebellion! This once will 1 put my name to a paper to assist emi- gration ; but I will send no more of my own people — I will look after them at home — I will not send the heart of England out of the country, dividing friends and families, and causing all the misery that mind can suffer in exchange for bread. It cannot, and must not be. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 125 " But we will talk of this by and by. Send for Yetzer, dear Catherine, and ask him to sing that beautiful song from Schiller's ' AVilliam TeU' — the one, I mean, when he is making up his mind to become a rebel, and the words of which are so well rendered into English : " Regardless of each other's wants, Each, man here coldly passes by his brother, As on he toils ! Here you may see the trader. With thoughtful brow ; anon, the girded pilgrim ; Then comes the holy monk ; to him succeeds The scowling bandit, or hght-hearted minstrel ; An d now the can-ier, with his sumpter mule WeU laden from far-distant lands. AU roads, Howe'er they turn, will lead us to the world's end : Each has his business here ; and mine is — Death I" The song was powerful and sad — it was well sung by one, a master of his art, and of the subject. Cecil said, " Pray, sing it aojain ;" but asked for no more music. Cecil and Mrs. Hope looked at each 126 LETTERS FROM other, for it occurred to both of them that the song was apropos to the subject that had gone before it. "How powerful is that music!" said Cecil; " and what truths those plays of Schiller's bring out ; there is everything in them; and that in a play, one should find what I am now turning in my mind ! I remember well, ten years ago, when I was in Switzerland, I had wandered on a summer's day from the little inn, in Over- hasli, with a volume of Schiller in my hand, that I was intensely studying, I came to a house, out of which came two children as beautiful as angels; I never shall forget the beauty of those two peasant children, with their long plaited hair ; the children told me that that was their home. It was one of the rich farm- houses, built in the Berne fashion, with A COUNTRY HOUSE. 127 galleries, out-houses, and overhanging roofs, on the front of which were the arms and initials of the owner, with a verse from Scripture. I admired the house nearly as much as I did the children, and wished that Ave possessed such farm- houses in England, and, returning to the study of Schiller, I read with surprise, in the superb drama of ' William Tell,' what seemed to me nearly a description of the building that I was looking at. It was thus : — " ' The house is constructed of the best timber; the builder's rule has measured and made aU straight and correct. Es- cutcheons of arms of various colours ornament the outside, along with wise and holy sentences; which the passenger stops on his way to read and admire the truth and wisdom of their meaning; 128 LETTEES FROM numerous shining casements admit the brilliant daylight which cheerfully trans- mits its rays throughout the rooms.' " Schiller has thus exactly described these comfortable abodes of liberty and independence. " Here is what I have written to your father — ^pray, dear Catherine, read it, and tell me what you think he will say ?" The letter ran thus : " I am not disposed to quarrel with the present times, or look to the dark side of things, for I have been fortunate in many ways ; but we are all equal in the sight of God, and each of us is called on to work out the talent given us — some in one way, some in another. How can the landed proprietor answer it to hunself, sending away the best part of the people to become a foreign people? but we do it to get rid A COUNTRY HOUSE. 129 of pauperism, ugly staring brick abodes of discomfort and disrespect — beer-shops, gin-shops, dirt, debt, ugliness — moral and positive ugliness — and as they are sadly and justly termed, 'the comfortless and unhoused tenants of a struggling popula- tion, a reproach and a torment.' " I have just been reading, ' Our God is a household God, as well as a heavenly God ; he has an altar in every man's dwell- ing; let persons look to it when they rend it lightly, and poui' out its ashes, getting rid of the most respectable of all earthly lowliness.' " These are the very strong words of a great writer, and they have sunk deep into my mind. " I am now thinking of erecting two laro-e villao;es on the estate of , lif- teen miles off. They must not be of g3 130 LETTERS FROM Swiss or Italian architecture. The life of the English poor in Swiss or Italian build- ings is but a masquerade after aU, unsuited to their habits and character, a pretension, or seeming to be, that is like the affecta- tions in character — you tire of it — it wants sohdity. The thing itself does not last any more than the taste for it. The German architecture suits England better; there is a suitableness in taste aU through Germany with England, with persons as with things, and in the deer- stalking Thuringian forests, where are the chasses of the Duke of Saxe Coburg, in the mountain passes, on the tops of which grow those majestic pines, the silver fir, there are whole villages of our timbered houses of Worcestershire and Warwick- shire, but built more solidly than ours to resist the heavy falls of snow. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 131 "I should think that the Saxon or German habitations on the Elbe, and near the Danube, and those of Flanders, might assist us in finding a suitable architecture of old date, equally ancient, and not as expensive to build as the old timbered farm-house or cottage, which not only costs a great deal, but looks unsuitable and a thin 2: of chance, when mixed with other habitations. The houses should be of picturesque elFect, suited to the trader or to the habits of the labouring classes in the fields. I should have no objection to one or two regular lodging-houses for work persons; but a people very much show what they are by their architecture, and we must keep that in mind. There should be perfect harmony between the outside appearance of the house and the inhabitants within — no frittering away of 132 LETTERS FROM trifling ornament — nothing that marks the exact fashion of the day, in building. The Germans call architecture ' frozen music,* so strong is the feeling with them of a call for harmony. " I should wish these villao-es to be on heaths, in high situations on hills, a health- ful and well drained soil, and that some of the houses should have the names or initials of the first inhabitants in carv^ed stone, or in dates, words, or sentences. Some in acknowledging God's grace in allowing them to possess and have a home, others with suitable inscriptions, a common fashion in several parts of Switzerland and Germany, on the outside of the house ; but that I never remember seeing here, but in my own village of Forest, and on two large mansions, one in Scotland, and one in England. If you observe the A COUNTRY HOUSE. 133 spirit of the times, there are few persons in these days who care for the future — few persons, ' Whose souls the magic present hath not bound.' " Inscriptions are powerful, and no trifle to deal with. I remember being struck with these houses with inscriptions. One was a Scotch mansion built more than a century ago, situated on the sea-shore, a bleak, magnificent, grand, dismal shore, which it required good spirits and Scotch hospitahty, or the mind of a poet or painter to look on, as the sea-guUs assembled in flights on its yellow sands, having at some distance an old ruined castle, half burnt in affrays and disturbances, and the faUing stones of which were partly disguised "with ivy hanging about in folds and wreaths, where the screech-owl, the vulture, or the eagle nightly housed. In this scene of the 134 LETTERS FROM frowns of Nature was placed a large stupid-looking house, and, carved in a deep frieze upon it, were the various titles of the founder ; the discrepancy of the scene struck one, and to my mind spoke whole stories of the mistakes of the period it be- longed to. The other house, with an in- scription, is perfectly suitable and cha- racteristic. It is a manor-house, about fifty miles from hence, and over the ancient hall window, of the date of Eliza- beth, carved on stone in old English letters is an invocation to hospitality. " These two houses, however, are foreign to our present purpose. And now, dear Mr. Selwyn, think over all this, and send me an answer ; and I do not forget that if I am enabled to do these great things, it is owing to the excellent order in which you have placed my affairs," &c. &c. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 135 " I approve of your letter," said Mrs. Hope, returning it, " but I think that it is one which my father will not answer with- out much consideration." " I have business at Forest," said Cecil ; " the day is so fine, let us walk there." The village of Forest, a mile from the house at Ashdown, was a beautiful sight. You imagined yourself transported back more than two centuries. It was a village of the old black and white timbered houses, aU restored and put in order. Beautiful and poetical was this village : there was the slowness and repose of former times in it; where no one lives in a hurry; where peace resides, and where you ex- pected to meet good old Izaak Walton returning from the trout streams hard by. The inhabitants were persons either weU to do in the world, or content with honest 136 PRESENT. gains and quiet; and whom the busy money-scheming spirit of the present day had not yet reached. Happiness has been described " a fire- side thing — a thing of grave and earnest tone ;" and the truer and deeper it is, the better. The habitations were comfortable dwell- ings, bright with cleanliness, large case- ments, and sun; built with low rafters, and large fire-places, where wood and turf is burnt: such houses as are now little seen, but here and there in the mid- land counties. High, mth gable-ends and overhanging roofs, and the beams either painted black or of a reddish-brown colour; and ha^dng curious devices of timbered beams intersecting each other: some with the initials of their families and dates ; some with ciphers ; some with a text PEESENT. 137 from Scripture, surrounded by cherubims' heads; others with Latin verses;* others in old English writing, — all in the timber, entwined with the architecture of the house ; the windows and large fire-places contrasting, by their brightness and cheer- fulness, with the sober hue of the black and white houses, which were partly covered mth jessamine, honeysuckle, and parycanthus. These houses had been built when air, warmth, and light, were not expensive, and the poor man partook in those bless- ings in common with the rich man. The village lay back from each side of a high * On one of the old houses in the village was a sun with rays, and, underneath, these lines : — " As men to their meridian come. So they decline as doth the sun, Which soon obscures itself from sight, And turns the longest day to night." 138 PRESENT. road, on a smooth and shaven green, where grew hollies of great size and beauty, joined to snarled and twisted whitethorn of great age. These trees of bold forms, looking like the oil and vinegar of nature, placed together and scattered about on the sod, gradually verged off as they approached the houses, into clipped and artificial forms; and hedges, which sur- rounded the little gardens and orchards, of yew and holly. When Miss Latimer came to reside at Ashdown, these houses were all in a state of rapid decay, and tumbling down. She was strongly advised to do away with them altogether ; but her good taste and feeling, and the liking she had for all that time had spared, would not allow of this, and she spent a large sum of money in re-settling the whole village. At the PRESENT. 139 entrance from Ashdown was the domestic farm that supplied the family. Then came two cottages belonging to gardeners, a o-irls' school, and an infant school. There were about a dozen shops of traders in food and agricultural materials. At the end of the village was a small, very ancient church, with its tower and merry peal of bells, which rang out on a day of jubilee. It was just such a church as dehghts the antiquary, the architect, and the lover of the picturesque, having its row of ancient hoUies from the road to the porch, and its enormous yew-trees close by. Further on, was the parsonage, built to correspond with the church and village, and inhabited by a young clergy- man and his young wife, friends and rela- tions of Miss Latimer's. Some persons have means and tune to work miracles 140 PEESENT. of happiness ; and Cecil had the will and wish together with the power. On the opposite side of the high road was a large farm, and the old inn; an almshouse for the aged, endowed in the olden time ; the poorhouse — a pattern of neatness; and on the sloping ground between the village and the forest, were the houses of individuals, and cottages dispersed about. The old inn was a com- fortable place; it had been an inn these fifty years, with the sign before its door, (suspended between a hoUy and a white- thorn) of Izaak Walton, with his fishing- rod. It was a wliite-timbered house, rising: storey above storey, one overhanging the other, each growing out of the other, sup- ported mth figures and rude carving in wood, and intersecting patterns in beams, and compartments, and windows, and PRESENT. 141 roof; and a great deal of casement window shining bright in the sun. It had once been the residence of a lover of the angle and a poet, and his name, along with this inscription, remained over the entrance, entwined in the timbered beam : — •' For ever and for aye. May this lious blessed be. Jo. Davors, 1624." The inn, and indeed the whole village, placed you back two centuries in thought and idea : you expected to see " the flying coach" that engaged to reach London the night of the third day, or to meet the poets and fishers of those days returning from angling, with nosegays of daisies and cowshps. The inn belonged to Miss Latimer, and she had the following verses, written by this same Davors, 142 PRESENT. in commendation of his happy life, placed in black letter on the wall over the huge hearth of a room that looked into a garden : — " Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, Where I may see my quiU or cork down sink With eager bite of perch, or bleak, or dace, And on the world and my Creator think ! Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace. And others spend their hves in base excess Of wine — or worse, in war and wantonness." " Let them that hst, these pastimes still pursue. And on such pleasing fancies feed their fiU, So that the fields and meadows green may view And daily by fresh rivers walk at will Among the daisies and the violets blue, Red hyacinth, and yeUow daffodil, Purple narcissus, like the morning rays. Pale gander grass and azure culverkeys." " I count it higher pleasure to behold The stately compass of the lofty sky, And in the midst thereof, like burning gold, The flaming chariot of the world's great eye. PRESENT. 143 The watery clouds tliat in the air uproll'd, With sundry kinds of painted colours, fly ; And fair Aurora, Lifting up her head, StUl blushing, rise from old Tithonus' bed. The hills and mountains raised from the plains. The plains extended level ^^dth the ground. The ground divided into simdry veins — The veins enclosed with, rivers running round ; These rivers making way through nature's chains. With headlong course into the sea profound ; The raging sea beneath the valleys low. Where lakes, and rills, and rivulets do flow ; The lofty woods, the forests wide and long, Adorn'd with leaves and branches fresh and green. In whose cool bowers the birds with many a song Do welcome with their quire the summer's queen ! The meadows fair, where Flora's gifts among Are intermixed with verdant gi-ass between ; The silver-scaled fish, that softly swim Within the sweet brook's crystal watery stream : — All these, and many more of His creation That made the heavens, the angler oft doth see ; Taking therein no little delectation To think how strange — how wonderful they be ! Training thereof an inward contemplation. To set his heart from other fancies free ; And whilst he looks on these with joyful eye. His mind is rapt above the starry sky !" 144 PRESENT. The hollies immediately around the old inn were in architectural chpped hedges ; shapes and forms, in neatly kept devices of birds or animals, in spiral trees high in the air, terminated on the top by a peacock cut out in the holly, or in win- dows or openings connecting the orchards and kitchen-gardens ; joining on to these same gardens, were paths on a mossy bank, communicating with the ravines of the forest, and the trout-streams, and the green pastures, further off. The lights danced and played under the trees in the ravines, where in the spring the singing of the thrushes, black-birds, and every bird in the world, in their gorgeous melody, would tell what the attraction to this bright spot had been to so many of our ancient poets; for this had been a favourite haunt of all who had loved trees PEESENT. 145 and flowers. "VMio can know who may have visited these ravines, with their wooden rustic bridges crossing the streams below? Perhaps Shakspeare may have come over from Stratford, and lay down on a bright summer's day, or a moon- light night, upon these mossy banks, and dreamt the " Midsummer Night's Dream," or thought of Rosalind or Jacques ! — per- haps Herrick, here among the blue gush of violets and wild hyacinths, may have written his prettiest song, his " Fair Blossoms of a Day ;" or Sir Hemy Wotton, who came here to fish and visit Davors, may, on this spot, have bidden farewell to kings, statesmen, and politicians. Xow the poets are gone; but the sun, and the trees, and the birds remain, and the twinkling streams, slow and peaceful as were the poets that reposed on their VOL. II H 146 PRESENT. banks, and the soft moss — fit carpet for a lady's foot, or for a bright golden- haired child to lie asleep on ! This spot probably occasioned Izaak Walton to say, "When the la^vyer is swallowed up mth business, and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams we now see glide so gently by us." Holy Mr. Herbert often came over from Salisbury to visit Davors, and they would walk to the trout-streams, sit down beside the riUs, " and a sweet enjoyment of a» pleasant day they had," and then Herbert would write such lines as these,* * " Sweet Day ! so cool, so calm, so briglit — The bridal of the earth and sky ; Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night — For thou must die ! PEESENT. 147 and then the anglers would dine on the fish they had caught, — dine at about ten or eleven, before noon, — and then they would walk down to the streams again, and try and catch another brace of trout. Such were the simple pleasures of our forefathers. The fishers and poets were a cheerful race. Sir Henry Wotton wrote in praise of liberty, a rural life, birds, fishes, tulips, crocuses, and violets, " Sweet Eose ! vrliose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; Thy root is ever in its grave — And thou must die ! " Sweet Spring ! jFull of sweet days and roses — A bos whose sweets compacted He ; My music shows you have your closes — And all must die ! " Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber never gives ; And when the whole world turns to coal — Then chiefly lives." H 2 148 TEE SENT. at the age of seventy. The modern bards walk the world differently — more studious of fame and less of happiness. Lord Byron and Shelley were put out loy this cheerfulness of the old dramatists and poets ; the good spirits of the poets of the seventeenth century hurt the poets of the nineteenth century ; they could not under- stand it, and said nothing about it, be- cause they could not understand it. The poets are gone, but the old inn is still a comfortable place. Here the public and private meetings on business are often held ; a farm is attached to it, and the parish and county business is generally dispatched more serenely, and in a better humour of charity and philan- thropy with yourself and your neighbour, than it would be in that smoky, red-brick residence in the next to^vn, that looks PRESENT. 149 into the churchyard on one side, and on the jail on the other side. The village of Forest contained rather a heterogeneous set of inhabitants: the excellent and learned author of " Arch^ologian Sur- mises," who had always resided there ; Mr. Willmington, who had retired from office and the study of Algebra, and now lived in a state half-drowsiness and half-som- nambulism, divided between smoking and fishing; the physician, who passed his time out shooting, for it was a healthful neighbourhood, and having no one to cure, he took to killing hares and par- tridges ; a retired lawyer, who was nearly crazy on the two great questions of church reform and education; the two Mi«s Dees, very harmless women, one of whom read every novel that came out, the other who cultivated every dahlia 150 PRESENT. that could be procured, and with them their pretty niece Annie Williams, who made drawings and sang songs. The village had its widow, like Sir Roger de Coverley's widow, called by courtesy " the handsome widow," though the fact had passed away. The gipsies had often visited this village — much to the loss and annoyance of its inhabitants — and they were found so troublesome that Miss Latimer entered into the same sort of compact with them that the Roman government used to do with the brigands — ^that she would cross their hands with more than a silver sixpence, provided they came but once a year. They came accordingly, well armed with stores of lovers and husbands, and, in spite of the vigilance of the inhabitants, they gene- rally contrived to carry off some turkeys PRESENT. 151 and chickens, as well as heads and hearts. Cecil gave them silver, and they blessed the lady's face; and thus ended the gipsies' visit, which used to be the terror of the country. • U^-^-t^JiJ C^'«HL^ iTi 152 LETTEES FROM CHAPTER XXVII. LETTER FROM F. EGERTON, ESQ., TO MISS LATIMER. "Dear Miss Latimer, — Mrs. Egerton and myself are much obliged to you for your congratulations on the many happy events in our family, as by custom we must take joy at losing every- one belonging to us. Now, that my daughter is about to have a home of her own, and that we are left to our- selves, we must turn our minds (although in a more humble way) to following your example in the improvements adopted on your estates ; and if you can give us any I A COUNTRY HOUSE. 153 advice, or any information as to your early changes, and as to the beginning of arrangement in schools, cottages, books, rules, or regulations, to enable us to set matters a little to rights this year, we shall thank you, and be very much obHged by your doing so. " Mrs. Egerton asks whether you con- sulted Mdlle. Le Xormand, at Paris; Alexis, in London; or Caviglia, when you were in the East; for she says it must be by magic that all you do is so prosperous, and that you are at once so despotic and so popular. Do not you look with trembling at the fate of Louis Philippe, the Pope, and the other sove- reign ? But you are a living instance that republicanism does not answer. " The Bishop of W was with us H 3 154 LETTERS FROM the Other day. He desires me to tell you how very much pleased he was with the villages and churches of D and G , both of which villages I believe are almost entirely your property. The Bishop, however, was surprised to find two of the largest farms in the hands of catholic families, and that the dis- senters, who are a numerous body, speak of you as if you belonged to them. I think it right to tell you this, as the Bishop evidently thinks that you are too liberal, although all wears both a peaceful and flourishing aspect. With Mrs. Eger- ton's best regards, " I am, dear Miss Latimer, •' Yours very faithfully, " F. Egerton." I A COUNTRY HOUSE. 155 LETTER FROM JHSS LATIMER TO MR. EGERTON. " Dear Mr. Egerton, — I am much obliged to you for your letter, and much pleased that your friend, the Bishop of W , has expressed his approbation of the villages of D and G ; at the same time, you tell me that the Bishop thinks me too hberal. I assure you I am not more liberal than my conscience demands, or than my experience makes me know is necessary for the people's happiness, or for the ends that I have in view. With regard to the farms, I had rather that they had been held by pro- testants ; but those families have resided there — one for two centuries, the other for a hundred and twenty years; and I cannot bear the idea of turnins them 156 LETTERS FROM out; both families are improving in habits and education, and I am con- stantly enforcing the necessity of im- provement. I am entirely for allowing persons to go to heaven their own way. 1 do not like controversy, which now so often leads to infidelity or to insanity; and what sect is there mthout some beauty of doctrine? Surely, the more simple the faith is, the better for the individual; and the one that the person chooses, which is generally that of his forefathers, is surely the best faith for us all. The dissenters make excellent tenants, and, on the whole, are a good kind of persons, and, by never harassing their religious feelings, many amongst them come round to the Church of England. " I must tell you what I heard Mr. Godolphin — whom we all look uj) to — A COUNTRY HOUSE. 157 say on this subject : ' Religion being the homage of man to his Creator, unless it is a mere ceremonial, unless it is regarded as an ecclesiastical police, in which the heart and feelings have no share, is a homage that must be paid in as many forms as feelings, and in language such as the intellect and education of the person dictates, which must be various as are the tenets and opinions of faiths and sects — various as the cha- racter of nations — various as the charac- ters of those who utter those prayers and praises.' " Pray tell Mr. Egerton I do not em- ploy magic ; I have never consulted Caviglia, Alexis, or Mdlle. Le Xormand; and as to what you are pleased to term my prosperity^ I can account for in the progress of events. It is true that the 158 LETTERS FROM improvement of others is now become the great interest of my life, and if it is any pleasure to you to know how and why I turned my mind to it, I shall have much satisfaction, not only in telling you, but in giving you any information as to the means taken, or the results of those means; but I fancy that much of my prosperity is come to me because I am a woman. You know that female reigns are lucky; they choose their favourites well. Is there not a saying, ' The fool never chooses another fool ; the fool knows better?' Do you think our gracious Queen would have reigned now, if I commit the Irishism of saying, *Had she been a king?' She reigns in happy security because she is a woman, as weU as prosperous and beloved: be- sides, I have been fortunate; and great A COUNTRY HOUSE. 159 reliance is placed on my infallibility, for it is with the labouring classes, as well as with the rest of the world, (politicians and all,) a series of success leads to still more success. " It was about ten years ago that I went to Switzerland, in great grief for the death of my poor friend, Lady Arhnoton. I believe that there are moments in life when reflection is stronger, deeper, and calmer than at other times; for we are but a sort of moral barometers — fluctuating in our nature as the seasons, as the climates, or the clouds. These moments come generally after some great mental earth- quake, when interest, or the love of money, or the love of amusement, ceases to have such powerful sway over our understandings; those moments are like 160 LETTERS FROM times past in sickness, in the fear of death — rare, but powerful in resolves. " I had been living for some time in a chalet, on the top of a mountain, looking down on villages, farms, and on seemingly tranquil and happy rural life, when it entered into my mind, to make myself of use to my people. Till then I had only thought of Ashdown as a beautiful place that I liked to im- prove, and where I could receive those friends whose society I took pleasure in. " When I got to Lucerne, I passed some time in the inn, and inhabited a room where was engraved, in the Gei^man language, on the wall, in the words of some great writer — " * Look not mournfully into the Past — it comes not back again : wisely improve the Present — it is thine : go forth to meet A COUNTRY HOUSE. 161 the shado'\\y Future, without fear, and with a resolved heart.' " ' ' "These words haunted me. I saw them night and day, and the look of them on the wall has never left my mind. " I felt the influence of writings on the mind. Further on, was written : — - " ' The shadows of the mind are like those of the body : in the morning of life, they all lie behind us ; at noon, we trample them under foot; and in the evening, they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us.' " The summer and autumn of a tourist's life in mountains and valleys, and in the society of persons out of the reach of Paris and London disguises and mystifications nursed these feelings. We live in com- plete ignorance of our own characters — of what we are bom for; an accident, or a 162 LETTERS FROM mere chance may reveal them to us, or we never know them. " With a view to turning my mind to something that might produce good re- sults, I examined the situation and ways of thinking of the persons I fell amongst, both of high and low degree. I found in the catholic cantons entire faith or entire scepticism, wretched poverty, a total want of order and arrangement, good temper with great weakness of mind ; the weak- ness of children's minds, dependent on the Jesuit or the confessor who undertakes to conduct them to heaven — full of childish thoughts — happier from want of thought; but when they got away from the con- fessor, like the child whose leading strings are dropped and who cannot stand alone, I found the inhabitants of catholic Switzer- land, or they were esprit fort. " I saw in the protestant cantons a A COUNTRY HOUSE. l63 foresight, a prudence, a spirit of order, a care of education, striking to see — a healthier and more prosperous people. My own conviction is, that religion being an affair of the feelings or the heart, we must leave these matters to the hberty or feelings, and not harass the understand- ing with speculations on doctrines and creeds. I wish to judge persons not according to their speculative tenets, but according to their deeds. I do not speak of the true Londoner; he inherits the hardness of the stones or bricks of the dwelling he inhabits ; but in the country, surely, it is better to let the evils of life press less heavily by instruction, assisted by food, warmth, and clothing. " That summer I was often at Hofwyll, having letters of introduction to M. de Fellenberg. He was a pleasing, mild, gentlemanlike man, who had dedicated his 164 LETTERS FROM fortune, his time, and his abilities to beino- of use to his fellow-creatures. The ffreat rule followed in his dominions — for he has purchased a large tract of country around — was the golden rule, ' Do to others as you would they should do to you.' Both instructors and pupils followed their reli- gious faith in various chapels, and with their different pastors ; they live much in the open air — the agricultural poor almost entirely in the fields. I asked him how all his schemes in life had began in his own mind ? He told me that his mother was continually saying to him, ' Les grands ont assez d'amis, soit celui des pauvres.' I went to Yverdun, to visit poor old Pes- talozzi, then a man between seventy and eighty years old. I had read his very pretty book, called 'Leonard and Gertrnde.' Poor old Pestalozzi ! I never shall forget A COUNTRY HOUSE. 165 him in his infant school, with his grey hairs, and at his great age, playing with the children, who were like so many animals hanging about him. He had un esprit exalte joined to great simplicity of character. He studied the temper and cha- racter of each child. This teaching without fear and without emulation is a beautiful mode of education. They were happy children ; he made the instruction to suit the child, not the child to the education. Health was not ruined ; plays, gardens, and exercises encouraged. They were learning arithmetic in a sort of play, the day I was there — one asking another how many sevens in twenty-one, three ; — and in twenty-eight, four — and so on. Pestalozzi thought that emulation had a mischievous tendency in education, that the active then gets the ascendancy, and the laziest child is 166 LETTERS FROM the last ; that it brings superficial learning, bad temper, jealousy, and malice. Neither did he approve of any reading that raises the imagination : that favourite book, the ' Pilgrun's Progress,' read everywhere in England, is just the sort of book he would have disapproved of. "After a great battle in Switzerland between the French and Russians, when habitations were burnt, villages ruined, and all the horrors of war desolated the country, Pestalozzi had assembled eighty poor children, orphans, and with them he wandered over the mountains tiU more peaceful times enabled them to settle at Yverdun. The Emperor Alexander had been aware of the merit of this man ; he sent him from Petersburg an odd gift — the order of St. Wladimer. " The humble look of everything about A COIINTKY HOUSE. 167 Pestalozzi showed extreme poverty and real benevolence. The school was part of an old house and a stable. The whole' scene made a great impression on my mind. " I marked weU these people's feelings. We esteem not that obedience which is forced, neither can it be acceptable to God. However, I determined not to be too sudden in the apphcation of trials until I had learned more ; but that summer made me desirous of not wasting the remainder of life so entirely as 1 had hitherto done. At the same time, I was vexed with the people about Ashdown, and very hopeless as to much improvement. I had to say to the worst population in England — none of my estates being far distant from Man- chester, Birmingham, or AYolverhampton. I did not go the lengths that Coleridge did, 168 LETTERS FROM when he wished that Manchester and Birmingham should share the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, and be swallowed up; but I heartily wished that those towns had never existed, and they have been the greatest drawback and evil that I have had to encounter. " The following winter and spring, at Ashdown, seemed to make a change a positive necessity. In a hopeless mood I sold one property — it was the one near Wolverhampton, that I called my infernal estate ; I got a great deal of money for it, and bought with the produce, barren moors, instead of coUieries and manufac- tures. On this property, far away from what is called civilization, I have built habitations for settlers, under certain agreements and rules. I found out that the amelioration suitable to one tract of A COUNTRY HOUSE. 1G9 country, or to one population will not suit another. Money with me is a means, not an end; but as I require money for the objects I have in view, I have had all my estates improved to the very utmost, which was at once a step to procure me those means ; and the very act of doing this was of material use, and has contributed ex- tremely to improving the whole popu- lation. " The people immediately surrounding Ashdown are a forest population, and, when I came into the property, were very poor and sick — in debt one with another ; living on credit, one with another. As a first charity, I cleared the small debts, under certain promises ; these people were stealers of wood and poachers ; there was not a religious feeling among them, except- ing in one family of dissenters. I made VOL. II. I 170 LETTERS FROM that one family a means of benefit to the others. In setting up the schools, I had the Lord's Prayer, the Commandments, and the four Gospels, taught. There can be no use in discourses as to keeping Saints' days, for a rural population of labouring poor who cannot attend church, except Sundays, Easter, and Christmas. The sermons, mostly used and given away, are Arnold's, Close's, Scobel's, and Hare's, ^laiiy of these sermons are on agricultural and country subjects, and are suited to the comprehension of the young or the middle classes, or to the agricultural labourer, and I am careful, not to disturb, for the sake of gaining a little additional instruc- tion in the children the influence of the Fifth Commandment, the abstaining from which saves many a family feud. " There are four catholics, two quakers. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 171 and a great many dissenters, in the schools, and the parents are satisfied that the children are properly instructed. Dr. Arnold's opinions are as much followed as are consistent with the dilFerence of the situation and prospects in life of the scho- lars. The plans and practice of Hoffwyl, and of the schools in Brittany, have been modified for English habits and feelings ; and, with regard to the infant schools, Pestalozzi's method is adopted, and great assistance has been had from a little book called ' The Goldmaker's Village.' " I had turned it in my mind what are the results I should wish to bring about in educating a rural population, and then I set about as speedily as possible reaching these results. I wished to inculcate a steadfast belief in religion, a good moral conduct, and habits of order and activity i2 172 LETTERS FROM — 110 puzzling points of doctrines ; for, as some person has said — I think it is Jeremy Taylor — that ' We inquire so much about Christianity, that we have little time left to be Christians.' " In one of the villages near Ashdo^vn, I had a clergyman who put me very much out. Instead of ' Sermons on stones,' he put stones into his sermons, and every sort of stumbling-block that could only suit controversial congregations. Instead of binding up the v/ounds of life, by religion, he produced a hundred wounds, which he wanted ability to heal. Luckily, Dr. L came to reside in the neighbour- hood ; he preached often, and in all ways did much good. " I have tried to inculcate into the people a respect for rights — a respect for property; that the road, the forest, the COUNTRY HOUSE. 173 cottao^e with its fruit and flowers, are all under the care of the public. Theft is the leading sin of a forest population, it begins by stealing wood, and goes on to poaching. In a sermon preached by Dr. L , on ' Thou shalt not steal,' he insisted on the value of the object stolen being immaterial ; as also on God taking into consideration the temptations and in- tentions of the robber; and then he carried on the argument to the whole of life. These are the sort of discussions that are really of use in the countr}^ ; for however they may neither fear God nor man, yet these same persons dread punishment or detection, and something is wanted to encourage the good, and terrify or inti- midate the bad. "With the people you must be infol- lible ; don't let them suppose that you can 174 LETTERS FEOM be their dupe; you must also establish facts from which they argue ; words alone ■vvill not do, you must . give them calcu- lations of self-interest. ^' A rural population is always obstinate, and ^vill neither be led like the higher classes, nor like the lower class, the mob. Make them understand that their good is attended to, and that that good is industry and activity. Agricultural learning is the best learning for the labourer's family, and, with comfortable homes and pure air, they ought to be a happy and prosperous people. " I have tried to have the cottages as comfortable for cottagers, as my owti house is for myself, and I believe that they are so. No lodo^ino-s are allowed to be let, nor strangers in the villages ; the pas- sengers are fed, and forwarded on, and A COUNTRY HOUSE. 175 requested never to repeat their visits; and as there is no house-room, there is no inducement to them to do so. You will say that this is both severe and inhospit- able ; but it cannot be otherwise, if you wish to do your duty by your own people, and pro\ide them with habitations and work. The house-rent, and rent of allot- ments, and every sort of rent, is paid to a day. Those who do not possess gardens, rent allotments if they wish it. I allow of neither credit nor debt ; the clergyman, the lawyer, and the physician, as well as being the friends of the poor, are my friends also : by this means, through them, I look after souls, food, rights, wrongs, and health, as much as possible ; I insist on simplicity of dress in the villages. The girls of my schools all wear grey cloaks, and I reserve the old-fashioned scarlet 176 LETTERS FROM cloak for the women, as prizes for good conduct, and seen at a distance, they make effect " However, sometimes a contingency will baffle all one's wishes and under- takings, and one bad person must be looked on as a contingent event, or — sometimes oneself — one grows indolent or inert, or despairing, and then aU goes still worse ! It is true that the schools give more an- noyance and more trouble than everything else put together; my object is to bring some common sense, some sense of order and method to the mass ; for in country affairs we do not want genius, deep thought, or imagination; but common sense is said to be ' the collision of many minds, not the operation of one single mind;' and I do not see why it may not be looked for in a cottage, just as much as in a city. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 177 " I very much ^vish, if I can, to abstain from interference between the clergpiian and his flock ; and particularly so, when I tell you, that in some instances I dis- approve of what the clergyman approves. I disUke catechising children in church, on several grounds. First of aU, it is much too public; if the children answer naturally, as children ought to do, their answers raise a smile or a sneer, and lower the dignity of religion in the listener's mind. It is not a subject to run any risks about; and the excellent good clergyman who asked a child, 'Who is your spiritual pastor?' and was answered, ' The Devil,' had no right to be surprised at such an unlucky reply. If the chil- dren are prompted to give answers like grown-up persons, they don't understand la 178 LETTERS FROM what they are saying, and it fills their heads with vanity and presumption. Again, I will suppose that the clergjTiian catechises the children as to the saints. They go home ; make known all their ill- understood learning ; think their parents poor ignorant persons, for not being as well-instructed as they are, and entirely to blame for not attending the service of these Saints' days. It would surely be better first to instruct the parents, and, if they are good parents, teach the cliildren the full meanins; of the Fifth Command- ment, ' honouring their fathers and mothers.' " But this is a point that must remain with the clergyman. I have only en- treated those clergymen among my friends whenever I have the pleasure of seeing them at Ashdown, when they lengthen A COUNTRY HOUSE. 179 the creed, not to shorten the Command- ments. " I dislike any answers by rote or order, and all species of pedantry and affectation in all that is taught and inculcated. One day, I went into one of the infant schools. I laughed at some of the children, poor things! for being parrots, and repeating what they did not the least comprehend. I called the dame and master, and I found that neither of them comprehended the least what they were teaching. They were so many words ; and they were fully satis- fied in knowing both the questions made and the answers expected, — and that was all. When I came to think it over, I had not myself a clear notion of the doctrine that was being inculcated by an ignorant pedant to these poor children ; I did pity the poor children who were learning ; but I could 180 LETTERS FROM not explain anytliing to their understand- ings satisfactorily to myself. " The difficulty is to meet "svith persons clever enough, and not too clever. The eloquent preacher cannot instruct chil- dren ; it requires a particular vocation for instructing children, and persons who can enter into children's thoughts. I re- member Pestalozzi, in his infant school, alternately playing with them and teach- ing them. There was a real vocation in that benevolent, grey-haired old man for teaching the poor ; and he neither made a show of it nor a wearisome business to the wretched children. In such matters, there should be as little mechanical pro- cess as possible. " The preacher in church has immense power over both young and old ; but if he preaches from habit, — sleepy sermons, I A COUNTRY HOUSE. 181 mean, — the people go to church from habit; their hearts are untouched; they are never roused, and no change arrives in consequence. You must try and re- form the parents before you can do any good with the children; for if they go home, and hear all that is bad — insolence, Ipng, dishonesty, and all manner of evil things — it is useless trying at education. In affairs of this kind, you must wait patiently for results ; and good may not come for years. " The truth is, that in everything we undertake it is only one-half of our com- prehension that is lighted up; the other half may be in total darkness how to go on. In the meantime, I have found it better never to bind myself with promises and engagements, and to leave myself at full liberty to do and act as I please. 182 LETTERS FROM A COUNTRY HOUSE. " I fear that I have but ill-explained to you and to Mrs. Egerton but a small part of these country subjects; and, moreover, that I have written you a very wearisome letter. As to details, I mil send you some books ; and if I can be of any fur- ther use, pray employ me ; and, with my best regards to Mrs. Egerton, " Believe me, yours most truly, " Cecil Latimer." PRESENT. 183 CHAPTER XXYIII. "Dans ses pensees, dans ses jugemens, dans ses manieres, elle avoit, je ne scai qnoi qui negligeoit les petites considerations pour aller droit aux grands in- terets, a ce qui caracterises les gens et les choses." As it has been already said, the middle of the house at Ashdown contained a large hall ; it went up to a coved ceiling at the roof of the house ; one side had very large flat windows of lozenge-shaped panes in metal casing, "svith coloured centres of es- cutcheons of arms, alliances, and heraldic devices. Two galleries of carved oak and walnut went round this hall; the 184 PRESENT. first gallery opening to the Holbein Room and to Queen Anne's room, communicat- ing with the rest of the house, the upper galleiy with the floor over. The hall underneath these galleries, now appro- priated to the use of the tenants and household on Saturday and Sunday even- ings, was the hall where fomierly, in the olden time, the lord and lady dined along with their dependents, retainers, and visitors. The first gallery now contained the finest organ that money could pro- cure, as well as other musical instru- ments. The full and magnificent tones of this organ had a powerful hold over the soul. Sometimes on a warm summer's evening Cecil would have the doors and windows thrown open, and when the streaming bright light of sunset fell on the dark oak wainscot, or on the PRESENT. 185 glorious pictures, slie would desire some of Mercadante or Donizetti's music to be played to her, while she sat in the room within, and saw and heard all, through the open doors ; or in the winter season, when the tapestry portieres were placed on windows and doors, and the huge bright fires burnt in the hall and gallery, she would have the end of the galleiy lighted up for music, the rest left in shadow and repose ; and ^e would send for some of the people from the Downs village, and she and the organist would instruct them in the choruses selected for their use. In the hall and gallery were various fine paintings on religious subjects. It had lately become a subject of religious discussion amongst several well-meaning persons, how far sacred pictures of a 186 PRESENT. catholic tendency are permissible in rooms where protestants meet for prayer. It was a question difficult to settle, as it is supposed that these paintings, when of first-rate excellence, have great influence and power over the feelings of many persons. There was a superb painting by Tintoretto, of St. Xavier, blessing the Host, from the portico of a church, while the people knelt below on the ground, or on the steps of the building. There were two representations of St. Michael com- bating Satan; ancient copies from Ra- phael and Guido, where Satan is bodily represented under the type of ugliness as well as of sin : " For of tlie soul tlie body form dotli take For soul is form and doth the body make." Spenser. There was a Dominicheno of " L'Angelo PRESENT. 187 che scaccia Lucifero ;" again, a represen- tation of Satan viiih an embodied form — " A devil, a bom devil — His body uglier grows, so bis mind cankers !" There were three fine pictures by Rem- brandt — the raising of Lazarus, a Nati- vity, and Eli teaching the child Samuel to read. There were great objections to altering this fine old gallery, the work of two or three centuries. After much discussion it was resolved that the pic- tures so constantly under the eyes of such numbers of persons should be made a source of religious instruction — that the diff'erence of creeds should be ex- plained, that allowance should be made for the superstition of the tunes when the painters lived, and that the nation, reli- gion, and usages of the painters should 188 PRESENT. be taken into consideration. With regard to St. ^licliael, Milton could furnish much of the instruction given. Can it be doubted that Milton had seen those pictures of Raphael and Guido, remem- bered them in his blindness, and " in his darkness, that the winged saint had re- visited his imagination?" "Michael, the great prince that standeth forth for the children of my people;" and further, in the words of Scripture, " The Dragon shalt thou tread under foot ;" the Dragon and the Serpent being the emblems of sin or e\il. Both these painters have represented the Archangel about to bind down the demon in the bottomless pit — a type of virtue trampling over sin, and literally, Satan trodden under foot; the saint carrying on a perpetual conflict ■with the powers of evil. In his coun- PRESENT. 189 tenance is neither vengeance, disdain, nor effort, but an assured victory over the low grovelling powers of evil. Both these pictures are full of poetic thought. The earth sends forth flames from the crater of a volcano; all is sorrow, evil, and sin except the face of the saint, whom Kaphael has represented severe both in heavenly and earthly courage. In the religious explanation of these pictures, great allowance was to be made for the feudal spirit of Christianity of the middle ages. The church dedicated to St. Michael in Apulia, which has been an object of pilgrimage during 1300 years, the castle of St. Angelo at Eome, once dedicated to St. Michael, St. Michael in Normandy, St. Michael in Cornwall, and the creation of the order of St. Michael (the patron saint of France) in 1 90 PRESENT. 1469, furnish stories of the superstition of the middle ages, mixed up with heraldic devices, battles, tournaments, and chivalry — most difS.cult to explain to any per- sons but poets or painters. Over the tomb of the hero or the conqueror, the banners representing St. Michael were suspended, as round the neck of the hero or the conqueror, the monarchs of France placed the order with the medal- lion of the saint ; his image representing the spiritual triumph over the earthly of human nature — the knight in chivalry on earth, the saint who had trodden under foot the dragon or the serpent in the skies. The poems of Milton and Tasso are thought to correspond with Raphael's and Guide's pictures of this saint. Raphael painted the original picture of St. Michael PRESENT. 191 combating Satan, for Francis I. — St. Michael being the patron saint of the realm of France, as St. George is of that of England. St. George was, as we all know, the war-cry of England in battle : " God and St. George, and England's right!" or, " St. George and victory!" and in the worship of this saint Avas founded the Order of the Garter : " "WTien first tliis order was ordain'd, Kniglits of tlie Garter were of noble birth, Valiant, and virtuous, full of haughty courage. Such as were grown to credit by the wars ; "Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in worst extremes. He then that is not furnished in this sort Doth but usxirp the sacred name of Knight, Profaning this most honourable order." Henet YI. That these painters had great minds, intellects, and understandings, who can doubt? — mighty minds like the Shak- 192 PRESENT. speares and Miltons. "VVlien the immense knowledge, — both the positive as well as the imaginary and poetical knowledge, — required to paint such pictures is taken into consideration, there is every reason to suppose that these painters felt and understood much that the less compre- hending eyes of to-day cannot see, and that the understandings of modern painters cannot reach, « « « # « Rembrandt is the stillness of passion, fomenting in concealment. The dark, dreamy power and subdued passion of his o^vn mind worked; his ugliness has power to charm, which is the triumph of everything. He did not aim at repre- senting grace or beauty of form, but to express his own ideas and feelings; and he bids defiance to all conventional excel- PKESENT. 193 lence. His paintings are dreams made visible; "his angels are not Scriptural, 'and still less classical — but as unearthly as any of Dante's creations — compounds of light and darkness — somewhat between a thought and a thing — harassing the mind and memory like apparitions."* His Scriptural forms are uncouth and ungraceful, yet the figure of our Saviour raising Lazarus is the most subhme and higlily wrought of all the representations of our Saviour. In the " Nativity," Rem- brandt has better succeeded than any other painter in carrying the true and Scriptural feeling of the spirit of the Gospel to the mind of the spectator. He has depicted the lowly manger — the miserable, humble poverty of the countries * Mrs. Jameson. VOL. II. K 1 94 PRESENT. of Savoy and of the Valais — those wretched abodes of want, penury, and humility — and all the toils and penalties of poverty, in the dark abodes of the peasant of those districts, in a miserable climate, half snow and half darkness — such as is found in the northern ravines in the Alps, the habita- tions of which remind the passing traveller who visits those sad and cheerless abodes to set aside pride and pomp, and in its stead to place a life of resignation and abnegation. Only in that sad district of country is the reality of the Scripture spirit to be studied by the painter; else- where, he takes but the outside of the Scriptures, bound, decorated, embroidered, in favour of creeds and sects. There was another of Rembrandt's superb pictures at Ashdown — a painting- representing the prophet Eli, expounding PEESENT. 195 the Scriptures to the child, Samuel. The old prophet is represented sitting, having a full light falling on an Eastern robe trimmed -s^dth a grey fur ; the light like- wise falls on the table, which is covered ■with an embroidered carpet of divers threads and colours. The child, who is attentively learning from a book, wears a Persian dress, and has a sickly, pale look of premature learning and intellect. The old man is a severe and grave figure — a striking picture of a seer, or learned prophet, or father of the church — one of the family of the chosen tribes of Israel ; and the scene represents — " Wlicn the child stood by the great prophet's knee, And drank high thoughts to strengthen years to be." This gallery at Ashdown seemed to be a place formed for music — especially sacred music. All the furniture partook of the k2 196 PEE SENT. old ecclesiastical fashion; it had mostly been procured from the sacristies of old convents and monasteries. There were enormous tapestry chairs, ancient screens, carved reading-desks, missals, hour-glasses, all sorts of old musical instruments in vogue in the seventeenth century, when a nun often sung a madrigal or played on a mandoline. It was a gallery such as neither money nor civilization could pro- cure by modern wealth or improvement ; but that could only belong to a far-going- back pedigree of persons of taste and know- ledge in art — taste concurring with time which gradually had procured decorations of great value. It was therefore desirable to leave it with the character of its old keeping, showing the date of its origin, which was of the days of Eliza- PRESENT. 197 beth. An organist lived in the house. The ancient music of the old composers, as weU. as that of modern times, had been consulted, to make particular series of music, one suited to another. The service of the Greek church, Scarlatti's two hun- dred masses, MarceUo's psalms, the music of Pergolesi, and the modern compositions of Beethoven, Weber, Verdi, Schubert, and others, along with the music of the old English glees and madrigals, and what belonged to Shakspeare's plays, — were aU in use at Ashdown. All had been gone over ; what has been approved had been studied; and the music, some- times vocal, sometimes instrumental, was got up with that degree of perfection, that it was not every nerve that could bear its power. Two or more choruses, respond- 198 PRESENT. ing to each other, were often in use ; and it was remarked that all those pieces of music that gave pain were exactly those the most in request ; and that, provided a strong feeling was excited in music, that was all that was required. Miss Latimer did not like prosaic music, the flat, the indifferent, the constrained in music — however scientific, she rejected what is called reasoning music^ for nei- ther on the stage, either of language or of sounds, is reason or common sense re- quired. It is to be pardoned, and has power, if produced in snatches or in reci- tative ; but like a dull prosing person, it must not wear out its welcome. On these grounds, Mozart's music was not much in use at Ashdown, where it was called the music of arithmetic or numbers. PRESENT. 199 There was a little chapel below stairs at Ashdown, so small that it but just con- tained the few household servants that were collected there in the morning. Every Saturday and Sunday evenings, at nine o'clock, persons assembled in the galleries and the great hall underneath. There were prayers, and afterwards music, which lasted until every one had retired to rest. All the tenants had permission to come to the hall below the gallery, and the women of the household were in the up-stairs gallery. Music soon was well understood by the frequenters of the house. Sounds of music ! — what are they not ? We know what they are — emotion, feel- ing, passion of some sort or other ; to the unscientific, prosaic music is of none effect. Remembrance, regret, hope, terror, re- 200 PRESENT. morse, enthusiasm, joy, faith, glory, calm, repose, and sleep might all be pro- duced or aided by the sounds of music, or, on some natures, despair itself; for there are verses written by Mrs. Butler on a composition of Beethoven's* which she heard, and which verses * " Terrible music, wliose strange utterance Seem'd like a spell of some dread conscious trance ; Impotent misery, helpless despair. With far-off visions of things dear and fair ; Restless desire, sharp poignant agonies ; Soft, thrilling, melting, tender memories ; Struggle and tempest, and around it all The heavy muffling folds of some black pall, Stifling it slowly ; a wild wail for life. Sinking in darkness, — a short passionate strife. With hideous fate, crushing the soul to earth. Sweet snatches of some melancholy mirth, A creeping fear, a shuddering dismay. Like the cold dawning of some fatal day ; Dim faces gazing, hate in distant lands, Departing feet, and slowly severing hands ; Voices of love, speaking the words of hate, — The mockery of a blessing come too late ; Loveless and hopeless life ! with memory This curse, that music seemed to speak to me." PRESENT. 201 almost produce the despair second-hand. Music, however, is transient, evanescent, as lights and shadows are — transient as nature — transient as the lightning, the rambow, the wuid or the clouds. The sympathy that we have with sounds in nature, or -with sounds of joy and sorrow, lead to music — the monotonous inflexion of the breeze through the pine-forest leads to music — the moaning of the red- stemmed pine as it waves to the wind, like the plaintive lament of a soul in woe, leads to music — the roar of the winds or the waters, the winds howling as with a demon possessed, or a crew of evil spirits turned loose on the world, chasing, rejoicing, carousing — the fierce torrent, the Ma- zeppa of the waters, driving along, bearing down aU before it — the roar of the ocean k3 202 PRESENT. after the tempest is quelled and dead, boundless, endless, and sublime, as its echoes reverberate along the whole range of the shore, or the bay spotted with sea- gulls — the cawing of the rooks in an old avenue, near an old house, where age and infancy have succeeded each other, gene- ration after generation — the voices of the multitude applauding, cheering mth de- light — that same multitude changed, and become a reviling, hating, cursing, threat- ening multitude — savage and hateful sounds, like a crew of demons peopling the infernal regions, — these sounds lead to music — to recitative — to choruses of voices — to double and triple choruses of voices. Of what is not music capable, even on the uneducated, or on the roughest natures? It has this apart PRESENT. 203 from poetry or painting, that its eiFects are momentary. So it may be said are the scenes in nature — evanescent as the vapour, or the cloud, and is it not an epitome of ourselves? for are we not evanescent in our feelings as is the vapour or the cloud, and eventually so in our lives? But, if the impression is constantly renewed, the results may be lasting. Even the stern presbyterian cannot resist the power of music. Even the hardened man or woman of the world cannot resist the power of music. By the sound of the trumpet the multitude sacrifice their lives, its blast leads to victory or to death, and they rush forward to die. By the sound of the organ whole nations fall down to prayer ; these sounds lead to acquire glory, or to humble ourselves in the dust and 204 PRESENT. relinquish that same glory, and more, to relinquish aiFections, passions, home, liberty, and even life itself. We are still far behind-hand as to the powers of music, or to the perfection to which music may be brought. It might be so managed as to produce given results on the mind, con- solation or calm to the racked or torn spirit; or like the sleep, in Thomson's " Castle of Indolence," bring a forge tful- ness of calamity or suffering. Thomson thouo^ht that music mi^ht work anything, either for good or for evil. He says — " Entangled deep in its enchanting snares, The listening heart forgets all duties and all cares." And so it is often with theatrical or dramatic life. Who can deny the power of the service PEESENT. 205 of the Sixtine Chapel, the "Miserere" of Easter, at Rome? This service is intended to produce a state of repentance. It is true that the feehngs are too exalted and high wrought for earthly nature, and more suited to our spiritual nature — the sinking depression and suffering which that music occasions, the murmurings of the still worldly unbroken spirit against the state of repentance it is intended to pro- duce ; and when all is over, the awaken- ins asfain to a real world of business and care, and frivolity and foUy, to grope your way at fall of day through the dim twilight to the dull evening light, is a complete image of the Resurrection. Life then seems renewed, and earthly voices recall the soul to earthly cares again. The feelings brought on by the music 206 PRESENT. of the " Miserere" are too exalted to write about, and to some natures are too pain- ful to recall to the mind ; and what must not the power of such music have been in the rude ages of early Christianity, or in the ages of bigotry and superstition ? PRESENT. 207 CHAPTER XXIX. For two or three years musical choruses had been in use at Ashdown in all the vil- lages on Miss Latimer's estates, and great progress was now being made in singing at the Agricultural School at the other side of the country. Cecil had seen a great deal of Liszt, one summer, in Switzer- land, and the opportunity of a German composer of his school of music being in England, was one not to be neglected. He was to come to Ashdown, to improve and perfect these rural choristers, accord- ing to his o^vn notions as to what per- 208 PKESENT. fection miglit be brought the singing of a country population. The harvest-home this year was to be kept in October, and Cecil had long contemplated giving a rural fete, for the purpose of seeing the children of all the schools within reach brought together. One chorus was to be constructed for a harvest-home, dinners were to be given to the chil- dren in tents and barns, and food to the country people who came from a distance. The day began with the arrival of the girls from the farm- school, established ten miles off. Tliey were brought in waggons decorated with field flowers; each girl bringing a garland of field flowers, which was hung up in the barn where she dined. These children arrived, singing in parts, which was answered by PRESENT. 209 another school m a sort of recitative or chorus. Then another set of children sang a welcome, in a low key, under the trees near the house, and the artisans from the Downs village followed it up from the cedar avenue. The people dined in tents pitched for the occasion. The boys from the Agricultural School came in waggons decorated with corn, grasses, and branches of trees, &c., and when they walked down the hiU from the Downs to the avenue where the horses and waggons were all grouped or tied to the trees, it looked like a fair, seen in Dutch or Flemish paintings, by Paul Brill and Brughel ; the long line of children, and the men from the artisans' village near — the deep bass voices of the men, and the contrast of the tenors and basses — the decorated waggons — the glo- 210 PRESENT. rious old trees, with the animals, decked out for the occasion, grouped around — the loads of flowers, every person having a garland, or a nosegay, attached to their dress, and all the country people come from far to see and take part in this gay-looking scene — and the gardeners having dressed all the tents, and brought forth all the decoration and produce of the gardens of Ashdown, and those in the neighbourhood, for that day, which happily was a fine day ! The tents were provided with presents, for every cliild, of something that would be useful to them — agricultural instruments or arti- san's implements, or work materials. The groups of the poor, and the tenants, together with the lookers-on of the neigh- bouring ladies and gentlemen, made this day a most fair scene of English pros- PKESENT. 211 perity, and reminded the traveller or gazer, of those October vintages, in warmer climates, and in former peaceful times — (more peaceful times than the present) — when the peasants came in procession mth fruit and flowers, songs and dance. A grace was sang at the dinner, and then the harvest home, the words from Shakspeare : — " Earth's increase and foison plenty. Barns and gamers never empty : Vines with clustering branches growing, Plants with goodly burdens bowing ; Spring come to you, at the farthest, In the very end of harvest ! Scaxcity and want shall shun you — Heaven's blessing so is on you !" In the afternoon, all the country people and the children were shoAvn whatever could amuse or instruct them at Ash- down, and then all the children sang a 212 PRESENT. composition of Beethoven's to the organ in the gallery. A more beautiful sight could scarcely be seen than the gather- ing together of all these persons — chil- dren, country people, and artists, in the old hall and galleries, with the gloTving beams of the tinted windows falling on persons and paintings on that fine autumn day. All these persons then took their leave, singing " God save the Queen" in front of the house; and with a German Farewell, which the musician had adapted to English words, the chil- dren got into their waggons, singing the Farewell as they departed ; and its strains were heard, swelling out in full and pure harmony, until lost in the distance : " Voices and music, and tlie steed's slirill neigh, From tlie grey twiliglit dying more and more. Till over stream and valley, wood and far, Reign'd tlie sad silence, and tlie solemn star." PKESENT. 213 The German composer had arranged the vocal part, and Cecil the programme of this pretty fete, at which aU classes assisted, and which was remembered for many a long year in the country. The agricultural scholars had been by far the most perfect in their singing ; they had been instructed after the manner prac- tised at Leipsic, in bands of vocal chorus in the open air — the boys singing with the boys, the men with the men, sacred airs, national airs, and songs as of a re- joicing multitude. In the artisans' village on the Downs, they sang weU ; and if any person passed through that village at working hours, they might hear the song and the hammer going on together, and — " As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he to the mystic rhyme ; And the smith his irou measures hammered to the anvil's chime ; 214 PRESENT. Tliankiug God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom, In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom." The village of Downs was now the most beautiful village in England. It was a small village, haK hidden in the sylvan gloom of the yew-trees; each cottage constructed and ornamented so as to suit the convenience of the trade carried on mthin: as carpenter, blacksmith, baker, shoemaker, &c. Every third or fourth house had an architectural well, sur- rounded by square or circular parapets, as are often seen in the farm-yards in the south of Italy, having iron or stone cupolas ; each garden was laid out and planted in varied design ; some of the entrances to these gardens had horizontal high-raised copings, others with small roofs, or wooden PRESENT. 215 canopies over the gates. Some of the little gardens were in deep dingles amongst the roots of the yew trees — others were even with the road, outside, mth low walls which were sunk ; others with raised waUs supporting large earthen jars, containing taU or heavy plants, like the ornaments to the gardens in Tuscany. Some cottages had tool-sheds, bee-houses, covered with vines or creepers : and the whole village was laid out not only for picturesque effect, but for the comfort of the inhabit- ants of the cottages. Every house was different in its arrangement, . but many were clustered with flowers and fruit — none appeared as if they belonged to a city, to a watering-place, or to the out- skirts of a country town ; but seemed built solely with a view to pastoral or village Hfe, or for the business carried on by 216 PEESENT. the artisan, — all were set apart and inde- pendent. " 'Mid tlie multitude Of intervening stems, each glen or glade By its own self." There they stood, giving a solid notion of comfort, as well as a poetical notion of happiness, and a prosperous notion of the order with which all the affairs were con- ducted within those same habitations. Miss Latimer had four schools on her estates, without counting infant schools. These four schools, two for boys and two for girls, all worked on different princi- ples. The infant schools were managed on Pestalozzi's plan. Cecil was no friend to the torments of education, or to any learning more than was necessary for the station of life of the child educating ; there is much to be said against infant schools, PRESENT. 217 as well as in their favour ; it may keep the child out of harm's way, and its ab- sence may be of use to the labouring pa- rent ; on the other hand, the kindly feel- ing for the parent evaporates in the child by absence: and the influence of bad children over their companions is immense. Miss Latimer wished to inculcate in these infant schools a love of God, kindness to their neighbour, and the necessity of truth being spoken. The mistress of Ash- down wished to make the poor happ}' ; but neither too learned, nor too ambitious — for ambition in the higher walks of life is not happiness — the aiming at ambitious views is a terrible toil — " How baffled projects on the spirit prey, And fruitless wishes eat the heart away." Unsatisfied ambition spoils the mind and character even in the refined world of VOL. II. L 218 PRESENT. educated men and women — how much more in the lower walks of society, it is inconsistent with happiness! Cecil often came away from these infant schools recommending plenty of open air, and soap and water for the poor little things. She thought that a spirit of emulation was a very dangerous means of getting on in life, at any age, and that the question and answer system was still worse, for infancy and early youth ; the quick reply, the smart retort, the clever answer, bring on presumption — envy, hatred, and malice, filling their hearts and heads with bad passions ; and the boy or girl who succeeded the best in those answers was often the worst boy or girl of the whole set : whereas the quiet intel- lect, the shy or reserved character, was more likely to make a sensible member of PRESENT. 219 that class in life than the hero or heroine of sharp ansAvers. Cecil had, this last year, paid great attention to the schools herself; she saw that the children were not tor- mented by being over-taught, that what they learnt, they learnt well, and that what their understandings were not equal to, was not attempted; the faults not allowed to go unpunished, were all species of untruth, deceit, or dishonesty. The school-rooms were whitewashed rooms, the waUs covered with texts, prints, and poetry, hung up in all directions; there was a total absence of finery, or of any attempt at ornament. All these ideas owed their origin to the schools of Swit- zerland and Brittany, and setting the whole to work in England had been attended with difficulty, as weE as find- in o- persons to conduct the schools who L 2 220 PRESENT. could be made to understand the ultimate objects in view in educating the people. An agricultural school for boys, that was conducted on a well-farmed estate, was supposed to answer the best of any of these schools, owing to the masters at the head of the school takino; a stroncj interest in its welfare. Nothing was taught but reading, writing, the first rules of arithmetic, and as much geography as concerned gardening and agriculture — the two last-mentioned being the prin- cipal objects of instruction. The New Testament was read daily ; all sects were received, and the school was confined to the sons of farmers, gardeners, and labourers. Those who resided near came as day-scholars — those whose homes were distant resided in the house; each boy had an allotment of land, the produce of PRESENT. 221 whicli was sold at market; that he was instructed how to manage, and the ac- counts of which he kept ; and whatever was left, after defraying the expenses of cultiva- tion, and his food, clothing, and schooling, which he paid for out of his own farming, was placed as a fund for his education or his ultimate interest, subject to the will of Miss Latimer. The boys bought their own tools, cooked their own food, and kept the whole place in a state of order, cleanliness, and repair ; looked after every- thing; and the greatest economy, and even parsimony, were inculcated on prin- ciple in these children, who mostly con- sisted of poor persons who might never have but their daily bread in life, and not always be certain of having that. These children were inured to all weather ; nei- ther snow nor rain kept them within doors. 222 PRESENT. and in fine weather instruction went on in the fields. There was no examination of what the boys could do — occasional questions were answered on a slate; but generally facts were the answers, and failure or success in farming the rewards and punishments. In another part of the country was a school for trades. Near Ashdown, was a girls' school for in-door servants, and one, five miles ofl", for country-girls, out-of- doors maids, as farm-servants, dairy-maids, and for the daughters of laboui'ers, They were instructed to make their own clothes, to keep accounts, and all farming matters that come under the charge of women; and these 2:irls were tau2:ht tlie art of making a comfortable dinner from the field or garden, understood so well by the Continental peasantry, and hardly PRESENT. 223 known in England. These four schools ■were all well instructed in choruses, or singing in parts in the German manner ; and they constituted, with the assistance of the organist, the church singing in their different parishes. 224 PRESENT. CHAPTER XXX. "I reverence the individual wlio understands dis- tinctly what he wishes, who unweariedly advances ; who knows the means conducive to his object, and can seize and use them. . . . Most part of all the misery and mischief — of all that is denominated evil in the world — arises from the fact that persons are too remiss to get a proper knowledge of their aims ; or, when they know them, to work intensely in advancing them. They seem like people who have taken up a notion that they must and will erect a tower, and yet expend on the foundation not more stones and labour than woidd be sufficient for a hut." — Goethe. The day after the fete was a dull, wet day. Some of the family at Ashdown were in the galleiy. Mrs. Hope was drawing; Lord Ravensleigh was by the PRESENT. 225 fire, reading; Cecil was sitting for her picture for the last time ; and the artist was entreating the persons present to eno^ao^e her thouo^hts with something that could interest them, and not allow her to think that she was placed there to be painted. There was also present Mr. Stanley, who was a great deal at Ash- down, who knew the ways of the house and the persons who came there — a young man " who was never out of the way, and never in the way." " Here's a ridiculous letter," said Cecil, "from Mr. v., written in his laughing, extravagant style. He writes to me that, since I have taken not only to keep Sun- days so strictly at Ashdown, but the Jewish Sabbath also — as I gave him a choice of days, he and Mrs. V. will not come here until Monday." L 3 226 TRESENT. " What can he mean ?" said Lord Ravensleigh. " I think I can gaess," said Mr. Stanley — " if it be not sufficiently plain already. Mrs. V. is half a Gemian by birth, and a whole German in mind. Every year, when Parliament is up, they go oiF to the baths, or to Berlin, or Munich ; and there they remain until summoned again to England. Mrs. V. is a clever w^oman, but she is rather getting beyond her depth, and into that confusion of know- ledge that may be likened unto a tangled skein of silk; both of them are become very sceptical, and gone German mad as to science and art; and a Christian English Sunday puts them out." " I have this moment in my hands a review of a book of Carlyle's on that very subject," said Lord Ravensleigh; "and PRESENT. 227 as it is extremely well written, I will read it to you : — " ' The most unchristian and worst-kept sabbath in Europe is in Protestant Ger- many — ill kept by all descriptions of persons. The lower ranks labour and toil in the fields, and in their several trades or occupations, far into the Sun- day, as Hamlet says: ' The sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week.' Few of the tradespeople or poor persons attend any form of worship; they take walks in the fields, and smoke, if they are not, like Faust, accompanied by a Satanic attendant. The joys of smoking keep their tempers calm; and all who can procure money enough pass the next day, Monday, in eating and drinking, and rest 228 PRESENT. from the late hours of the Sunday night's sitting up.' " In the upper ranks, the scenes of gambling of a Sunday, along with the numerous lookers-on, who, although they may not themselves play, take a great interest in these gambling concerns, make Sunday the great day of attraction, plea- sure, and amusement, at Baden-Baden, Carlsbad, Wisbaden, &c., and show what a German's notion of a Sunday is. Car- lyle says ' that these Sundays, in Ger- many, have the curse of labour in addition to the joys of fools.' Even those English- men whose eyes and minds are most innured to London and Paris, think with dislike of the gambling scenes that they are driven in contact with in these places. " In another part of this book of Car- PRESENT. 229 lyle's, there is a passage concerning the state of society in that country which is a good lesson to us in England. " ' Germany has now proved what Ger- many has long been — erecting talent and learning into idolatry, making a contro- versy of every question, discoursing of religion as of law or learning, making religious questions as if they were points of philosophy or speculation, separating theology from religion, expounding faith as one of the sciences, intruding their want of religious faith on those who do not want to hear them, and studying the Bible as an exercise in argument or phi- losophy; destitute of love towards God, they believe not in the sprinkling of the blood of Christ on the heart ; and strangers to prayer, they scruple not to tread with 230 PRESENT. daring footsteps, and gaze with profane eyes, on ground forbidden, where ' Fools rush in wliere angels fear to tread.' " ' The deadening influence of German hard study on spiritual life is now begin- ning to be felt in Prussia,* Bavaria, and the cities of the Rhine. Questions are discussed that have no hold on men's consciences, and as easily changed as talked of. Every phenomenon is fair game, and the spirit of God and the spirit of science are one and the same to a German ; and as sentiment without morals ruins the unlearned, so intellect without faith, and knowledge mthout worship, ruins the learned philosopher.' " This is not an exaggerated picture as to the state of feeling with regard to Sun- * This book was published some years ago. PRESENT. 231 day in Germany," said Lord Ravensleigh. " In other countries, you may keep away from any scenes or society that you do not like to mix in; but in the German towns, and at all the baths, you are never out of the noise of the gambling-tables, or can never get clear of the crowds of lookers-on that they attract. The whole of the rest of Carlyle's book is as true and as forcible on the subject of Germany ; and, as he says, ' the theorist in religion is just as hostile to it as if he were the most hardened siimer.' " " I am in favour of a catholic Sunday, as I have seen it kept in some catholic countries, and not of a Lutheran Sunday," said Mr. Stanley. " You know that in Queen Elizabeth's days, and in the reign of Charles L, Sunday was the great day for theatrical amusements. In the south 232 PRESENT. of Europe the catholic beghis the day with religious services, and then he amuses himself without the assistance of gin, brandy, or smoking, according to his means, mind, and fancy. You know the old German adage of the seventeenth century — in great request in Switzerland — which says, ' Lutheran, Popisli, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three, Are extant ; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.' " " You are too liberal," said Lord Ra- vensleigh; "whole kingdoms exist on forms and ceremonies, which are the re- presentation of its religious faith?" " That is true," said Mr. Stanley, " but the character and morality of the indi- vidual exist on his inward feelings, apart from forms, and it is the improvement of PRESENT. 233 those inward feelings that the preacher should aim at." " It seems to me," said Mrs. Hope, " that now, no one takes religion as it is — every one wants to mend it." " Don't you remember," said Cecil, "Wordsworth's answer to Coleridge? Coleridge writes to him, and asks him whether he really is a Christian ? Words- worth says, ' When I am a good man, then I am a Christian.' " " There is no knowing," said Lord Ra- vensleigh, what that good man may mean." " It looks very weU on paper," said Mr. Stanley. " I don't quite agree with you," said Cecd; " I am not sure it does look well on paper ; but in fact, it is everything ; how- ever, defend us from points of doctrine and controversy." 234 PRESENT. " In that I entirely agree with you," said Lord Eavensleigh. " Don't you remember Madame de Sevigne?" said Mrs. Hope ; " one day, when some Jesuits and Jansenists were hot in argument, she called out, ' Spare me points of subtlety and doctrine, I entreat you — my religion is a spirit which wUl evaporate, if too much analysed.' " " That is the religion of half the world, particularly of persons of quick feelings," said Miss Latimer ; " human nature is too weak-minded, and life is too short, and reason will not do without faith, and faith wUl not do without Wordsworth's defini- tion ! And so we will return from where we set out — to Sundays in England — about which it is very difficult to know what to do in large country houses, if you wish both to do what is right by those staying in your PRESENT. 235 house, and by yourself, and at the same time to benefit those belonging to the kitchen and the farm, whose notions of religion always turn towards the dis- senters. Many years ago, I settled in my own mind that I never would have prayers on Sunday evenings for my household. When I saw the little respect paid to prayers in large country houses, when the assembling of the family became a show- room for dress and observation, where the household acquired an accurate know- ledge of gowns and trinkets, and when, the instant prayers were over, one's OAvn visitors resumed their gossip with fresh energy, after being for a short time de- prived of it, I thought it full as well let alone — a mere outward show, that led to little good. I have since altered my mind, and now do perfect justice to those 236 PRESENT. persons who have persevered in this prac- tice, seeing all its evils perhaps just as strongly as I did myself. " Often and often when I have been sit- ting alone in this gallery, I have thought of the lives that my ancestors led within these very walls, how many prayers have been uttered here, and in that very spot. By that window the sick lady, or the stout lord, had continually the monk or the priest with them, in daily intercourse with their children and dependents. How many wishes and hopes, prayers and pater- nosters, have been sent to Heaven from this place in which we are now sitting? That here were so many virtues cultivated of faithfulness and loyalty — that here they adhered steadfastly to their faith and alle- o^iance to God and to man, that if the faith was a mistaken faith, at least it was PRESENT. 237 fall of the virtues of kindness and charity ; and then, when I think of the present times, I feel what a frippery, trifling, wavering generation we now are; and that the best that can be done with the present race is to quiet their minds, and turn the minds of all those we can influ- ence to purposes of utility and useful- ness. '* When I first came here," continued Cecil, " that visionary picture opposite had an old tattered curtain of past mag- nificence that drew across it; and from journals and letters belonging to the family, I discovered that that picture was considered the most precious thing in the house, that ahnost idolatrous worship was paid to it by the women of the family, that the lady's eyes, in her sorrows, had rested on it, and penetrated as if into 238 PRESENT. other regions, into other worlds.* If I think that the worship was a mistaken worship, something ought to be placed in- stead of it in these same walls; and then it was that I resolved to have Sunday * Engraved on tlie frame of a picture of the Assump- tion, by Guido, were tlie following lines from Dante, (" Purgatorio," 30 — 31,) — and thus translated by a modern poet: " Even as the Blessed in the new covenant Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave. Wearing again the garment of the flesh ; So, upon that celestial chariot, A hiindred rose ad vocem tanti senis — Ministers and messengers of life eternal : They all were saying, ' Benedictus qui venis,' And scattering flowers above and round about, ' Manihus O date lilia plenis' I once beheld at the approach of day, The Orient sky all stained with roseate hues. And the other heaven, with light serene adorned, And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, So that by temperate influence of vapoxirs. The eye sustained his aspect for long while ; Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers. Which from those hands angehc were thrown up, And down descended, inside and without, Stood our blessed Mother." PRESENT. 239 evenings properly kept, and to have sacred music until every one had gone to rest; but driving persons into religion does no good — it must come from the feelings — and I make no objection to any one shut- ting the doors and remaining in the next room, if they prefer doing so, instead of joining in the service of the evening." "And," inquired Lord Ravensleigh, " what made you determine upon what V. calls your Jewish Sabbath?" " After prayers on Saturday night, I have the best Italian music that can be procured or managed here. The uses that music may be placed to are various ; but that is a wide subject to enter on, and quite another matter. Music has served me for refining, humanizing, and softening a number of persons without charlatanerie or deceit. Saturday evening cannot be 240 PRESENT. better employed ; think of the number of idle persons under such a roof as this? also, many come from the villages to the hall underneath, that they may hear the organ or the singing — leaving the public- houses, and behaving in a quiet and orderly manner, without molestation to myself or my friends." " ' There is no person living," said the artist, " who cannot be dealt with in some way or other, or has not their sentimental turn, if you can find it out. It is the point on which they are the tenderest, and music will make its way on the roughest, hardest, most savage nature." " You are perfectly right," said Miss Latimer; " every one is sentimental about something. One looks do'wn at the ^aolets, another up at the stars ; one per- son about their dog, another about their PRESENT. 241 daughter. Tliat is the feeling to lay hold of. I cannot write poetry, but I would willingly turn a poetical feeling into active utility." " Oh," said Mrs. Hope, " you are now saying what the French novelists say : it is that that makes the romance or novel which can terminate but with life, and that the French school of romancists insist on being in aU human nature." " I think I rememember something in Victor Hugo," said Mr. Stanley, " that the beautiful is the priest of the benevo- lent ; in the present case we wiU make it the priestess, which sounds better." " You are all a great deal too high- flown for me," rejoined Lord Ravens- leigh, "or I am too matter-of-fact for you; but if by all this you understand giving the poor a taste for light, good VOL. II. M 242 PRESENT. air, cleanliness, and a love of order in their habitations and concerns, I am mlling to be as poetical as any of you." "And," said Cecil, "after you have provided them with food, give them a taste for flowers, music, and sacred poetry; teach them that they have souls." " But remember first to procure them food," said Mr. Stanley; "we are told that the destiny of nations depends on how they are fed ; you may judge things thus, from the vulture on the mountain- top to the son and heir coddled in the nursery, by their food — from the hungry tiger, called man, in La Plata, prowling about in quest of food, to the lazy Neapo- litan, asleep in the sun after his dish of maccaroni. Tell me what you eat, and PRESENT. 243 I'll tell you what you are. And food must be had; the human frame feels a gratitude for food, which by no means excludes that of the heart. " How long this conversation might have gone on there is no kno^ving, for con- versations on dull wet days do last for ever, and often are as duU as the day; but it was interrupted by Mr. Adair, the member for the county, who came to make his own and Mrs. Adair's excuse for not having been able to come to the fete of the preceding day. " I am afraid you are very wet, Mr. Adair?" said Cecil in a civil tone. "It is, indeed, terrible weather," he answered; "and I rode round by the farms at the watered meadows; those farms are in surprisingly beautiful order; and, wonderful to say! the people about M 2 244 PRESENT. there make no complaints! How are those farms managed, Miss Latimer?" "I really do not know," said Cecil, foreseeing the introduction of an endless agricultural discussion ; " not understand- ing farming myself, I seldom interfere about them, but I believe all goes on well." Mr. Adair then turned to Lord Ravensleigh. " Have you looked to-day at the Times? This despotic measure, hinted at in D 's letter, alarms me; I don't like it at all. What is your opinion, my lord?" " I don't see any cause for alarm, Mr. Adair ; such an event as is there alluded to, could only be brought about by a wise administration, and an administra- tion of long continuance, and our present PRESENT. 245 government gives me no uneasiness what- ever." Foiled in a conversation on agriculture, and rebuffed as an alarmist, Mr. Adair gave Cecil the letter he had brought from Mrs. Adair, and while she read it, he began a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Hope on the subject of the fete of the day before. Mr. Adair had been for many years member for the county of ; his ap- pearance was that of a good-natured man, with the bright and clean look of the Englishman who wears a good coat and a good hat, and who would respectably represent a populous and flourishing county. Besides his midland property, he was the rich proprietor of very pro- ductive Cornish lead mines ; and to make use of a French mtticism, he had " Tin- 246 PRESENT. telligence de sa mine," joined to "la mine de son intelligence." When he began his parliamentary career, he spoke seldom, listened atten- tively, had a good memory for times and dates, and being well acquainted Avith the printed history of Europe, was what was called a useful man; but unfortunately, the times were changed, and the present times puzzled Mr. Adair's intellects — he was not equal to them; and now he had taken, or rather, had been urged on by Mrs. Adair to take, a wish to distinguish himself in the history of his country. He lived in a difficulty of conflicting opinions and apprehensions, and was con- stantly changing those opinions. No one could for a moment doubt Mr. Adair's good intentions, as to doing the best for the occasion. He sincerely intended to PRESENT. 247 act well; he voted every way and with all parties — voted always with his con- science — and was constantly blamed by his constituents; he, however, during the last year had belonged steadily to the present ministry, and was considered for the moment as one of them. Mr. Adair was the representative and t}^e of all common -place English opinions; his present of&cial friends tried them on him before giving them to the public, and the county member was not aware that in his ministerial office he held the place of the wooden figure in the shop, upon which the clothes are tried on before sending home. In private life, Mr. Adair was a good father of a numerous family of sons and daughters, and much too indulgent a husband to a wife who was distinguished 248 PRESENT. for her affectation and absurdity. The travers and ridicules of both father and mother saved the children from all pre- tension; the sons were popular, the daughters did not take after " the mother who bore'd 'em." Mr. Adair owned the large property that joined Miss Latimer's, about eight miles off, on the outskirts of the forest : she saw the family often, liked the young sons and daughters, did not mind Mrs. Adair's folly, and would have seen them oftener, but that Mr. Adair wearied her to that degree that she took herself to task for having so little patience with one who meant so perfectly well. Cecil received him cordially, but took leave of him with delight ; he was an un- scrupulous, cruel, and remorseless ques- tioner ; his memory as tenacious and accu- PRESENT. 249 rate about the death of one of Mrs. Adair's spaniels as about that of Mr. Pitt or Mr. Fox. Mr. Adair knew but little, but what he once knew, he neither forgot himself, nor let others forget ; and latterly he had taken to hold forth on abstruse points — " And when engaged in controversy, He made the stoutest yield to mercy." Cecil used to say, that when Mr. Adair looked at a picture, he never could dis- tinguish between a foreground and a back- ground, and that a Chinese representation was the same to him as a Raphael ; this disposition went throughout : every httle trifle became as important and overpower- ing in the general perspective as the great objects ; so was life to him, like Chinese m3 250 PRESENT. perspective — every little point and dot as large as the grander objects. In Mr. Adair's eyes, Miss Latimer was one of the wonders of the world; he could not refuse doing justice to her, but from not the least comprehending her character he had a great awe of her understanding, It was true that when Mr. Adair talked to Cecil, a kind of sleepiness came over her, from a want of conformity in their characters, from which she would rouse herself, by saying something extremely sharp and more severe than it was in her nature to do. Although Mr. Adair was a rich man, none of his undertakings in the county were attended with the success that at- tended Miss Latimer's; it was a subject of constant wonder to him, how a woman could succeed in anything out of her draw- PRESENT. 251 ing-room, dressing-room, or flower-garden ; she puzzled him terribly, and he said with the old song— " "Tis not lier sense, for sure in that There's nothing more than common ; And all her wit is only chat, Like any other woman." On the subject of Miss Latimer, Mr. Adair would hold forth without coming to any conclusion, but always ending thus : It is extraordinary — I cannot make it out ! He forgot to notice that Cecil went the straight road she had in view, to some de- termined end ; that in matters of business she never stooped to gather up the twigs and flowers on the way-side ; that in her eyes business was business, not amuse- ment ; that she looked on the improvement of persons and things as the taxes, duties, and financial measures of the government 252 TRESENT. of her property and people, and she never entered into discussions on those subjects but with a few persons whose opinion she looked up to. Mr. Adair overlooked Miss Latimer's steadiness in bringing things slowly and gradually to what she had in view — he would change and demur, and turn round, and pause, and temporize, while, like, the Princess in the " Arabian Tales," she walked straight up the mountain, having once discovered, at the bottom of the hill, the pathway, amid briers, thorns, and thistles, without regard to those who called to her to stop and loiter by the way. Mrs. Adair's prosperity in life was a topic on which her husband often held forth. What she herself called her success in life^ had been owing to her various ab- surdities ; she was a woman made for the I PRESENT. 235 artificial climate of London ; she was full of a rapid gossip, short phrases, silly viva- city, and — be the truth told — little lies ; but they were very little lies. She did not intend to be false or untrue ; but, some- how or other, she found that they came more naturally to her than the truth — her untruths were the mere untruths of vul- garity of mind. Her outre dress struck the eye — it could not pass unobserved — her never-ending talk struck the ear, but with a sharp shrill sound, which worried the nerves, and moved all — except the heart : that was closed against its efi'orts, which never knew rest; her language was a strange jargon, gathered from shreds and ends of chance-reading. Some persons thought that Mrs. x4.dair was a clever woman of the world, who knew what she was about — others laughed outright ; but 254 PRESENT. Mrs. Adair was thick-skinned, and took all in good part; she had a determina- tion in her character worthy of a better cause than that of knowing everyone, and of being seen everywhere ; she belonged to the treadmill of public life, and her mind was not one that for a moment felt the weariness of it, or recoiled from constant publicity. After all, we abuse and laugh at pretensions, yet pretensions animate life — reality is soon said and done, — we love and esteem it, but there would be nothing to do in the great world, the factitious world, but to ya^vn, if it were not for pretensions — and pretensions gene- rally verge towards the ridiculous. Mrs. Adair had been handsome, but that time had gone by, many a long year — { he thought herself charming, dressed like a PRESENT. 255 crorofon : she thouo:ht herself ao-reeable because — "Full of tongue, and weak of brain, We yield to the stream of talk." Yet " the ridiculous" is not detrimental to its possessor ; setting aside the opinions of the few who love truth and reality, it is amusing to all within whose observa- tion it comes; that it forms the happiness and makes the reputation of those who are gifted with it is proved by their love of exhibiting it; it fascinates like the rattlesnake; its presence is indicated by gaiety of feeling, exaggerated dress, strange language, odd manners. All is successful! And why? Because one is wearied of the beaten track, and any bye -paths are sought, which promise amusement to those who care for laughter, or are in search of a story. 256 PRESENT. Mrs. Adair had won the gold medal for the ridiculous, and boldly exhibited the prize ; her husband looked at it ; but he was near-sighted, and took it for the Order of Merit. The following was Mrs. Adair's letter to Miss Latimer: — " Eose Castle, Wednesday. " My ever dear Miss Latimer will, I am sure, have felt for my absence from the fete of yesterday, at her superb and tasteful residence, where a magnificent patrimonial domain is so in harmony with her known schemes of benevolence and wide-spread charitable hospitality. Many, many may be the renewals of these scenes of festivity in the gorgeous saloons and glowing gardens of Ashdown, where the splendour of her ideas is so in har- PRESENT. 257 mony with the grandeur of her dona- tions. I am sure you will have pitied me for not having been able to attend my young people there, who returned home in delight with their day. But, my dear Miss Latimer, duties, and old poHtical friendships in the present perilous posi- tion of public affairs, must be attended to before all other pleasures ; and Mr. Adair wiU tell you how long, how very long we have been priez'd and engaged to the dear Duchess. " Would that I could have divided myself between the green gazons of Ash- down and the intellectual philosophy and pohtics of Grandborough, or that I could have been like a bird — in two places at once ; but alas, alas, we are mortals ! " We have had a most agreeable party — the flow of reason with the feast of 258 PRESENT. soul; mostly a political Jjarty; and the gathering together of the old patrician families of , and of , (though, alas! poor Lord John looks sadly, and Lord Foxcote is not in the best and sweet- est of humours, and Lady Bamsley rather sharp in her manners,) was very delightful to look at. "I never enjoyed a party more; they all seemed aware of my dear husband's merits, and how he gives himself up for the good of his country. I must say I never saw a man more respected or attended to ; even the old German philo- sopher, Melicephorus, and the young poet, Mr. Littlehailes, paid me every sort of compliment upon his unconunon powers of combining so many contradictory plans to be brought forward as are to be tried this session. PRESENT. 259 " I feel these long-continued friendsliips and valuable indulgences live sweet in the endearments of memory, and that the scythe of Time has spared him for fresh parliamentar}^ triiunphs, and given many an hour of added pleasure to his and my numerous friends. I had not been at Grandborough for many years; it is a glorious place, with a host and hostess able and willing to minister on a grand scale to the pleasure of their inmates; and a renewal of my girlish recollections was a brightening ray to me of past happy times of youthful feelings. Before I con- clude, I must tell you how opportunely dear Princess Yolkonski sent me from Paris a chapeau a petit bords, and a go-^vn of exquisite taste. The hat has a good deal of clinquant in steel, (for since California, gold is gone quite out of 260 PRESENT. fashion.) There is a feather edged with steel, and place left for one's diamonds. The gown is embroidered in a sautee de perles a la printaniere; it is decolte^ with sleeves a la presidents^ and a herthe of steel and pearls. " Never was anything so lucky as their arrival, as all the peers and peeresses ad- mired them ; and I was feted to distrac- tion, both about my looks and dress. " I beg a most specific remembrance to the intellectual and accomplished Mrs. Hope; and as I have to" linger with duties as well as pleasures to-day at home, I must conclude — happy in the means of addressing you through Mr. Adair; and, believe me, my dear Miss Latimer, " Yours very sincerely, " Maria Adair." PRESENT. 261 " P.S. — 1 do not believe that as yet you have called on our new neighbour, the bride, Lady Georgiana Bentley; at least she told me, the other day, that you had not done so. Marriages, you know, my dear Miss Latimer, are made in heaven; and this seems to be one that secures every prospect of reasonable happiness. I was surprised to find the bride, for nineteen, on so very large a scale ; she would be handsome if her teeth did not stick out, but the mind is all glorious within; and as all Mr. Bentley's friends agree in thinking him so uncommonly weak, with great wealth he may well be termed a happy man, in having met with so superior a young person." 262 LETTERS FROM CHAPTER XXXL " Love thou tliy land, with love far bought, From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Through Future time by power of thought. Love that endures not sordid ends, For Enghsh natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers ; and immortal souls." Tennyson. LETTER FROM IMES. HOPE TO MR. SELWYN. " I WROTE to you yesterday, giving you an account of the fete, and how fortunate we had been in the weather and in the manner it has gone off.* I I * This letter does not appear. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 263 little thought that twenty-four hours after I should have to send you a letter full of mournful and melancholy details. To-day began at Ashdown all cheerful- ness and sunshine. Breakfast, at Ash- down, is the prettiest hour in the world, and ill prepares one for disagreeable letters. You have not seen Queen Anne's Room since it has been restored, and you can have no idea of its beauty — of the refined and foreign look of its decorations and furniture, the scenes of festivity represented in the pictures on its walls, the look-out to the sunny flower-gardens, and across the fountains, and stone basins, and gay parterres, over slopes and terraces, to the woods below, and the little round tables for four or five persons to breakfast together, and everything on those tables so perfect in 264 LETTERS FROM its way. This 'room is such a contrast to the stuck-out look of most breakfast- rooms, with their long dinner-tables drawn out, and sideboards, as if for a public meeting, as they have it in England, and that, too, at ten o'clock in the morning, when one's eyes are scarcely open, and when one hardly yet knows whether one is going to be in a good humour, or not; there is something so ridnte in this room, that I have seen the gloomiest tempers cheer up under its in- fluence. " As I said before, the day began all cheerfulness and gaiety ; every one seemed in good spirits this morning, and Mr. Stanley proposed to sign a round-robin, with a verse tacked to each name, expressive of the agreeable fortnight that the party had passed, A COUNTRY HOUSE. 265 and present it to Cecil. The musician was preparing to improvise the scene of Tuesday's festivity on the piano-forte, and Mr. R had an enormous sheet of paper, where he was scrawling away a round-robin in a beautiful sketch, when Mr. Conyngsby said, " ' Cecil, I am really proud to call you cousin ; what an excellent queen you would make.' " ' Not at all a good queen,' she said ; ' and what is more, I should not like to be a queen.' " ' Oh, but you would!' said Mr. Conyngsby ; ' all women love power, and few would exercise that power as well as you would do; remember Anne Boleyn in Shakspeare, " I would not be a queen — no, not for all the riches under heaven ; I swear again, I would not be a queen VOL. II. N 266 LETTERS FROM for all the world." You would not be !i queen! I tell you, Cecil, you would like to be a queen ; and you would make an excellent queen.' " ' I assure you, my dear Evrard, that I should not make a good queen; and I often find my situation, even as your cousin, a mc:-j responsible one than I quite like ; and I live in fear that fancy, taste, or indolence, lay powerful hold on me, drawing me aside from doing what I know to be right ; for as we come on in life, we come on to know what is right ; but if you talk of power, I am a much more despotic queen than Queen Victoria. I have what you political economists call, in your fine language, the unity of a directing principle; I am entirely a des- potic sovereign ; I have no parliament to consult and mollify; I have no national debt — that is long ago paid oiF; I have A COUNTKY HOUSE. 267 neither a ]\Iaiicliester, a Birmingham, or a Glasgow, to keep in order; I trade at home in my own dominions, as far as I can do so ; above all, I have no Ireland ; I have no colonies to lose ; my ministers are not worried, worn out, or at death's door with anxiety or in a struggle with impos- sibilities ; and Miss Latimer iconH have it is a more determined speech than any from the throne, or even a moi le roi; my dominions are all within reach of a rail- road or of a morning drive ; and if things have not gone smoothly always, they are at last beginning to work, and show results that are, on the whole, satisfac- tory. I am quite as much of a queen, my dear cousin, as I wish to be; but when I am a queen, you shall be prime minister.' " Mr. Conyngsby, however, was not n2 268 LETTERS FROM convinced, but he answered, ' I have no chance against Godolphin;' and the post that moment came in, interrupted the conversation, and brought with it that most sad piece of news that ere now you are acquainted with. I shall not attempt to tell you the concern and affliction that it has given in this house, for you are aware of the attachment and regard with which several of the party here looked up to Mr. Godolphin; pri- vately and publicly they mourn his loss, and feel a grief for him that I cannot say. They all describe his character as so perfect a character, his loss so im- mense a loss, each severally as a friend, so irreparable a loss to the country at large. " Cecil has desired me to send you, to read, the letter that she has received to- day from Mr. Egerton, which I enclose," &c. &c. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 269 LETTER FROM MR. EGERTON TO IMISS LATBIER. " Dear Miss Latbeer, — In deep sorrow for the event which has deprived us all of such a friend as we have lost, I recollect that you and one or two others under your roof are amongst those who avlU most deeply deplore his loss, and immediately on getting home I lose no time in writing to lament and condole with you upon it. " His whole life had been one of active benevolence, he never spared himself when any benefit that he thought of conse- quence to others was in view, but used unceasing exertion in doing good; and that one so much wanted should be taken away after a two days' and seemingly shght illness — a man in perfect health, so prosperous and happy in his domestic Hfe — 270 LETTERS FEOM that he should be called away from a world where the ascendancy of such a mind can ill be spared, does make one wonder though submit to the decrees of Providence, for who is there left to fill his pla ce ? " I was at Broomsgrove about a week ago, and settled to return there as yester- day on some business. You know that I am neither a fanciful nor a superstitious man, and yet I had a feeling as I came near the house that all was not right. In general there is a good deal of animation in the park; country people backwards and forwards, herds of cattle, and when near to the house favourite animals, and in fine weather some of the family always about, for he lived with all the stir of active life around him, and kept a sort of patriarchal home for them all. A COUNTRY HOUSE. 271 " The day was gradually becoming night as I rode up the park, the excessive clearness and silence of the evening, the transmission of sounds mixed up with the feeling of repose of the stillness of the end of a long day, as if everything had gone to rest in this world, and the long streaks of light in the sky, and orange and purple of a reflected sunset gave the only gleams left of daylight. " I cannot say why, but it reminded me of the end of all things, and a solemn and sacred feeling came over me. I thought of the few years we vegetate here on earth, and how the passing into oblivion is lik6 the end of such a day ; and the business that I came to talk over, somehow or other, sank in importance and estimation in my own mind as I rode slowly on. " On arriving at the house, just enough I 272 LETTERS FROM of daylight remained for me to see that the whole house was closed — windows and doors. It immediately occurred to me that either the family were gone away, or that there had been a death ; but the pos- sibility of such a calamity as had hap- pened never entered my head. I sent the servant round to a back door, the man looked pale and confused on his return, but nothing inteUigible could I extract from him. I then went round the house, and at a small door leading down steps into a garden, several tall black figures were assembled, but it was then getting so dark that who and what those figures were I could not well distinguish ; but the still- ness, and quiet, and low-speaking of those persons made me at once say, ' Who is dead here!' The answer I received can never be erased from my mind. My poor A COUNTRY HOUSE. 273 friend had breathed his last but a short time previously to my coming. He had been ill but tAvo days, had been sur- rounded by his family, and had shoAvn that fortitude in death that he had ever done in life. " Presently arose distinct upon the still air the deep tolling of the passing-bell, which sounded close and near from the little village at hand. The knell of the departure of a soul going forth to meet its Maker — that soul that so short a time before had lived our life, shared our sor- rows, ambitions, defeats, griefs, and joys ! — there arose a feeling in me that the world had passed away, but that still there remained an earth to conquer and a heaven to be sought. " It was now quite dark, and an old servant, seemingly weighed down with n3 274 LETTERS FROM grief and sorrow, came out and entreated ine to come into one of the lower rooms and rest myself; but I had no heart to enter that house, where all of active, energetic and stirring political life had been so often canvassed, discussed, and carried on ; and the lights, one by one ap- pearing in the windows of the little village at no great distance, I went there, and soon retraced my steps homewards. " When I think of who and what we have lost, I feel it more every hour. He was not one of your cold-hearted frozen formalists, but a man who lived in all the simplicity of a true-born Englishman, no kinder or better friend under his o^vn roof, yet with a spirit that enabled him to be the defender of rights, to be the caUer- out of the oppressor, able to fight the battle with the strong, and to storm the A COUNTRY HOUSE. 275 fortresses of the crafty and deceitful; understanding the legal rights of the people and of the crown better than any man. One who possessed the power of winning the attachment of every one who knew him; knowing all classes, and all manner of hfe ; the plain and the moun- tain-top were to him as familiar spots. He did justice to aU good, and was never led away by evil on the road to good; and ever in public life the arbiter of wrongs, and the person whom all looked up to in cases of emergency. "If ever there Avas a patriot, it Avas Godolphin, for what is patriotism but a disdain of personal advantages for the benefit of others — an abnegation of am- bitious views to be useful, and a war asfamst the sinful nature of ambitious politics? He always had in view that 276 LETTERS FROM increasing circle of good that spreads far and wide, and knows no limits, and is not pent up in narrow and egoistical politics. Life had been with him a matter of grand purposes for good, of mighty things to be assisted or carried out — a life of solemn and awful responsibility. The insincere, the timid, the frivolous, on serious occa- sions, he could not away with. He never treated serious matters as trifles, or made trifles his serious business." A COUNTRY HOUSE. 277 CHAPTER XXXII. LETTER FROM MRS. HOPE TO MR. SELWTN. " This mournfiil death has broken up the party here. Lord Ravensleigh is gone to London, leaving his children here, and Cecil asked Mr. Conjmgsby to write to those persons invited to Ashdown, to put them off; 'for,' she said, 'had we neither sorrow nor regret, we cannot show too much respect to the memory of him who is gone.' " Cecil is sadly cast down at this event ; she proposed to me to take a walk with 278 LETTERS FROM her to some distance, for she said that she could neither attend to any occupa- tion, nor settle her mind to any thought. We walked to the Forest Lodge, and when she got out she seemed better; she said, ' I do love the forest and the walks in it better than anything else in the world ! I feel so glad, in moments like the present, to have a forest to walk in ; the free open country, and the free air, instead of the ornamented and con- strained. The whole of life sometimes passes in procession before one, of good and evil faces and figures — passes by in one's mind and imagination, and then one takes an utter disgust to the world, and the constrained. I do love the forest; the wild natural forms of the trees, the broken branches, the mosses and insects, the rugged and broken fore- A COUNTRY HOUSE. 279 grounds, the wild flowers; the fern among the stones and torrents, even the black pools of water, the limpid waters, dark with the shadow of the trees, I would not exchange for the clearest most beautiful lake in the world ! I love it all— ' And all that promising and calm smile We see in Nature's face when we look patiently.' How the birds of the forest are singing to-day ! as if there was neither sorrow nor death, nor aching hearts in this world ! — there goes the squirrel out of the fern, and there is the rustling of the raven's wing, inunediately above, in the sky! This death, dear Catherine, is a terrible death ! and I have latterly lost so many friends, associates, and persons I knew and liked, (though not, indeed, such a 280 LETTERS FROM loss as this is,) that these lines come home to me sadly : ' Dim shadows flit along tlie streams of time, Like the wizard's ryme. We call the dead, And 'tis but the dead that answer us.' "She then told me much about Mr. Godolphin : ' Oh, he is such a loss to us all,' she said — ' such an incalculable loss in all ways; his friendship is such a loss, and his character was such an example to others ! And then his plans for future years — everything cut short and finished by an unlooked-for death ! The thought of so many unterminated plans of good, and of his being called to another state of existence before half his work is done, is sad, indeed; the thought of it casts one utterly down, and makes one feel utterly helpless; his was a character that at times looked more aloft than A COUNTRY HOUSE. 281 around ; he looked on politics as a science which was to promote the welfare of multitudes, and what a loss is such a character as his was to liis country, and indeed, to the world at large, for his was not a near-sighted view of human nature, and his sympathy was not only with iudividuals, but with masses; he looked upon politics as if it were a charge or duty as to the happiness of multi- tudes, combining it, as much as could be, with fidelity to opinions and to friends ; and he did not take the world as an exciting game of mere chance and skill, that he who plays best wins the game.' " Cecil then told me all that had hap- pened, last year, when Mr. Godolphin was at Ashdown, and then went on to describe him — ' I do not say that he had not pre- judices, but those prejudices had nothing 282 LETTERS FROM low, mean, or degrading in them; he believed in truth, which was more than most politicians do beheve in, and there is a strength and unity in a consistent character that give you great confidence in its power; his faults you are quite ready to forgive, — not only to forgive, but to associate with his virtues; his loss as a friend to myself is very great, but what it is in pubhc life is incal- culable.' " I said to Cecil that Mr. Conyngsby is of opinion that Sir Bernard Worsley will now be the person. to come forward in public life as a statesman and politician. " ' You know,' said Cecil, ' that the change in Sir Bernard Worsley's life and opinions — the entire change — is all attributed to the influence of Mr. Godolphin.' A COUNTRY HOUSE. 283 " ' And partly to Aslidown,' said L " ' Perhaps a little,' she answered ; ' he was here during three weeks last year, and there might have been something in the conversation of the party who happened to meet here, that struck his vivid imagination — he is a true poet; besides. Sir Bernard Worsley is pas- sionately fond of music, and of the sort of music that goes on here ; but to speak fairly and honestly, I do not look up to him except as a poet or a man of taste. In matters connected with pictures, archi- tecture, or art of any kind, I like his opinions, but in other respects I do not. His brain floats in such floods of imagina- tion, that heathenism or Christianity, protestantism or Catholicism, are not very clearly defined with him, and Catho- licism being the most artistic, he will 284 LETTERS FROM end by that; he is a visionary whose admiration of Loyola is so great that he would willingly make us a nation of bigoted catholics; not that I have any prejudices against catholics, for they are, many of them, excellent persons — better than we are ; and a person being a catholic would never prevent or abate any feeling I might have for them ; but in public life it would bring back old times and doctrines to this land, which we may hope are all gone and wiped away. He is in love too with impossibilities, but in this world on n^aime pas qui Von veut — a feeling I have, more than any one ; besides, I have my superstitions in my own way, and an odd thing struck we which makes me almost superstitious about Sir Bernard Worsley — he has a red heart, a flaming heart, in the quarter- A COLTsTRY HOUSE. 285 ings of his arms. I asked him one day how he came by it, and he said that his ancestors had borne it in their arms since a Worsley accompanied St. Bernard to the Crusades ; now, you know, that the red heart is the emblem of the Jesuits. I grant his powers of pleasing and his beautiful language, but I have never got out of my head the " sacre cceur.''^ Is it not a strano;e coincidence ? — and coinci- dences are more strange than dreams, or ghosts, or prophecies? His character is not like Mr. Godolphin's — an open character; there was a heart that bore the strong impress of real feeling — of real life. The other is ftdl of the undefined, the imaginary, the vague, the uncer- tain, the poetical; his character is like those morasses that you tread on, those bogs to which a Will-o'-the-Avisp conducts 286 LETTERS FROM you. Yon never know your real footing or what you are treading on : he would willingly bind down the understanding with chains to contemplative life, and put out the lights, because he fears that they are too bright for common eyes, and his lights may be too bright, for they are visions. He is ..t once two characters with opposite systems, he would place a drag- chain on the times, on one hand, and he is full of fanaticism on the other hand ; but fanaticism, a froid — fanaticism reasoned on, and fanaticism that excludes the ex- alted feelings which might be an excuse for it, and then he deals in that dan-\ gerous doctrine of giving way to gain more afterwards — again the doctrine of Loyola. He tried to make Mr. Godolphin, Lord Ravensleigh, and myself, believe that we were the three persons in the world who A COUNTEY HOUSE. 287 had the most influence on his Hfe and opinions; but his character is one you cannot feel certain about, but one of great talent ; besides, he is a man, like Solomon, often beguiled by fair idols, each of whom he worships for the time being to the ex- clusion of everything else ; and although Mr. Godolphin had all the merit of rescuing him from scepticism and infi- delity to strong religious feelings, in which I believe him to be perfectly sincere for the present, you cannot tell what the next turn may be. " I said that I had heard he was charmed with Ashdown and its mis- tress. " ' Yes,' said Cecil, 'he did like Ash- down entirely, and could hardly tear him- self away, and I fear I am ungrateful for all he expressed about it. He said that 288 LETTERS FROM all within and "without doors was different from anything he had ever met with before, and that, generally speaking, he hated country-houses. You know that I like an absence of form in my house and home, and way of living; mere fine ladies and gentlemen would not suit Ashdown, nor Ashdown them, and I like those who are here to follow the bent of their own fancies — ' Not by one shaft is Care, the hydra, killed.' It varies in every person and disposition. I like any amusement to go forward, ex- cept acting — that I am afraid of, because I know my own weakness about acting, and I would not have it go on in my country-house, and find, all at once, that Ashdown was turned into a theatre ! But, somehow or other, conversation never stagnates, and the ennui that hovers over A COUNTRY HOUSE. 289 and weighs down so many persons like a November fog, is not much felt here — at least, Sir Bernard Worsley did not feel it — and he indulged in all his visionary schemes and ideas, trying to make Mr. Godolphin take a share in them. But he was too visionar}^ for either of us ; and, though they amused and interested me, I should have trembled had I known that such things were in the head of the future minister of England !' " ' Is it not true,' I asked, ' that he was a complete infidel, formerly?' " ' You know that, like Loyola origin- ally, he had a belief that there can be no belief, which is a contradiction in all ways in itself. I beheve his repentance for his former errors to be quite sincere ; but, if you looked at him but for a moment, you would see that his is a brow of webs VOL. II. 290 LETERS FROM an everlasting weaver of webs; he is a determined and incorrigible dreamer; yet,' said Cecil, ' all this time that I am criticising his mind and character, who can know the truth, the real truth, of such an extraordinary mind as his? All pro- found feelings are hidden until they are past; then they are viewed as past, just as we view life when past and looked back upon, or as we, view the lightning, or the storm, or the tempest, when all is quelled, hushed, and over; but it is quite certain that Sir Bernard is not sufficiently a great character, as Mr. Godolphin was, for a great country like England. He was a man armed for all the trials of earthly pilgrimage, and his death is like an un- finished story — sad and painful to think of; we want the ascendancy of such a mind in our private lives, as well as in A COUNTRY HOUSE. 291 political life. There was a saying of Talley- rand's that always made me think of him : '' II y a quelquhm qui est plus fort que Na- poleon, et qui a plus d^ esprit que Voltaire, c'est tout le monde ;^ and I thought Mr. Godolphin alone poAverful enough, indeed the only person capable of persuading or governing this tout le monde. ' " ' What a head and mind it should be,' I said, ' to rule over this country ! You remind me of one of Wordsworth's son- nets, wherein he describes a statesman in his magnificent lines, just as you de- scribe Mr. Godolphin ! ' " ' Can you remember the lines?' " ' I think I can ; they run thus — ' Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's iinselfisli will Leaves liina at ease among grand tlioughts : whose eye Sees that, apart from Magnanimity, Wisdom exists not; nor the hiunbler skill Of prudence, disentangling good and ill o 2 292 LETTERS FROM With, patient care. "WTiat though assaults run high, They daunt not liim who holds his ministry. Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil Its duties ; — prompt to move, but firm to wait, — Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found; That for the functions of an ancient State — Strong by her charters, free, because unbound, Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate — Perilous is sweeping change, all chance unsound.' " ' It is exactly Mr. Godolphin,' said Cecil ; ' who could he have meant to de- scribe? Do you think it was Mr. C ? See the difference between such a cha- racter and Sir Bernard Worsley, who has been a man of taste, a wavererall through life, unsettled and unsteady, who, from never knowing his own mind, not only never settles the minds of others, but unsettles them ; letting, ' I dare not, wait upon I would,' making them cowards in their own esteem from a spirit of wa- vering ; and none but weak woman has a A COUNTKY HOUSE. 293 right to be a coward — and not a woman, if she can possibly help it. i\Iuch of my cowardice has been conquered, owing to Mr. Godolphin's advice and suggestion, and much that I have let alone doing, is owing to his foresight and prudence.' " ' My dear Cecil,' I said, ' I cannot guess how time or opportunity has enabled you to do all you have done, or to place things on the footing that they are placed on, all about you.' " ' I have tried,' she answered, (waving the subject of charity and benevolence, which she hates talking about,) 'to make my country home as perfect a home as I can ; for my London home I care less every year. But the danger is lest in making a home, one should become like the Syba- rite, to whom the folded rose-leaf was an object of uneasiness, or that, when it is 294 LETTERS FROM done, one should say with Solomon. * All is vanity and vexation of spirit.' I o^-n that, for months and months, I have found my life sad and solitary; but Providence works out events, and that ver\^ solitude makes me get through a great deal of business. For many years my situation was such that I could only, like Pigma- lion, choose my statue, and animate it — turn marble, and canvas, and books into life, and find, ' Sermons in stones; Life in tlie running brook !' But see how one is made the means — the instrument, of things being worked out! See how Providence deals with one's existence! I, who don't like the drudgery of education — who want patience, and don't know how to teach — I am made the willing means of hundreds A COUNTRY HOUSE. 295 of persons being educated. I, who have often wavered and fluctuated in ideas and plans of life, see how preference has be- come choice — and a bold choice, too — for a life of independence to a woman requires resolution ! " ' Can you doubt that we are but blind instruments in the hands of Providence? can you doubt it for a moment ? ' The lot is cast into the lap, but the whole dis- posing thereof is of the Lord.' We are led on in life, step by step, without find- ing- it out — led on from evil to evil, or from good to good. Fortunate are those who are made the instruments of the good, or to whom, however imperceptibly, the good falls as a portion. " ' How little in life is left for us to choose from — neither our parents, neither our birth, neither our faith, neither our 296 LETTERS FROM health, neither our name, neither our fortune, neither the country we are born in? What a little portion then remains for us to act upon ? We are led by the good or bad spirit for all the remainder. The first we must pray for — the last we must pray against. What St. Paul calls abiding in the ship must mean principle or conscience, and each person must con- strue the understanding of their con- science to themselves : ' Chance sends tlie breeze : But if the pilot slumber at the helm, The very wind that wafts us toward the port May dash us on the shelves : the steersman's part Is vigUance, blow it rough or smooth.' But I am growing too serious,' she said; ' and you see how T, who cannot teach, can preach, and I, who cannot educate, am made the instrument of hundreds of per- A COUNTRY HOUSE. 297 sons gaining a livelihood, and being taught their religion.' " Cecil desires me to ask you, my dear father, if you can be good enough to come here as soon as your time "will allow of your doing so. ' Yesterday,' she said, ' is a warning not to be neglected — a terrible warning not to be put off — and teaches us the evil of procrastination. When I think of yesterday, I feel the precariousness of life. I trust that I shall live to a good old age, and carry out my plans ; but I may not do so, and one ought to be pre- pared to die, although living. The idea of the Duke, my cousin, here at Ashdown, so disturbs my mind, that these matters should be placed out of the reach of one's anxiety. Were I to die, what is to become of the prosperity of thousands of persons, of their souls as well as of their earthly 3 298 LETTEES EROM ' welfare ! I must look to a future in which hopes can be realized as to their welfare.' " You see the settled state of Cecil's mind. ' E'en as the Tyrean views his argosies Moor'd in the port, (the gold of Ophir won.) And heeds no more the billow and the breeze, And the clouds wandering o'er the wintry sun ; So calmly Wisdom eyes (its voyage o'er) The traversed ocean from the beethng shore !' *' We had taken a very long walk ; the day grew fainter and dimmer, warning us home, as one smgle bright star arose in the skies with a twinkling glimmer. " ' We must be patient,' said Cecil, ' in all our repinings and regrets as to things going wrong, or rather, not going as we understand they should go. We should be patient, because what seem to us as funeral tapers in the mist and vapour, may rise like that star out of the dim A COUNTRY HOUSE. 299 light, to guide us upwards to a brighter day. We should be patient, because philosophy says. You cannot walk two pathways.' "As we reached the house, Cecil stopped, and then said, ' We have had a grave con- versation to-day, in the forest. There are things said in the solitude and grandeur of the forest, amidst the discoloured leaves of autumn — amidst the vapours and dews of declining day, or the singing of birds in the boughs above our heads, which cannot be whispered in the great world ; for the world laughs to scorn such things ; the spirit of the great world is alternately credulous and mocking ; and when and where words are uttered, should not be forgotten, when they are repeated or re- membered, to give them their real import. So many confessions made under other 300 LETTERS FROM circumstances — so many conversations repeated in different situations, seem so affected, so untrue, or so silly, when they come to be re-said in drawing- rooms. And yet,' she added, ' those, dearest Catharine, are the real things of life, and ought to be pardoned and for- given: they are the confessions of life, and the only words worth hearing; those are the things not said to every one, but they bear the impress of the spots where they were uttered; and those are the things that the loud world laughs to A COUNTRY HOUSE. 301 CHAPTER XXXIII. " Wooing thee, I found thee of more value Thau stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags : And 'tis the very riches of thyself That now I aim at." Shakspeaee. " Mas vale el mal concido quel bien por conoscis. Como esta mias Sefiora la Esposa da Usted ? Vorga Usted con Dios y que no haya Novedad. How is my lady, the wife of your grace ? She goes on without novelty. Go with God, your grace, may nothing new happen ! Spanish Compliments. " Preferring hard liberty." Milton. LETTER FROM MRS. HOPE TO MR. SELWYN. " I MUST repeat to you a conversation that I had to-day. I found Cecil very low in spirits after all the melancholy 302 LETTERS FROM particulars that Lord Kavensleigh brought from London concerning the death of Mr. Godolphin, and that he had been com- municating to her. " She had letters to write, and I went out walking; and shortly after, Lord Ravensleigh joined me. He said that he was going away the next day, and wanted to talk to me about Miss Latimer. " He then said how fortunate he was in having the friendship of such a woman — how proud he was of it ; and with what pleasure he saw how much she took to his children, and the children to her. He then hesitated, and asked about you. Then he added, was I aware of how old a date his admiration of Miss Latimer had been ; for that when she was a beau- tiful girl, under the protection of his friend, A COUNTRY HOUSE. 303 poor Lady Arlington, that he had proposed to her, and had been refused ; that he had never showed how much he had felt that refusal; but that his knowledge of her ever since had increased that admiration every moment — every hour of his life ; that for the last two or three years, gossip had been busy with their names; and yet that their intimacy had weathered even the storms of London gossip, for which he felt grateful to her. " He then again hesitated, but said that he could not leave Ashdown without ask- ing whether he could have my support, as well as yours, on his behalf wdth Miss Latimer, as he was aware of the confidence that she reposed in you. I answered, that was in nowise necessary, as she had the greatest friendship and regard for him. 304 LETTERS FROM " Lord Eavensleigh replied, that was riot quite what he meant to say ; he knew that he could have nothing to offer to Miss Latimer but what she already pos- sessed. She had made her own position in the world — it was a perfect position ; her homes she had made — they were per- fect homes ; but still, for the sake of his children, he turned it continually in his mind whether it would be possible to persuade her to unite her fate with his ; that he could only say that her fortune should be entirely left to her own control, never for him to touch; that, were it possible to persuade her to change her name for his, the great wish of his life would be accomplished; and that nothing prevented his proposing himself but the fear of a refusal. I answered that I was not sanguine about it; that Cecil had A COUNTRY HOUSE. 305 considered herself for many years as married to her plans of life ; but I could not tell, either what time had done or might do. " Affectionately yours, '' C. Hope." I love these sugar-plums in prose and rhymes, No one is merrier than myself sometimes : Yes I — poor I — with tears and constant moan, Am melted down almost to skin and bone : This night in sighs and sobs, I drew my breath ; Love, marriage, treason, prison, poison, death Were scarce sufficient to complete my fate ; The children are thrown in to make up weight— With aU these sufferings, is it not provoking To be denied at last a little joking?" F U T U R E. " This speck of life in Time's great wilderness, This narrow istkmns 'twist two boundless seas — The past — the futxire — two eternities ! MOOEE. " "Who had gone o'er the stormy sea of hfe, Who had walked through Temptation's fiery strife, And the storms and the tempests for her were o'er. And the struggles past, she was safe on the shore." FUTURE. CHAPTER XXXIV. It was the year 1880, just thirty-two years after Mrs. Hope's letter to her father was written. The year 1880 was that of the terrific deluge in England, which destroyed so many thousands of persons, and depopulated so many towns and villages in the midland counties. Never had England been so prosperous as in the early part of that year. The religious war had long been terminated ; the fire-brands of the church were 310 FUTURE. quenched; the Jesuits were banished from the kingdom by an edict from the Crown; liberty of conscience existed everywhere, and peace and good fellow- ship made fair promise that the closing years of good Queen Victoria's reign should be passed in harmony and pros- perity. But many signs and potents in the elements that year proclaimed a change at hand in the seasons; and on certain spots on the earth, an overwhelming doom to perishable beings. A sudden calamity feU on the land, now restored to a peaceful security, and more flourishing than it had ever been. This calamity took place in November, 1880. In the large room at Ashdown, in an arm-chair near the fire-place, wrapped up in woollens and blankets, . FUTURE. 311 lay an old and decrepit woman, evidently dying. Not far oiF was a man who looked like a physician; and another at no great distance, who might be, from his dress, either a clergyman or a priest. There was a young man in and out of the room, giving orders and directions to various persons as to what should be done ; two or three young girls, and some old servants, male and female, coming backwards and forwards from the outside apartment — the great gallery, the door of which was opened occasionally, slowly and softly, by aU these persons. In one of the large window-recesses, a group of persons were assembled, who were looking through glasses and tele- scopes, intensely watching the appearance of things out of the windows, and making report of their inferences and conclusions 312 FUTURE. to those within the room. Every coun- tenance expressed anxiety, or an awful dread of the impending doom, which threatened, and was coming on by slow degrees. Some persons looked awe-struck and terror-struck ; others tried to bear up with courage, and even with cheerfulness, against the horrors of the death which seemed to impend over them. The atmo- sphere was close, heavy, and dull, but occasionally cleared up for a moment to a lighter appearance. Those who were looking through the glasses reported the state of the weather. When either the haze or fog passed off for moments, the hills which bordered the horizon at the distance of twenty or thirty miles, were seen to be moving masses of human beings ; the multitude that had fled from the valleys were easily distinguished on FUTURE. 313 the hills, hovering over and about the immense cities of the manufacturing dis- tricts. This was the fifth day of the flood. The point of the cathedral was just visible above the mass of waters in the distant valley, and the tops of a few of the largest oak trees of the forest were the only land- marks to guide the eye: at moments numbers of ravens and affrighted birds soared in agitation into the clouds, scream- ing as if instinct told them that the sky would soon be their only home — "and then no more a home." A sea of waters was encroaching and encroaching, ad- vancing and advancing slowly and gra- dually ; bodies of human beings, herds of cattle, trees, and houses, were floating all about, and the valley and forest no longer existed to the eye of the beholder, but in VOL. II. p 314 FUTURE. its stead was a sea that yielded up its dead to the shore, and that shore was consi- derably less than a quarter of a mile from the windows of Ashdown. Two boats had been washed up from the river, and some men were going off in these boats in search of oxen, sheep, and food, for on that day the provisions and stores had begun to fail, and food was becoming alarmingly scarce. In the general still- ness, the splash of the dipping oar sounded on these death-like waters, and became more and more faint momentarily as it went off on its errand of necessity. The house was entirely fuU of persons, and all the passages and offices spread with straw ; women, and children, and sick persons lay about everywhere ; and the funeral of one who had died of exhaustion and fatigue was seen slowly moving from the back of FUTURE. 315 the house through the long avenue of cedars towards the church. Beneath the windows of the house, in the gardens, in the forest on the high ground and on a piece of rising downs to the left were hundreds of persons lying on straw, or grouped about on the grass, or under the trees of the forest; some fainihes with pieces of sail-cloth rudely raised above them, others lying on old carpets, or in blankets, or on anything that they had been able to carry off in their flight ; women, Avith their little in- fants, and a mass of persons, Avhom the house and out-houses could not accom- modate. On one spot was a group of catholics; the host was elevated, and ex- treme unction was being given to a dying man, beneath the spreading branches of a, large oak tree — his children kneeling round p 2 316 FUTURE. tlieir dying father, and the poor man was consigning these infants to the compas- sion of those of his own faith who were standing around. The wild hurricane of the previous days that had carried everything before it, and that had seemed hke the wrath of Heaven poured on a devoted land, was now allayed, but was succeeded by a dense, still, close, and foggy atmosphere, and ever and anon, the forked lightning played and descended on the waters, and lighted up the heavy atmosphere, showing some horrible scene of devasta- tion on the waters and on the horizon, glaring on the distant multitudes assem- bled on the hills afar off, and giving a faint image in its momentary glare of the horrors of the infernal regions. The least disposed to be desponding, thought that FUTURE. 317 the end of all things was at hand ; the ap- proaching change, the next world, seemed no longer uncertain or unreal ; but a^vfully near; aU the pomps of earth were for- gotten, all the ties of love or of kindred were about to be dissolved — the truth wore no disguise now — a clearer vision of an hereafter came over some few in that room — some moments of contrition for past sins or errors powerfully affected others, some sat in dismay pondering on the danger with deep thought, or reading their doom on each other's countenances. Hope was nearly banished from every bosom, as again they watched the en- croaching waters; and the stern virtues of fortitude and resolution were fast coming on in its stead, and many were in prayer, preparing and prepared for death; when a messenger on the look- 318 FUTURE. out asserted that the waters were receding. It soon became evident that it was so. The scared birds ceased their cries, and rose to the heavens; a tree appeared; then another tree; then arose from the multitude shouts of joy, mixed, here and there, with the voice of prayer and weeping, cries expressive of a change from death to life, from despair to hope, and of all that elevates the mind to heaven. Then a universal cry was raised by the people, " The waters are receding!" The waters then went down more rapidly, and part of the top of the cathe- dral appeared in the distance, when a gleam of light arose and passed over the whole face of nature. The bow in the clouds appeared in all its glory, a perfect and magnificent arch of brilliant colours, FUTURE. 319 extending all over the dark waters be- neath — its yeUow lustre lighting up what remained of earth, along Avith the multi- tude on earth, enveloping them with its vapoury and heavenly colours. " The covenant of God with. man. Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of heaven !" The old lady was carried, by her desire, to the window to see the magnificent sight. Her people were saved, and " in the haven where they should be." She beheld the bright tints and colours of the rainbow that fell upon and surrounded the multi- tude in the ariel tints of a world of spirits, not of this world. Her people were saved, and kneeling in thankfulness to Heaven for its mercies, vouchsafed in a deliverance from death and from a watery grave. 320 FUTUEE. Like a stately and stupendous dream, the whole of the brilliant colouring then vanished — its mighty frame-work then melting out of sight. Thus all that is real in this world passes aAvay, tarrying for a while in the midst of the shadows and reflections of earth, of the joys and of the sorrows of earth — then, as it were, melting out of sight, and thus resolving into itself. The old lady said, " My God, I thank thee, I am content to die!" and before she could be moved from the window, she had expired. THE END. Savill & Edwards, Printers, 4, Chandos-street, Covent- garden.